The Good Widow

by Liz Fenton

called the house this morning. I don’t

no condition to . . .” “Hula dance?” Nick offers, and we both half smile. I wonder if he’s thinking what I am—that it feels wrong to laugh. I remember last night I had the TV on while packing, and Jimmy Kimmel was doing his bit about mean tweets, and I laughed when Nicole Kidman read one about herself. I clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle it. “Maybe—or dance with fire,” I say, then tell the bartender we will take that second round. We sip our cocktails, and I listen to the sound the wind makes as it sails through the palm trees, the laughter coming from the kids’ pool nearby. Then I feel a wave of guilt. I remember why we’re here. I

Once we get settled into our seats on the plane, I pull out the tabloid magazine

smiles. That’s the Nick I spent last night