THE WOMAN IN THE LAST ROW
The funeral was held in the same church where Richard and I had married.
The room was filled with former coworkers, neighbors, relatives, and old college friends. I recognized everyone except one woman.
She sat alone in the last row.
She appeared to be in her early sixties, with silver-streaked hair pulled into a low knot. She wore a plain black dress and held a thick cream-colored envelope in her lap.
She did not cry during the service, but she watched me.
After the final prayer, people gathered around Michael and Claire. I received hugs from people who did not know what to call me. Widow felt wrong. Ex-wife felt too cold.
When most guests had left, I approached her.
“Excuse me. How did you know Richard?”
Her fingers tightened around the envelope.
“My name is Laura Mercer.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
She glanced toward my children.
“I was Richard’s attorney.”
“His divorce attorney?”
“Among other things.”
My stomach tightened.
“Were you the woman?”
Laura’s eyes widened.
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
She looked afraid to answer.
“For five years, I lived with questions he refused to answer. He is gone now. Please don’t tell me it’s none of my business.”
Laura guided me into a quiet side hallway.
“You don’t know the whole truth, do you?” she whispered. “You have no idea what your husband did for you—or what really happened five years ago.”
