My Husband's Sweethearts by Bridget Asher Read Free Book Online Page A

and I marvel at how
he can handle all of the dainty cups with such dexterity.
    I realize that he's fixed Artie a lunch platter, which
seems all wrong except that I look at the clock, which tells
me it's noon. The burly nurse picks up the tray and the
plates rattle—loudly—so loudly that I'm reminded how
very much I drank last night. I wonder just how many of
Artie's sweethearts I called. (And I realize now that I've
absorbed the term sweethearts. Even as I hear the word
echo in my head, I pronounce it with a sneer. It's a term of
derision, not endearment!) Did I call a half dozen? A full
dozen? More? And why did I call them? I can't remember.
A dare? It seemed like a dare. Was I calling Artie's
bluff? Did one of the women tell me to report to Artie
that he can rot in hell?
    The burly nurse glances up at me. I've been staring. I
know that he's doing my job, really. I should be the one
with the tray. "I'll take it to him, if that's okay," I say.
    "Sure," the burly nurse says. "He knows the drill on
the meds."
    "Has anyone called this morning?" I ask.
    He nods. "A bunch of hang-ups, actually," he says.
"Maybe three?" And then he looks at a pad of paper held
to the fridge by a magnet. "One woman called and said"—
and here he begins an exact quote—" 'Tell Artie I'm sorry
but I can't forgive him.' "
    "Did she leave a name?"
    "I asked her, but she said, 'Does it really matter what
my name is?' And I said that I thought it did, but she just
hung up on me."
    "Sorry about that," I say, knowing that this is my fault,
in part. I put my coffee on the tray and head upstairs,
wondering what I'll tell Artie exactly. So, none of the
women have volunteered for a deathbed time and one
wants him to rot in hell.
    *
    When the bedroom door creaks, Artie opens his eyes.
He's too weak to sit up, though. He peers at me with his
quick blue eyes and smiles, but doesn't really move.
"What happened to Marie?"
    "She said you weren't her type."
    "What? She likes the living? If she's going to have
those kinds of standards. . . ."
    "Women! They have such high expectations," I say
with mock exasperation and more than a little ire. "Are
you able to sit up?"
    I put down the tray as he pushes himself up. I plump a
few pillows behind his back. I pop out the tray's short legs
and position it over his lap. He stares into the little paper
cups, disgusted, and picks up his fork wearily.
    "When were you organized enough to come up with a
system of red dots?" I ask.
    "I have some secretarial skills."
    "Skills with secretaries is a different thing." This isn't
really fair. I don't know that Artie's ever been with one of
his secretaries.
    But he takes it. He pushes around some applesauce on
his plate. "So you looked through the book?"
    I nod.
    "Did you find Bessom?"
    "I saw his information."
    "Are you going to call?"
    "Why don't you?"
    "Do you think I just abandoned him?"
    "I have no idea."
    "She never wanted me to see the boy. Her parents
didn't either. Just send the checks, they said. I've written
pleading letters over the years, and when John turned
eighteen, I sent a letter to him, telling him my side of
things, but he never wrote back. He's taken up the family's
standard response: no response. He's mine, but he
isn't." He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back to his
pillow.
    "Why didn't you tell me all of this?"
    "I don't know." He shakes his head. "I didn't want
you to think I was like your father. One of those types.
Loveless, a disappearing act. I'm not. I would have loved
that boy with everything I had—if they'd have let me."
    "I wouldn't have thought you were like my father," I
say. "I wouldn't have put that on you."
    "I didn't want to risk it. I know how much your father
hurt you. I didn't want you to put me in the same bad-father
category as him. That would have broken my
heart."
    I'm not sure what to think anymore. Artie has secret
lives. He has compartments—his past, his sweethearts, his