Even though Nico had been invited to our wedding, he hadn’t attended, and I’d never met him. My Internet search revealed that Nico was a plastic surgeon, still living in Miami. He had a website featuring before-and-after pictures of women who had undergone tummy tucks, breast augmentations, and face-lifts. The picture on his website showed a handsome man, with thick, dark hair and a pleasant smile.

I called Nico’s office, but he wasn’t available, so I asked the receptionist if she would transfer my call to his personal line so I could leave him a voicemail.

“Um, we, like, don’t do that,” she said dismissively. “Dr. Barlos is a very busy man.”

“I’m sure he is, but this is a personal matter. I just want to leave him my contact information.”

She huffed a bit, and I could picture her rolling her eyes. “I’ll, like, take a message, but I’m not guaranteeing anything.”

I gave her my name and cell phone number. “Please tell him I’m married to James Cabot, okay?”

“Oh-kay.” She drew out the word, as though even this small tidbit of information was a horrible imposition. “I’ll pass it along.”

“Thank you,” I said sweetly. As soon as I hung up, I added, “What a bitch.”

I strongly suspected that the message would not be passed along to Dr. Barlos, and even if it miraculously was, it was unlikely he’d return my call.

I checked the time. It was only four o’clock, far too early to start making dinner. Besides, now that Paige was off at college, I was usually content to have cheese and crackers on the nights I was home alone, rather than cook for just myself. I returned my attention to my computer and its tempting search window.

I typed in Hannah Nilsson, and once the results appeared, I clicked on Images.

Pictures of Hannah appeared before me in a grid format. The long blonde tousled hair, the wide ice-blue eyes, the perfect body. And that Scandinavian skin, which seemed to glow like she was lit from within. She was so beautiful, it was almost physically painful to look at her.

As for me, I had taken care of myself over the years and had often been complimented for my unusual freckled complexion and incorrigible dark curls. I was attractive, yes, but I could never compete with the Hannahs of the world. Few women could.

I scrolled through Hannah’s photos. In one, she was leaping in the air, looking back over her shoulder with a mischievous expression. In another, she was clad in a lace chemise, gazing sultrily at the camera. In yet another, she was dressed in a simple pair of cutoffs and a white tank top, and had her head tossed back as she laughed.

My phone rang.

“Hello?”

“This is Dr. Barlos, returning your phone call.”