The Other Widow Read Online Free PDF Page A

She’s already opening the door, already stepping out to the front porch, and Dorrie makes a mental note to replace Lily’s hat. Something artsy, she thinks, something festive.
    â€œNasty weather rolling in.” Samuel turns back to the kitchen. “Bet they’ll change their minds about going.” He looks at Dorrie. “You should be fine,” he says. “Just take your time.”
    Dorrie listens to the slam of the kitchen door, the two sets of boot heels stomping down the steps. A moment later, Samuel’s old Toyota starts up in the garage, moving slowly through the stacks of junk. One of these days the whole shaky mess is going to fall in on him, she thinks. And there he’ll be, pinned into his own car by a bunch of silly random things like Lily’s broken ski from a ninth grade field trip or a cardboard box full of The Complete Works of Shakespeare or the cartons of clothes for St. Vincent de Paul they never got around to donating.
    She scrambles two eggs, dropping one of the yolks into Purrl’s dish, where it stares up at her like a large eyeball. Dorrie thinks her husband would have made a great mechanic; he’s good with cars—brake jobs, sparkplugs, tires. His current car is one he cobbled together, an old Corolla he picked up for a song. Most weekends, now, he goes to his friend’s garage to work on a Volvo he’ll give Lily when she turns sixteen. It looks like a little tank. White, and Lily will hate it, of course. She’ll want a sexy sleek car like Mia’s.
    Samuel could have even been a carpenter, considering the great job he did last summer on the kitchen, but he’s actually a computer programmer, a very good one. He’s brilliantly creative, gifted with his hands. Samuel could make anything beautiful if he tried. He just doesn’t usually try.
    Sometimes, Dorrie regrets confronting him about his drinking. Maybe he needs to drink. Maybe it keeps his demons at bay or maybe it creates more—demons that block Dorrie out and build a wall between them
    â€œLook,” she’d said one night, as Samuel rolled over to his side of the bed, his breath sour with cigarettes and beer. “I can’t go on like this.” And then, in a sudden and ill-timed attempt to lighten things, she’d pulled the top of her nightgown low and said in a husky, Scarlett Johansson voice, “What’ve you done with the sweet guy I married?”
    â€œFunny,” he’d said. “That’s really funny, coming from you. Where were you, sweet gal ? Where were you three nights ago? You really think I don’t notice when you’re not home, Dorrie? Really? ” He’d gotten out of bed, stepped into his jeans, and pulled a T-shirt over his head. A second later, she’d heard him in the living room, the jingle jangle of his keys in the front lock, and then the angry rumbling of his car peeling out of the driveway.
    When he came back he didn’t mention their conversation. All he said was, “I don’t know, Dorrie.” He stood across the bedroom, glaring at her as she sat on the window ledge in her white summer nightgown, the hum of the AC throbbing underneath his words. “I’m not sure we’ll make it,” he said. “And you know what? I don’t even think I care anymore.”
    Their sex life all but disappeared after that, the rare attempts at lovemaking awkward and strained, with Samuel disappearing afterward to smoke a cigarette on the back porch. Their approaching anniversary has become a deadline of sorts. “Let’s see where we are then,” he’s said from time to time over the past months. “We’ll take stock and decide where to go from there.” They still sleep together every night, still share a bed, but they are separated now by heaps of blankets and hurt feelings.
    She runs a comb through her hair, unknots a snarl with her fingers, swipes a makeup brush across