Read Online The Widow's Guide to Sex and Dating by Carole Radziwill - Free Book Online

wooziness, like she’d had the day after Charlie’s death, at the funeral home. But somehow between Bedford Street and Waverly she muscled through it. Inside, she stared at the chalkboard menu of swirly letters, overwhelmed.
    Ethan ordered an Americano with cream and Claire panicked, like she’d stepped up to the dais in a crowded auditorium without her notes. “Cappuccino,” she said, though not with conviction.
    “Wet or dry?” asked the barista. Claire looked back at the chalkboard. Sizes and shots and flavors and fats. There were three different measures, four blonde roasts, eleven dark, and five kinds of milk. There were espressos, Americanos, macchiatos, and half-caff frappes, with foam and without.
    She felt the impatience behind her—shifting feet and heavy sighs. Ethan shot her a nervous look. Her stomach began to hurt. She picked up a packet of trail mix and set it on the counter. The barista glared. Claire grabbed Ethan’s arm.
    “Hey, sweetie. It’s okay.” He took charge with the barista. “Dry, let’s make it dry.” His calm assurance, his lean body and long limbs, his very certain and solid presence tipped Claire over the edge.
    “Why is coffee so fucking complicated?” The barista took a step back.
    “It’s okay, honey.” Ethan put a five-dollar bill on the counter and led Claire out of the store. People parted on both sides of them, watching carefully, sensing that a woman might come unhinged right here in front of them, over whether to have wet or dry foam.
    *   *   *
    O UTSIDE , C LAIRE SHOOK loose and ran to the curb. She sat down. Immune to the dirty sidewalk and gutter litter, she buried her head in her hands and started to sob. It came out in high-pitched squeaks that she couldn’t control. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”
    “Shh, sweetie.” Ethan stooped and sat next to her.
    “It feels so long.”
    “What does, babe?”
    “Life.”
    Ethan rubbed her back.
    “In the moment it feels short, but it’s really long.” Claire raised her head. Her face wet with tears. “I’m only thirty-two. There are still so many days to fill up.”
    “It’s not so bad, Clarabelle.”
    She wiped her eyes on his sleeve. “How’s it not so bad?”
    “Well, think of it this way. You’ve never really been alone. You got married right out of college, you were so young. Before you could be a sun, you signed on to be a moon.” Ethan treaded carefully. “Charlie’s ideas became your ideas. His opinions became yours … but now you’re steering the boat.”
    “Ethan, do you believe in soul mates?”
    “I believe in everything. But Charlie was your soul mate the way Bennett from Mamaroneck was your soul mate, and the guy from Gallatin, the music studies major, was your soul mate.”
    “Gerard,” Claire whispered.
    “Right, Gerry. You were convinced you’d been married to him in a past life,” Ethan said.
    “Maybe I’m poly–soul mate.”
    “We all are, honey,” Ethan said, and he stroked her hair. “Derek Jeter is my soul mate. One of them.”
    “The baseball player? You know him?”
    “No. But if we met I bet we’d be soul mates.” This got a smile from Claire. They sat like this for an hour, Claire with her head on his shoulder, letting the Seventh Avenue din lull her calm again. And when she didn’t feel like crying anymore, and her body ached from sitting, they got up and walked home.
    *   *   *
    C ARTER H INCKLEY WAS waiting for them in the foyer, holding Charlie in the etched bronze urn. “Hi. I’m so sorry, Carter. I forgot.” Claire looked from Carter to Ethan. No one spoke. Ethan looked from Claire to Carter, then back to Claire. Ethan took the urn and broke the silence. “Well, you know what they say, a widow without ashes is like a cowboy without a hat.” Carter didn’t laugh. Claire looked horrified. “Call me if you need anything, Mrs. Byrne. Have a good night.” Carter nodded then left.
    Ethan carried Charlie inside and sat him on the