‘I Found My Husband’s Next Wife’

For the past six years, New York writer Rosemary Breslin has lived with a rare and serious blood disease that doctors have been unable to diagnose or cure. All they can say is that the life-threatening disease is neither AIDS nor cancer.

“Not Exactly What I Had in Mind (Villard Books / Random House) chronicles her illness.

It’s also a love story.

From Chapter 1:

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I think I found my husband’s next wife. Since we bought this tiny cottage in the country a few months back, I’d been in search of a good breakfast place that opens early. Much as I love diners and beat-up coffee shops, the coffee never has a good kick and muffins almost always have the consistency of paperweights. I found a great one that serves thick, strong coffee and light, fresh muffins. As I stood on line to order, I immediately turned my eye to the women who run the place. Standing together, they were good-looking, hard-working, hip. They could handle things.

Of the two, Ann’s the one I chose on the spot. I first saw her at the grill, in the early morning rush of farmers and truckers and laborers and newcomers like me, second-home owners from the city, and she was great to watch. Thin, muscular, hair loosely pulled back, up before 4 but still looking great as she fills the orders with great efficiency, cutting off slabs of fresh cinnamon bread or flipping orders of thick hash browns.

Soon, I started bringing Tony, my husband, Ann’s future husband, with me. . . .

Ann already dug me by the time I introduced her to Tony. We’d been checking each other out and romancing each other the way women do, so when Ann saw the way I feel about Tony, he was right in there. . . .

“You could marry her,” I said, as I shut the Jeep door. “She’d be good for you.”

Tony tried to pretend he didn’t know what I was talking about, but since we’ve had this conversation on a couple of occasions he caught on pretty quickly. “Will you shut up,” he responded.

“I’m serious. I can see her.” What I meant was he’d be OK with her, she’d understand him, appreciate both him and the love and work I’d put into him. Tony was a good guy when I met him, but I made him great. So I’m not giving him up to just any old tramp.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Tony said.

“That’s what you say.”

“That’s what I have to say,” Tony said.

And I guess he does. What good is it going to do him to worry that this illness I have may kill me sooner rather than later. I like to think the same way he does, but sometimes I worry. . . . Tony has to say nothing’s going to happen to me, and I have to be prepared for the possibility. I guess that’s what they call balance.

* Excerpted with permission from the author.