Danielle Steel - Impossible

“So how many children do you have at home?” he asked her bluntly before they sat down to dinner, while Sasha was wondering if she could claim a sudden migraine and vanish. But she knew Alana would be insulted. She knew her hostess meant well, but this was not what Sasha wanted. All she wanted was to be left alone. Her wounds were still wide open. And she had no desire to replace Arthur. Ever.

“I have two grown children,” Sasha said bleakly.

“That's good,” he said with a look of relief. She knew he was a stockbroker, and he had volunteered that he had been divorced for the past fourteen years. He looked to be around fifty, two years older than Sasha.

“Actually, it's not good,” she said honestly, smiling sadly at him. “They're gone. I miss them terribly. I wish they were younger and still at home.” He looked more than a little uncomfortable with her answer.

“You're not planning to have more, are you?” She had the feeling that he had a checklist and was working his way down the questions.

“I'd love to, but I'm a widow.” For her, that answered the question. For him, it didn't.

“You'll probably end up remarried.” Poof, with one fell swoop, he had erased Arthur, and moved on to the next one. Sasha hadn't.

“I will not remarry,” Sasha said, looking stubborn, as they moved in to dinner, and she discovered with dismay that he was seated next to her. Alana clearly had a plan.

“How long were you married?” he asked with renewed interest. Women who were shopping for husbands were not what he wanted. In that case, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

“Twenty-five years,” she said primly, as they sat down. He didn't miss a beat or his questions for a minute.

“Well, then I can see why you don't want to remarry. Gets boring, doesn't it, after all those years? I was married for eleven, that did it for me.” Sasha looked at him with horror, and didn't answer for a long moment.

“I was not bored in my marriage,” she said firmly. “I was very much in love with my husband.”

“That's too bad,” he said, digging into the first course. It was the only breather from him Sasha had gotten. “You probably remember it better than it was. Most widowed people suffer from that kind of delusion. They all think they were married to saints, after they're gone. While they were here, they weren't that crazy about them.”

“I assure you,” Sasha said, looking haughtily at him, wanting to throw something at him, “I was crazy about my husband. That is a fact, not a delusion.” Her tone was glacial.

“All right, fine,” he said, looking nonplussed, “I'll take your word for it. So how many men have you been out with since he died?” Alana happened to look over then, saw the look on her face, and realized it was not going well. Sasha was white with outrage.

“I have not been out with anyone, nor do I intend to go out with anyone. Ever. My husband died eight months ago, and this is the first social invitation I've accepted.” Her dinner partner stared at her in amazement.

“Oh my God, you're a virgin.” He seemed to first view it as an oddity, and then as he looked at her with interest, as a challenge. But he had met his match in Sasha.

“No, I'm not a virgin, as you put it. Nor do I intend to be deflowered. I am a forty-eight-year-old widow, who was very much in love with her husband.” And with that, she turned her back on him, and spoke to her dinner partner on her other side, who was a man she and Arthur had known well. He was married, and she and Arthur had been fond of him and his wife.

“Are you all right?” Her old friend looked at her with concern as she turned to him with her eyes blazing. He spoke in an undertone, and her eyes were filled with tears as she nodded. The man on her left had been not only insulting but depressing. This was what she had to look forward to now as a widow. She was beginning to wonder if in the future she should just tell people she met that she was married. She had no desire to be someone's “virgin.” It robbed her of all the dignity and respect she'd taken for granted while married to Arthur. Not only had she lost the man she loved, but she realized now that overnight she had become embarrassingly vulnerable, and had lost the social protection of a loving husband, and the safe, comfortable shield of marriage.

“I'm fine,” she said softly to her seatmate.

“I'm so sorry, Sasha,” he said sympathetically, patting her hand, which made the tears in her eyes spill onto her cheeks, and she had to dig in her evening bag for her hankie. She could no longer afford to be without one. And as she blew her nose into it, she felt pathetic and embarrassed.

For the rest of the meal, she picked at what was on her plate, and disappeared with as much aplomb as she could muster while the others were moving into the living room for coffee. She didn't even have the strength to tell Alana, and promised herself she'd call her the next morning.

She didn't have to. Alana called her at the office. It was a Saturday, but as usual now, Sasha was at the gallery, working. No more weekend trips to the Hamptons, which she'd loved with Arthur and couldn't face alone.

“What happened?” Alana sounded plaintive. “He's a really nice guy when you get to know him. And he liked you. He thought you were terrific!” Sasha found that piece of news even more depressing.

“That's nice of him. I didn't want a date, Alana. I just wanted to come to dinner.”

“You can't stay alone forever. Sasha, sooner or later, you have to get out there. You're a young woman. And look, realistically, there just aren't that many decent guys around. This one's a good one.” Or at least Alana thought so. But she had proven over the past year that her judgment had been colored by desperation.

“I don't want a good one,” Sasha said sadly. She liked her friend, or always had, but hated what she was becoming. Her good taste, good judgment, and dignity seemed to have gone out the window the moment she became a widow. Sasha was sure that not all widows were like her. Alana also had severe money problems, and was desperate to find a husband to solve them. And as Arthur had said before he died, men could smell it. Eau de Panic, as Arthur had called it. It was not a perfume men liked.

“You want Arthur,” Alana said, rubbing salt in her wounds. “Well, if you want to know the truth, I want Toby. But they're gone, Sash. They're not coming back, and we're stuck here without them. We have to make the best of a bad situation, any way we can.”

“I'm not ready to do that,” Sasha said kindly. She didn't tell her friend how foolish she looked, or how embarrassing she was becoming. “Maybe staying alone is the right answer. I can't even imagine dating.” Nor did she want to.

“Sasha, you're forty-eight years old, I'm fifty-three. We're too young to be alone forever.” Sasha had felt young when she was married to Arthur. Since he had died, she felt ancient.

“I don't know, Alana. I don't know what the answer is. I just know that right now I'd rather be dead than dating.” As always, she was painfully honest.

“Be patient with yourself. Give these guys a chance, sooner or later you'll find one you want.” Judging by the men Alana had been dating for the past year, with the exception of the current one, none of them were men most sane women would have wanted, except maybe for their money. Alana had a whole different agenda than Sasha. All Sasha was trying to do was survive Arthur's loss. “In a few months, you'll feel different. Wait till after the first year. Then you'll be ready.”

“I hope not. I have my children, my galleries, and my artists.” Although without Arthur, nothing but the children meant anything to her. She could hardly concentrate on her work now. All it did was get her out of the apartment in New York, or her house in Paris. But nothing in her life brought her joy.