Page 9 of It's a Widow Thing

“I’d say his mom is a full-on power broker.”

As if she needed more pressure in her life. “So I gathered.”

“Did he ask you out?”

“Dinner. At his apartment. Friday night.” Sabrina cleared her throat. “He also kissed me at my neighbor’s cocktail party over the weekend.”

Lucy squealed and frantically clapped her hands, eyes wide and full of expectation. “You have to go to dinner. Two years has been more than long enough.” She reached across the desk and rubbed Sabrina’s shoulder. “I’d love to see you happy again. Truly happy.”

Sabrina sighed and tapped her pen on her planner. “One step at a time. It’s just dinner. Happy is a long ways off.”

Lucy stepped to the door and leaned against the frame. “He’s hot, right? Nothing wrong with that.”

Sabrina pursed her lips, realizing she couldn’t keep from grinning like a fool when she thought about Michael.Why am I being such a girl about this?“He’s so handsome it’s a little ridiculous. And charming. And funny. He attracts women like crazy.”

Lucy let out an unflattering snort. “Leave it to me to be engaged when there’s a single guy like that running around the city. He sounds great.”

He is. Or at least he seems that way.“He’s also a little too smooth though. That worries me.”Actually, that petrifies me.“And from what my neighbor, Mrs. Van Cleeve said, he’s known for being a total player.”

“If he’s a player, then turn the tables on him. Have some fun. No harm in that.”

“But here’s the thing. He was talking at the party like he’s looking for something serious. That’s probably not the person I should get involved with if I’m returning to the dating world.” She couldn’t help but wince at the term “dating world”.

“Stop overthinking it. You’re both consenting adults. Get in there, clean the pipes, and get some frustration out of your system.”

“That sounds like something a guy would say.”

Lucy waved off the comment. “Go. Have fun. Don’t forget to put some condoms in your purse. Safety first.”

Condoms?“I’m not sleeping with him on the first date.”It’s been so long, I’m not even sure I remember how to do it.Not that Sabrina didn’t want to do it, especially with someone as enticing as Michael. Maybe getting lost in a man like him could be a turning point, an important piece of the puzzle called “reclaiming her life”. Besides, relieving sexual frustration with her own hand only went so far.

“Always be prepared,” Lucy added. “That’s my motto.”

“What, are you a Boy Scout now?”

“No way. Khaki with this hair? Total nightmare.”

Sabrina chuckled. “We’ll see. I don’t have dinner with him until Friday.”

“Plenty of time to psych yourself up.”

Or psych myself out.“Is there anything else we need to go over before I launch into email and phone calls?”

“I don’t think so. I guess we’ll just wait to hear from Echo Echo’s lawyers. Are you going to your meeting tonight?”

That was another thing she’d completely forgotten about—her widows group. She’d joined it a year ago, when she’d first started to come out of the fog of her grief and realized she had almost no idea how to navigate her new life. They met every other Monday night. If she brought up the subject of Michael, the ladies would be chomping at the bit to offer their two cents. Sabrina wasn’t sure she was ready for that, but they might provide some useful insight. These women had been around the block a few times. They all had their war stories. “Yeah. I have to go or several of the members will start calling and texting me, wondering where I am. It starts at six.”

“Do you feel like it’s still helping?”

Sabrina found a smile crossing her face. That group of women could sometimes be a complete pain in the ass, but more than anything, they had been a lifeline for her. Real support and understanding. In many ways, the mother—ormothers—she’d never truly had. “Actually, yes. I do.”

CHAPTERFOUR

Most meetingsof A Widow’s Way Out happened at the home of its founder, Orla Hanson. Orla lived in a super swanky townhouse on the upper East side, a place she’d resided at for more than forty years, most of which had been with her second husband, Max.

“You’re here!” Orla exclaimed, as she threw the door open. Her long silvery blonde hair was in a braid coiled on top of her head. She was dressed in her usual attire of black from head-to-toe—blouse, cardigan, and pants. Sabrina hadn’t known Orla while Max was still alive, so she wasn’t sure if she dressed like this because she was clinging to her widowed identity or if it was just the New Yorker in her. It could’ve easily been either. Or both.

Sabrina stepped into the foyer or Orla’s luxuriously appointed home. The entryway alone was larger than Sabrina’s entire apartment, two stories high with a sweeping staircase to the right, a chandelier looming overhead, a gray and white checkerboard marble floor below, and a circular mahogany table in the center of the room, topped with a small fraction of Orla’s extensive orchid collection. The walls were dotted with photos of the extensive array of trips Orla and Max had taken over the years.