His Last Wife

“Thought we were fixin’ to talk about wedding planner Glenda.”

“It’s Grace, and no, we weren’t fixin’ tuh do anything, Dollywood,” Nora said. She placed the bottle on the floor and curled her knees up into herself, burying her forehead and trembling chin into them.

Jenna’s tone got sharper and the grogginess dissipated. “First of all, Ms. Dolly Parton is from Tennessee. Secondly, you know the Texas comes out when I’m tired or drunk. And third, are you, like, mad at me because I forgot the wedding planner’s name?”

Nora knew her voice could not be trusted right then, that it would likely betray her and reveal too much. She swallowed hard, and once more, and again. The vein by her left temple pulsated. It was long, bluish, and exposed itself when she was angry. Nora’s mother said she got it from her deadbeat father. The vein, piercing green eyes, and a surname—Mackenzie—are the only things she inherited from the vanished man. Nora needed to push all that was rising up just behind her tongue back down to the underneath, the subterranean pit where these kinds of things were free to unfold, to fester, and to die.

“Are you serious right now?” Jenna said.

Nora extended an arm to the phone, her finger hovering over the button to end the call. Her mind flashed forward to her next steps, but nothing was clear or sensible. Then, as fast as it came, the tumult in her brain was gone. Her heartbeat quieted; she relaxed her muscles, took a deep breath to quell her knotted stomach, and fixed her face, like her mother always told her to do. The morph ended with a light clearing of her throat. “Sorry, J. I was reading a couple emails,” she said, faking a yawn. The sound of Jenna’s long exhale only made Nora’s shoulders relax even more. “What were we talking about?”

“About how many sheep just jumped over the fence,” Jenna said. “Go to bed, Nora—your real bed, the one with the man in it.”

“Yeah, it’s crazy late. Thanks for listening, Callaway.” Nora rolled her eyes but maintained the brightness in her voice.

“It’s what we do,” Jenna said. “Good night, moon.”

“G’night.”

Fisher traced the length of Nora’s body first with his eyes, then the back of his fingers. When he reached the top of her head again, he massaged her temple and brushed back her hair from her damp cheek. Nora, feigning sleep, tried to maintain a natural breathing pattern and keep her body still, especially her eyelids that twitched under the pressure of the tears pooling behind. Nora wanted to turn and look up at him, be awakened by him, and surrender to his lifting her out from the cold hollowness of the bathtub, carrying her back to their bed. But she couldn’t; she wasn’t her yet. She wasn’t Nora Mackenzie.

His touch was warm, gentle. For no clear reason, in that moment, the touch reminded Nora of that of Dr. Bourdain’s in the earliest days, back when he was still the husband half of the kindest couple—and her mother’s employer—who saw something special, “a spark,” in young Nora; back when he still looked at her as a girl, a child to guide and tutor, instead of a viable conquest to seduce.

“Babe,” Fisher said. “Mack, wake up. What are you doing in here?” He lightly squeezed Nora’s shoulders.

She flinched.

The ruse could not play on. Nora opened her eyes partway and rolled her head toward Fisher. He was wearing only underwear, and his brawny torso glistened in the moonlight spilling through the window. “Hey,” Nora said. The phlegm and tears from moments ago added frog and gurgle to her voice, lending a layer of drowsiness and veracity to her hoax. “Wow. What time is it?”

“It’s late,” Fisher said. He stroked her hair once more. Her eyes fluttered as she tried to blink away the memory of Dr. Bourdain’s revolting touch. She rubbed her brows with the back of her hand, wanting to scrub the gross sensation of the old man’s spotted paw on her with the very same swipe.

Nora sat up in the tub and breathe

d in her fiancé. “Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you. I came in here to”—her eyes fell on the empty champagne bottle by his feet. “It’s Jenna. Boy drama, again. And let’s just say it required time, tears, and, of course, champers.” Nora gestured to the bottle with her pinky. She was grinning at him in her way—their way. A smile curled up the side of Fisher’s face and he stepped into the other end of the tub, rolling out his legs as best he could, encasing Nora. Fisher was here, not him, she reminded herself, and settled back in the tenderness of his embrace.

“Champers, huh?” he said, his smile stretching up to his bright eyes.

“Of the finest grade,” Nora said, nodding.

“Full bottle?”

“Halfway,” Nora said.

Fisher pulled his legs, along with Nora, closer and leaned into her face, speaking barely above a whisper. “Tipsy?”

“Mmm. Halfway,” she said, matching his hush. He dragged Nora onto his lap, making her straddle him. “What’s next, Mr. Beaumont?” Nora said, leaving her lips pursed and arching her body into him.

Fisher took a deep breath and let it out slowly, looking up at his Nora, at her lips, her long neck, the bones along her collar, and then down the deep V of her top, at her hard nipples pressing through the thinness. He rested his forehead between her breasts, and Nora caressed the back of his head, patting the dark blond hair at the nape. There was something off, something tired, resigned about him. Nora slid back so she could better see his eyes. “You okay?”

“That’s what I’m wondering. About you.”

Nora stifled her eye roll. “What do you mean—about me? What about me?” She lifted herself all the way off of his legs.

“Easy,” Fisher said, tilting his head and raising his palm. “All I’m saying is, this is the third or fourth time I’ve found you in here—drinking, upset, sad. Look, I know my mother can be a bit much and . . . old school—”

“Lady Eleanor? Why would you think anything’s wrong there?”

“I don’t know. I keep thinking I should have never told you that whole story with Rock’s first girlfriend . . . her being Asian and my mother’s completely wrongheaded reaction to that and—”