“Did you ever model?” asked Libby. “I swear to God, you’re a ringer for Karlie Kloss.”
“Marry me!” Melissa said, laughing. She scoffed when Tanisha cooed over her poreless skin. “You should’ve seen me in high school,” she said. “My face looked like a half-chewed golf ball. Your skin . . . now that’s perfection. I’m so pasty compared to you!”
And so she was accepted by （a） becoming a de facto mother, （b） pretending she wasn’t beautiful or significantly younger and （c） acting like the most devoted wife in the world. She never flirted with anyone’s spouse but her own, and boy, did the other women watch her. No, Melissa complimented their homes/children/outfits/jewelry and stayed just a little removed, dodging questions that were too probing.
Missy-Jo Cumbo was dead and buried. Much better to be a beautiful woman who’d been educated at Wesleyan, who threw fabulous dinner parties and had taken in her tragic little niece, selflessly putting off her dreams of . . . whatever.
Ophelia’s accent faded, though she put it on when it was just her and Melissa, knowing it irritated her. She wouldn’t practice violin, was terrible at art and was （let’s be honest） a mediocre student at best, though she got As, just like all the other little monsters at Amory-West. You didn’t pay fifty grand a year and not have your kid on the honor roll.
And then, three years after Ophelia had come to live with them, came a swerve Melissa hadn’t prepared for.
Dennis died. Just like that.
He had been walking through the posh foyer of his Westchester surgical center, a half-eaten bagel in one hand. His receptionist said he stopped in his tracks, pressed his fingers to his head, said, “Jesus Christ,” and fell to the floor like a bag of rocks.
He’d been fifty-seven years old.
Melissa sure hadn’t seen that coming. Dennis had never been healthier, thanks to her cooking, especially since she made him lay off the junk food after Ophelia came. He played racquetball and went for the occasional run. Sometimes he even used the elliptical in the den.
No, it was a shock. A terrible shock. Her legs gave out when his partner Saul came over to tell her the news, and he had to help her to the couch. She cried without even trying. Dennis had given her so much. He’d been generous and kind and . . . well, generous. They’d been so happy these past three years. He’d been a wonderful father figure for Ophelia, who sobbed for a week straight, her cheeks red, nose raw. Shock carried them through the wake and funeral and after-lunch （at the Princeton Club, since Dennis was a member . . . quite lovely）。
And then . . . then Melissa realized that some of her newlywed decisions had been extremely prescient （word of the day!）。 She had taken out a life insurance policy and, after they bought the apartment, mortgage insurance. Her life of poverty before Dennis had made her financially savvy, and she had planned carefully once the golden door was opened for her. She wasn’t going to be one of those second wives who got nothing if Dennis died first （and he would, because he’d been twenty-nine years older than she was, though he never knew her real age）。
Dennis didn’t leave a will, which served Melissa quite well. Probate said she got the apartment, now fully paid for and worth somewhere in the realm of ten million dollars. Also, her lawyer informed her, because of the nonexistent will, Melissa got 50 percent of all his money and stock holdings, including his share of his orthopedic practice buyout, with Nick and Amanda dividing the other 50 percent.
His first wife . . . she got nothing.
Melissa was suddenly very, very wealthy. And, because she was not stupid, she invested most of that with a stodgy wealth management firm so it would keep earning her money. No spending spree （yet）。 She knew to take her time and reframe her life. From trophy wife to independently wealthy woman . . . not bad at all! （May you rest in peace, Dennis.） She would be a queen of New York. An important hostess, a charity maven, the head of many committees. Maybe she could get on the board of the Met and go to the gala and become friends with Rihanna! Wouldn’t that make the other women in her circle jealous!
However, once the fuss over Dennis’s death died down, Melissa’s social status changed. She was a widow now. In other words, wife material. The book club and dinner invitations stopped. An older man had married Melissa, and she’d made him very happy. In other words, she could do it again. No taint of divorce, just a young, beautiful, wealthy widow. The quadruple threat.
* * *
One night a couple of months after Dennis’s death, Melissa sat in their beautiful apartment and looked out at the city lights. She missed Dennis, the companionship, his good nature, the buffer with Ophelia. All the things they’d done together—Broadway shows, dinners out, charity events, running in the park, weekend brunches, even just watching a movie after Ophelia had gone to bed. Dennis had appreciated her, except for that short period when he was irritable and restless.