I swallow. Ledger has never been married before me. It’s only ever been me. Ledger and me against the world, hands held, against all odds. There was never another woman.
She must be crazy.
“She’s, uh, she’s a friend of Papa’s,” I say, choosing my words slowly.
They nod solemnly as I blink back tears, then they sit on the floor with their plastic plates and plastic cups and stare at the screen.
Outside, Emma is standing just where I left her, wringing her hands together. “Sorry,” I say, trying to collect myself. “I just don’t understand.”
She pulls out an envelope from her designer purse. A stack of photos in her hands. We sit down on the steps, and she hands them to me, one at a time.
It’s Ledger, that’s for sure. Same green eyes, dirty brown hair. Same dimples in both cheeks, the same ones Benny and Tiny have. Same scar across the bridge of his nose. Same teeth. Same smile. Same everything.
“Where did you get these?”
She hands me more, silently. Photos of her in an ivory gown. A small church. A wedding. Their wedding. Emma looking up into Ledger’s eyes, a man a foot taller than her, making vows. Cutting the cake and dancing. It’s the wedding I never had.
We went to the courthouse. My mom was the witness and I didn’t even wear white. I wore wedge sandals and a denim dress and my hair was wild and loose, the way Ledger likes it. Has always liked it. We stood nearly eye to eye, and when he slipped a ring on my finger, we both cried. Promises were made.
Was it all a lie?
“I don’t understand,” I say. “He never told me he had been married. Why would he lie about that… about you?” I stare at the picture of the two of them, looking as in love as we had been on our wedding day.
Emma tucks a strand of her long straight hair behind her ear. “This is going to be a shock to you. When I saw the news, it shocked me too. Scared me, really. It was like seeing a ghost.”
“What do you mean? A ghost?”
“His name isn’t Ledger Stone,” Emma says. “It’s Henry James. And almost five years ago, he was in a car crash — his pickup went over a cliff. And his body was never recovered. He died in that accident. Went up in flames. Or at least, we thought he did. We all thought so. We had a funeral for him.” She pulls out a folder, handing me the death certificate for Henry James, and a marriage license. A paperclipped obituary. Leaving behind his wife, Emma James. “He was dead. But I think…” She starts sobbing into her hands. “I think he left me, Penny. My husband didn’t die. He pretended to and then he ran.”
Blood drains from my face. And I feel ill. Dropping the photos, I lean over, retching into the grass. No. No. This can’t be real.
Emma keeps crying. “I knew it was my Henry when I saw his face. And the crazy thing is, I felt relieved. I never believed he died. It was love at first sight when we met, and if your soulmate was dead, you’d feel it, wouldn’t you?”
Her words send a chill over me. My spine and my bones and my heart. Ice. “You think… you think this wasn’t an accident? You think Ledger left me? That’s why you came here?” I ask, my voice sharp as her story hits me. “You came here to tell me my husband is—” I stop talking, covering my mouth. The horror of her story setting in. I can’t believe this — this can’t be happening. Ledger loves me. He would never, ever leave me.
But as I look at Emma, small and shaking, I realize she feels the exact same way.
Soulmates. Love at first sight. Was it all canned lines? What was real?
“When did he die?” I ask. “I mean, when did he have his accident?”
“April 14, 2015,” she says. “The worst day of my life.”
“We were already… Ledger and I had already met… We…” Shame floods me. I slept with a man who was married. Then I married him myself.
“I knew it,” she says, crying harder now. “When did you meet him?”
“He came into the diner in February of that year. He was traveling through for work, staying at a hotel after giving a training at an auto dealership a few towns over. He was a service technician instructor for General Motors. At least that’s what he said. He lost his job a few months after we met.”
“Lost it?” Emma scoffs, pained. “He didn’t have the job anymore because everyone thought he had died.” She runs her fingertips under her eyes. “He was gone so much for work, but I never thought he was a cheater. I thought he loved me.”
I nod, piecing the horrible story together. “We didn’t see each other much. That first night, we… well, I fell in love with him. He only came through town twice more before I told him I was pregnant. That was April 12. I’d never forget it because it’s my birthday. He came to the diner and we ate cake and then I told him.”
“So you have a child with him?” Emma asks, pulling back, looking at me more critically.
“Yeah. Uh, twins. They’re four.”
Her lips form a firm line.
A fresh wave of nausea washes over me as I consider Ledger having a child with another woman. With this woman. A woman so different from me, it makes my head hurt.
She looks at me blankly, as if I have something to ask her. But the truth is, I’m not ready to know if there are other kids in the picture. Motherhood has always been such a complicated thing for me.
I never meant to get pregnant. Falling in love with Ledger was one thing, but having his children was quite another. We always thought we’d have time later to travel the world, to fill a backpack with a Europass and go.
But now everything has changed. Ledger is missing and Emma’s husband is dead. And she was his wife. And so, then, what am I?
“So you told him you were pregnant and then he drove back home,” Emma says calmly as if the story is becoming more concrete in her mind. “And then one day later, he left me for you. He faked his death and took on a new life and… never looked back.”
I draw in a breath, not knowing what to make of her words. How could everything I thought I knew about my life be a lie? My Ledger wouldn’t do this to me. Would he?
“So if he’s gone, faked his death again, then my question is,” Emma says sitting up straighter, biting her bottom lip, “where is wife number three?”
Chapter Seven
“I need coffee for this,” I say, entering the house. The kids don’t turn from their show and I tell Emma to help herself to breakfast as I start a pot.
She picks up a muffin, her heels click-clacking as she inspects the family photos hanging on the wall. I watch her take in my life, this life with her husband. She looks so polished, poised. In a white button-up blouse and dark denim jeans. Toned arms. Tan. Her Burberry purse a status symbol I can’t exactly identify with.
I’m momentarily grateful my mom cleaned the house top to bottom last night in her manic response to Ledger’s accident. But then, pouring coffee, I berate myself. Why the hell do I care if my kitchen is clean for this woman? My husband is dead.
She is also linked to me in ways that are just dawning on me and the facts are too solid to lead me to believe she is fabricating any of this. We both married the same man. The death certificate listed his date of birth — June 8. Same as I always knew it to be.