Danielle Steel - Bittersweet

“Dan Lewison has a girlfriend,” Gail informed her. “And Harold and Rosalie are getting married in January, after the divorce is final. And there's no one new on the horizon.”

“How boring. Maybe I should give you Paul's number,” she teased, and they both laughed.

“I'd love it. Anyway, kiddo, take it easy. Don't be sad. And when Doug comes home tonight, kick him in the shins, it'll do you both good. And besides, he deserves it.” India didn't disagree with her, and she waved as she got into her car and drove off to the chores that were waiting. But she felt better after seeing Gail, and unburdening herself to her. There wasn't much she could do to change her life right now. But at least talking to someone about it was something, and it had helped her.

She picked the kids up after school, as usual, and took Jason and Aimee for their tennis lessons. Sam went home with a friend and came home in time for dinner. And Jessica was all excited about being a sophomore. Two seniors had actually looked at her, and one of them had actually said something to her. And mercifully, Doug stayed in the city to have dinner with clients. India just wasn't in the mood to deal with him. And she was asleep when he came home on the last train, and slipped into bed beside her.

He was already up and in the shower when she got up the next morning, and she put on her jeans and a sweatshirt without combing her hair, and ran downstairs to let the dog out and make breakfast.

She put the Wall Street Journal and The New York Times at Doug's place, and started a pot of coffee. And while she was pouring cereal into bowls for the kids, she glanced at the paper, and saw Serena on the front page. What startled her was that it was the picture India had taken of her that summer. She was surprised to see it in The Times , with her name along the side in a small credit line, as she unfolded the paper, and then she gasped as the cereal spilled all over the table.

For a moment, she felt as though all the air had been squeezed out of her as she read the headline. There had been a plane crash on a flight from London to New York the night before, and the FBI suspected a bomb planted by terrorists, though as yet no one had taken responsibility for it. Serena had been on the plane, and there were no survivors.

“Oh my God,” she said softly as she sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, with her hands trembling as she held the paper. The story in the newspaper said that the plane had taken off, as usual, after a slight delay due to a mechanical problem of some kind, and the plane had exploded without warning two hours out of Heathrow. There had been three hundred and seventy-six people on board, among them a congresswoman from Iowa, a British M.P., a well-known ABC newscaster returning from a special he had done the week before in Jerusalem, and Serena Smith, internationally known bestselling author and movie producer. And all India could think of, as she looked at the photograph she had taken herself, were the things Serena had said while she took pictures of her that summer. It had been almost exactly two months before, and India knew without a moment's doubt that Paul would be devastated.

She didn't know what to do, whether to write or to call, or how to reach out to him. She could only imagine how he felt, and she felt terrible for him. Serena may well have been difficult, and she may not have liked his boat, but she was an extraordinary woman and it had been obvious to Serena, as it was to everyone else, that he was crazy about her. The article said that she was fifty years old and was survived by her husband, Paul Ward, and a sister in Atlanta. India was still reading the article when Sam came down to breakfast.

“Hi, Mom, what's wrong?” There was cereal all over the table, and India looked as though she'd seen a ghost. She was as white as the empty cereal bowl sitting before her.

“I … it … I was just reading something.” And then she decided to tell him. “Remember Paul, with the Sea Star?” She knew he did, but she had to identify him somehow. “His wife died in a plane crash.”

“Wow!” Sam looked impressed. “I bet Paul is really sad. She didn't like the boat though.” That was equally important to Sam, and clearly showed her as defective. But he was nonetheless sorry for Paul, as she was. And as they were talking about it, the others came down, and Doug was with them.

“What's all the excitement about?” he asked, there was an atmosphere of hysteria in the kitchen, mostly caused by the appearance of their mother. It was obvious, just looking at her, that something terrible had happened.

“My friend Paul's wife was exploded by a bomb,” Sam said dramatically, as the others talked about it with interest.

“That sounds unusual,” Doug said, helping himself to a cup of coffee. “Paul who?”

“Paul Ward,” India explained. “He owns the yacht we visited this summer. He was married to Serena Smith, the writer.” She had told him about it, and he remembered instantly, and raised an eyebrow.

“How did she manage to get in the way of a bomb?” He looked somewhat nonplussed.

“She was on a plane that went down last night out of Heathrow.” Doug only shook his head in disapproval, and picked up the Wall Street Journal He had no sense of how upset his wife was. And he left, without saying another word, ten minutes later, after eating a muffin. He said nothing to India as he left, and the children were still talking about the crash when they were picked up by their car pools. She was grateful she didn't have to drive them.

And she sat in the kitchen afterward, staring at the paper, and thinking of Paul. He was all she could think of now, and how distraught he must have been. But she didn't dare call him. The phone rang as she sat there. It was Gail.

“Did you see the paper?” Gail sounded breathless.

“I just read it. I can't believe it.” India sounded vague and distracted.

“You never know what's going to happen, do you? At least I guess no one suffered. They said it exploded in a blinding flash in less than a second.” They had been seen by another plane flying above them.

“I can't begin to imagine how he feels. He was so much in love with her.” But he had nevertheless managed to call India from his boat, Gail wanted to point out, but didn't. And when he recovered from the blow, he would be a free man, which might just create an interesting dilemma for her, or so Gail thought.

“Are you going to call him?”

“I don't think I should intrude,” India said, and then she remembered the photograph she had taken. She could send it to him now. It was a beautiful picture of both of them, and he might want to have it.

“You could go to the funeral. I'm sure they'll have some kind of memorial service for her in a few days. He might like to see you,” Gail said practically, ever helpful.

“Maybe.” They talked about it for a few minutes, and then hung up. And India went to look for the picture. She found it in a stack of papers she'd been meaning to get to in her darkroom. She had never gotten around to sending it to Serena, as she had promised. And she stood and looked at it for a long time, looking first into Paul's eyes, and then Serena's. Just the way they sat together spoke volumes. He was draped across the back of her chair, and she was leaning her head against him, on the Sea Star , and she was beaming. It was hard to believe she was gone, so instantly, so totally, so quickly. It must have been even harder for Paul to absorb. And as India thought about him, she realized he was probably still in Europe, on the Sea Star. Or flying home by then, after they notified him. She had no idea what one did in a case like this. But it was obvious to her, as she thought about it, that it was better not to call him.