The Widow's Guide to Sex and Dating Read Online Free PDF Page B

both. Whether she agreed or not, it was apparent to Claire Byrne, wife of adulterous Charlie, that she was not the sort of married woman who screwed Italian painter-waiters in afternoons. However badly she might have wanted to be.
    Sitting with Carter, their knees almost touching, in the small space between couch and table, Claire’s thoughts continued to wander. She found it difficult to stay on task.
    “I think plain is best,” she said. “A plain—” Claire stopped and straightened her posture. “A plain casket.”
    Slowly, Carter opened his brochure.
    Everything in the hours since Charlie died had been maddeningly slow. The flight from Austin had been slow, Claire’s reactions were slow, this thirty minutes with Carter felt excruciatingly slow. “There are a number of dignified choices for your husband, Mrs. Byrne. This one, for example.”
    “Well,” she said, and wished she hadn’t. It gave the impression she had a plan. She felt the Xanax wearing off. Funeral. Husband. Dead. Fuck. The week was going to be long.
    “Mr. Byrne disliked adornment,” she heard herself saying. “Do you have something more … classic?” Charlie’s ghost was laughing at her from somewhere right now. Charles Byrne was the sort of man who hates embellishment. Charles Byrne was of simple taste. Charlie Byrne loved nothing more, in fact, than pomp and embellishment and being the center of attention.
    “I’m not sure what you mean.”
    “Well, you know, straight lines. Plain, but not too plain. Nothing too showy, either.”
    Carter turned his brochure over to the back. “Maybe you’d like an Eco-casket.” He tapped his finger on a photo. It was a rectangle with rope handles. “They are relatively inexpensive and are sourced from sustainable forests.”
    “Oh God, no!”
    Claire looked up, and there, without warning, was Sasha, shattering their awkward stillness. She burst in huffily, trailing drama behind her like a wedding train. “Claire, sweetie, you’re not burying Charlie in a biodegradable box.” She kissed Claire on both cheeks. “I was worried when you weren’t at home. Then Ethan said you’d be here.” She squared herself up to Carter, who looked unprepared for the steep thrust of Sasha’s cleavage above the plunge of her patterned wrap dress. “Hello, I’m Sasha.” She put out her hand to Carter, palm down, and he took it, relieved to have somewhere else to look.
    All of the first act, the slow steam Claire and Carter had built up—the pauses and gazes and looks—Sasha had smashed in one motion, like a bird crashed through a window.
    “So listen, Carter, Mrs. Byrne should take the Marquis casket, don’t you think?” Claire stared at the brochure. The Marquis was solid bronze with a velvet interior. It had a twin-lid design with hermetic sealing, an amber and sable finish, swing handles, and, of course, an adjustable bed.
    “Do you like it, sweetie?”
    “It’s nice,” Claire said.
    “Margorie Dermott had it for her husband. Did you know he finally died? Jesus, ninety years old. Enough. He keeled over in his scotch after dinner. Margorie was so shocked, she threw the rest of the bottle out and it was twenty-five-year-old Chivas. Did you do that funeral, Carter?”
    “Well, I can’t—”
    “Never mind. We’ll take the Marquis, and the bronze Chalice urn with the etchings around the lid.”
    Claire suddenly started spinning, or the room did, she couldn’t tell. “I’m not feeling well,” she said. “I need to go.”
    Sasha put a hand to Claire’s forehead. “What’s wrong, honey? Do you need water?”
    “I don’t know,” Claire said. “I really need to go.” She stood up, wobbled theatrically, then fell. She fainted at Carter’s feet.
    Sasha pulled a flask from her purse and took a drink; Carter brought out smelling salts.

 
    4
    For all the decorum, disposal was swift.
    Richard took care of everything. Sasha drank, Ethan hid out, and Charlie’s mother, Grace, handled