you’re fighting over sconces and he’s screwing cocktail waitresses to be an ass.”
“What are you doing?” Claire asked. “Since when do you smoke?”
Sasha shrugged. She was holding a burnished gold lighter and a long herringbone cigarette holder with the cigarette attached at the end. She struggled with the light.
“They’re menthols,” Sasha said by way of explanation, teeth clenched around the long stick. “I’m just saying. Embrace your life or you’ll miss it.”
“I didn’t expect this life.”
“Warren Beatty didn’t expect to be a wealthy tycoon in Heaven Can Wait . He wanted to play football.”
“And?”
“And … well, I guess he died, but you’re missing the point. Don’t you get it? Widows are the new virgins, Claire. Men are licking their chops for you right now. They’re all going to want to pop your widow cherry. You have power, and no guilt. Enjoy it! And believe me, you’ll want to keep that shell—or body, whatever—the one you’ve got.”
Claire’s phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number. They both studied it and then Sasha picked it up. “Hello, this is Claire.”
“Hello. Mrs. Byrne? This is Carter. Carter Hinckley, from Wanamaker and Sons. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
Oh my God , Sasha whispered. It’s the funeral guy.
“No, of course not, Carter. How are you?”
“This is just a courtesy call, Mrs. Byrne. I wanted to remind you we are still holding Mr. Byrne’s remains, divided as you requested. If you’re unable to collect them here, we can deliver them to you and to Grace Byrne, as it says in the instructions.”
Sasha covered the phone and whispered to Claire, again. You haven’t picked up the ashes?
“Yes, actually, Carter, that would be great. Please deliver them. To myself and to Mrs. Byrne as well. I’d appreciate it very much.”
Sasha hung up the phone. “Honey, are you serious? Who would take care of these things if I didn’t come around? You can’t just abandon the remains . Jesus. Does Grace know they’re sitting there in the morgue for all the world to see?”
“The whole world isn’t seeing anything. And no, she doesn’t. I was going to pick them up.”
“And lug them downtown on the subway? No wonder you’ve been odd. That’s karmic suicide, honey. Anyway, they’re coming tomorrow.”
Sasha poured the last of the vodka into two shot glasses. “Here,” she said, handing one to Claire. “It’s infused with bacon. It tastes like breakfast.” Sasha poured herself a second as Claire struggled to choke down her first.
“Honey, don’t get bogged down in this. You have a chance to do whatever you want now. Don’t screw it up. You could have been in a sexless marriage for the next twenty years and wound up hating him. Charlie was a story in your life, but he’s not the story. You’ve got a lot more to do.”
RULE #3 : Life is long. Pace yourself.
Sasha put her sunglasses on and gave Claire one last look. “You don’t look so well, sweetie. You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.”
* * *
A FTER S ASHA LEFT , Claire went for a walk. She zigzagged a familiar route and kept her earphones in for distraction. There were piles of newspapers on every corner—the Post , the Daily News , the Times . The circumstances of Charlie’s death, even three weeks out, percolated through all of them. His death was still a mild sensation. Sande the yogi was very photogenic. Charlie’s morning-of-death conquest had chosen to speak out, too. “I Was with Him Before He Died” was the headline that, unfortunately, caught Claire’s eye. She stopped and picked up one of the papers. Below the headline, next to a photo of a twenty-ish blonde (well-endowed enough not to care about hips or waist), was the subhead “Paramour Reveals Details of Charles Byrne’s New Book.”
As far as Claire knew, Charlie hadn’t written a word of a new book. For the first time, it crossed her mind that there was an advance she
“What are you doing?” Claire asked. “Since when do you smoke?”
Sasha shrugged. She was holding a burnished gold lighter and a long herringbone cigarette holder with the cigarette attached at the end. She struggled with the light.
“They’re menthols,” Sasha said by way of explanation, teeth clenched around the long stick. “I’m just saying. Embrace your life or you’ll miss it.”
“I didn’t expect this life.”
“Warren Beatty didn’t expect to be a wealthy tycoon in Heaven Can Wait . He wanted to play football.”
“And?”
“And … well, I guess he died, but you’re missing the point. Don’t you get it? Widows are the new virgins, Claire. Men are licking their chops for you right now. They’re all going to want to pop your widow cherry. You have power, and no guilt. Enjoy it! And believe me, you’ll want to keep that shell—or body, whatever—the one you’ve got.”
Claire’s phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number. They both studied it and then Sasha picked it up. “Hello, this is Claire.”
“Hello. Mrs. Byrne? This is Carter. Carter Hinckley, from Wanamaker and Sons. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
Oh my God , Sasha whispered. It’s the funeral guy.
“No, of course not, Carter. How are you?”
“This is just a courtesy call, Mrs. Byrne. I wanted to remind you we are still holding Mr. Byrne’s remains, divided as you requested. If you’re unable to collect them here, we can deliver them to you and to Grace Byrne, as it says in the instructions.”
Sasha covered the phone and whispered to Claire, again. You haven’t picked up the ashes?
“Yes, actually, Carter, that would be great. Please deliver them. To myself and to Mrs. Byrne as well. I’d appreciate it very much.”
Sasha hung up the phone. “Honey, are you serious? Who would take care of these things if I didn’t come around? You can’t just abandon the remains . Jesus. Does Grace know they’re sitting there in the morgue for all the world to see?”
“The whole world isn’t seeing anything. And no, she doesn’t. I was going to pick them up.”
“And lug them downtown on the subway? No wonder you’ve been odd. That’s karmic suicide, honey. Anyway, they’re coming tomorrow.”
Sasha poured the last of the vodka into two shot glasses. “Here,” she said, handing one to Claire. “It’s infused with bacon. It tastes like breakfast.” Sasha poured herself a second as Claire struggled to choke down her first.
“Honey, don’t get bogged down in this. You have a chance to do whatever you want now. Don’t screw it up. You could have been in a sexless marriage for the next twenty years and wound up hating him. Charlie was a story in your life, but he’s not the story. You’ve got a lot more to do.”
RULE #3 : Life is long. Pace yourself.
Sasha put her sunglasses on and gave Claire one last look. “You don’t look so well, sweetie. You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.”
* * *
A FTER S ASHA LEFT , Claire went for a walk. She zigzagged a familiar route and kept her earphones in for distraction. There were piles of newspapers on every corner—the Post , the Daily News , the Times . The circumstances of Charlie’s death, even three weeks out, percolated through all of them. His death was still a mild sensation. Sande the yogi was very photogenic. Charlie’s morning-of-death conquest had chosen to speak out, too. “I Was with Him Before He Died” was the headline that, unfortunately, caught Claire’s eye. She stopped and picked up one of the papers. Below the headline, next to a photo of a twenty-ish blonde (well-endowed enough not to care about hips or waist), was the subhead “Paramour Reveals Details of Charles Byrne’s New Book.”
As far as Claire knew, Charlie hadn’t written a word of a new book. For the first time, it crossed her mind that there was an advance she
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