The After Wife by Gigi Levangie Grazer

Author:Gigi Levangie Grazer [Grazer, Gigi Levangie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-345-52401-0
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2012-07-09T16:00:00+00:00

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My knees were shaking. All that was not lost, was lost.

“Oh my God,” I said. “This can’t be happening.” I ran into the backyard, clutching the letter.

“John!” I yelled. “Get over here this minute!”

Dogs barking. An old Lab, a shih tzu. Lights turning on, bedrooms, bathrooms. I didn’t care. In a few months, the neighbors would miss me yelling at my dead husband at 2:00 A.M. Wait until the Shah of Iran’s palace started going up.

“John,” I said. “I know you’re out there!” Can one argue with a dead person? Yes, you can, but you have to be motivated.

“Hannah?” John said. “What’s wrong? Why are you so upset? Is it Ellie?”

“Ellie? No, God, no, it’s not Ellie.”

“What is it?” John said. “I’m sorry, I was distracted. I was just getting into it with Julia Child. She’s really stuck on how to boil an egg. I say, drop it in when the water’s boiling—and salt the water. She says—”

“John, your life insurance policy expired.” I said, “You didn’t keep up with the payments. How could you do that to us?”

“Oh my God,” John said. “I didn’t?”

“No! Yes. You didn’t. We are screwed!” I was pacing, frantic.

“Now, don’t overreact, Hannah. We can figure this out—”

“You died and left us … with nothing …”

“Hannah, you had a job when I died. And you have my books—”

“We spent the rest of your advance on our Greece trip, remember? I’d have to sell a million to see royalties. You know how it works!”

“Oh, right,” John said. “We made that deposit … How much was that?”

“Eight thousand,” I said. The amount sounded enormous, wasteful. Silly.

“Shit. You should just go to Greece,” John said. “Go, and finish my cookbook.”

“What’s it going to be called, Cooking for Destitute Widows?”

“Hannah, I’m sorry. You didn’t marry an accountant. You married a guy who wears Crocs to work.”

“I should have known—I’ve never trusted Crocs,” I said. “They’re not shoes, they’re not sandals—why can’t they make up their minds?”

“You’re insulting my shoe choices? That’s just going too far.”

“I’ll show you too far,” I said, pulling my shirt off my shoulder, revealing the frying pan tattoo. “Look what I did for you!”

“Wow,” he said. “Is that Le Creuset?”

“Hairy Eddie insisted on going high-end.”

“It’s sweet,” John said. “It makes me wish I were still alive. I could have prevented you from putting a permanent frying pan on your body.”

“Even my dead husband can’t appreciate the gesture.” I sighed. “John, unless I figure something out, I’m going to have to sell the only home Ellie’s ever known. It’s just too much for her. It’s not fair, John.

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