To Jennifer Iszkiewicz, Huntley Fitzpatrick, Karen Pinco and Shaunee Cole for the friendship, laughter and all-around fabulosity that makes the very air shimmer when we're together. I love you guys so much.
To my mom, the funny, wonderful, generous woman who puts up with her middle child.
To my kids, who are simply everything, always--first in my heart and last on my mind.
To the love of my life, Terence Keenan, who makes life fun, reassures me when I'm worried and brings me coffee every morning.
And to you, readers. Thank you for picking up this book. It's an honor and a privilege, and I am so very, very grateful that you chose to spend some time with this book.
Questions for Discussion
Kate and Ainsley have a somewhat odd relationship thanks to their father's two marriages. Do you have firsthand experience with a blended family? What do you think makes them difficult, and what makes them work? Do you think Kate and Ainsley's relationship is typical of sisters, regardless of the circumstances?
Why do you think Ainsley loves Eric so fiercely? What in her childhood makes it logical for her to think he's the perfect man for her? Why doesn't she question their dynamic more? Do you think her father's personality makes her accept less than she deserves in a relationship?
On the other hand, Kate is surprised by falling in love at the age of 39. She's almost suspicious of Nathan for being as wonderful as he is. What's your take on that? Do you think it's true that after a certain age, all the "good ones" are taken?
Candy--Kate's mother and Ainsley's stepmother--is a family therapist. What did you think of her role? Could you blame her for being resentful? Do your feelings about her change throughout the book?
Daniel the Hot Firefighter is more than a pretty face. (The author's husband is a firefighter, too.) Kate never senses his attraction to her, but Daniel hints at it later on. Do you think Kate kept him stereotyped for a reason, or do you think Daniel did that to himself? Was there a moment in the book when you saw Kate's view of Daniel change, or was it more gradual?
Jonathan and Ainsley are clearly a case of opposites attract. Ainsley has a history with lying men--her dad, her former boss at NBC and now Eric--while Jonathan is unable to be anything except forthright and blunt. Do you know anyone like him? Do you like that person, or did it take a while to warm up to him or her?
Becoming a wife and then a widow strips away Kate's outer shell as a person who's in complete control of her life. As a newlywed, she's a little awkward. As a widow, she's completely lost. Have you ever been rocked by a life event and felt adrift in the same way? What helped you recover your equilibrium?
One of the most important relationships in the book is between Kate and Eloise. What did you think of Mrs. Coburn?
One theme in this book is being there for someone else. Kate and Ainsley, who've never been particularly close, find that they're truer sisters than either thought. Talk about a time when someone surprised you by coming through for you at a difficult time.
If you're anything like us, you can't get enough of Kristan Higgins's books!
Keep reading for an early preview of her next novel,
NOW THAT YOU MENTION IT,
coming September 2017.
"[An] emotionally compelling story [and] perceptive study of love, marriage, sisterhood, and loyalty. A powerful, emotionally textured winner."
--Kirkus Reviews on If You Only Knew
If you loved On Second Thought, then be sure to catch Now That You Mention It
Simply unforgettable and thoroughly captivating, you won't want to miss this brand-new story by New York Times bestselling sensation Kristan Higgins Order your copy today!
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An NPR Great Read of 2015 and a BookPage Best Romance of the Year, don't miss If You Only Knew, a funny, frank and bittersweet look at sisters, marriage and moving on...
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"Higgins' tender, heartfelt If You Only Knew bridges the gap between romance and women's fiction."
--BookPage, a "Best Romance of the Year"
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Now That You Mention It
by Kristan Higgins
Scupper Island, Maine, was named for Captain Jedediah Scupper, a whaling captain who left Nantucket after he lost an election on the church council. He came here to settle his own island and give Nantucket a big middle finger. Nantucket didn't seem to mind. Captain Scupper brought a wife and five kids, and those five kids found spouses, and before you knew it, there was a legitimate community here.
Over the years, its residents lived the same way as those on most Maine islands did--suffered after the whaling industry died, then turned to fishing and lobstering.
Islanders prided themselves on survival and toughness, bonded together by hurricanes and nor'easters, drownings and hardship. When the Gilded Age hit summering in the country gave Scupper a new industry--service. Cleaning, gardening, catering, carpentry, plumbing, nannying, taking care of the rich folks and their property.
That never changed.
I grew up with the belief that while the rich people came in June--the summer nuisance, we called them--Scupper Island was for us, the tough Yankees. We'd deal with the summer people, those who owned big houses on the rocky cliffs and moored their wooden sailboats in our picturesque coves. The kids were attractive and polite, but never our real friends, not when they wore Vineyard Vines and Ralph Lauren and had European nannies. Not when they ate at the local restaurants where our parents worked.
But they were our bread and butter, and lots of them were genuinely nice people. They donated to our schools, paid the taxes that kept our roads patched and plowed, fed the local economy. Still, we were glad when they left every Labor Day. Being cheerful representatives of their summer getaway was a little wearing.
Scupper belonged to us. To my sister and me, to our dad and absolutely to our mom.
My mother, Sharon Potter Stuart (and believe me, her maiden name was the source of great joy to this Muggle), was a fourth-generation islander, born and raised here. She was a typical tough Maine woman--able to shoot a deer, butcher it and make venison chili in the same day. She cut and stacked her own wood, made her own food, viewed going to restaurants as wasteful. She knew how to do everything--fish, sail, fix a car, make biscuits from scratch, sew our dresses. Once, she even stitched up a cut when the one doctor on Scupper was attending a difficult birth.
Scupper is not just the name of our founder. It's also part of a ship--a drain, essentially, that allows excess water to flow out into the ocean, rather than puddle in the ship. It was ironic, then, that so many of Scupper Island's residents left, slipping away to bigger waters. If you didn't make your living off the sea or tourism, Scupper Island was a tough place to stay.
Mom never went to college, never took a vacation. Once, I made the mistake of asking if we could go to Disney World, like just about every other American family. "Why on earth would we go there? You think it's prettier than this here?" she said once, her thick Maine accent turning earth to uhth, here to heeah.
My earliest memories of my mother were all good. She was safe and reliable, as mothers should be. Our meals were nutritious if unimaginative. She braided my somewhat wild hair every day, patiently taming the snarls without ever pulling. She made sure we were clean. She drank black coffee all day long, the kind that she brewed in a pot on the
stove.
Our house, though plainly furnished, was clean and tidy. Homework was done at the kitchen table, under her gaze. She went to all the parent events at school. When we walked through a parking lot or across the Main Street and Elm intersection, she held my hand, but otherwise, there wasn't a lot of physical affection. When I was very little and she gave me my bath, sometimes she'd put the washcloth on my head and tell me I had fancy hat. Otherwise, she was simply there. And don't get me wrong. I knew how important that was.
She loved me, sure. But my sister... Well, Lily was magical.
My sister was twelve months and one day younger than I was, and different in every way. My hair was brown and coarse, not quite curly, not quite straight; Lily's was black and fine. My eyes were a murky mix of brown and green; Lily's were a clear, pure blue. I was solid and tall, like our mother; Lily was a fairy child, with knobby elbows and blueish-white skin. Lily often got carried, snuggled up on Mom's sturdy hip. When I asked if I could be carried, too, Mom told me I was her big girl.
I loved my sister. She was my baby, too, despite the scant year between us. I loved her chick-like hair, her eyes, her skinny little body snuggled against mine when she crept into my bed after a bad dream. I loved being older, bigger, stronger.
Those early years... They were so sweet. When I thought of them now, my heart pulls at the simplicity of it. Back when Lily loved me. Back when my parents didn't fight. Back before Mom's heart was encased in concrete.
Back when Dad was here.
My father had a mysterious job, something Lily and I called "businessing." Dad wasn't an islander; he'd been born in the magical city of New York but grew up in Maine. He had an office and a secretary in town. I later learned he sold insurance.
But when I was about six, just starting all-day school, he started working from home. He took over our little den and worked on a computer, the first one we ever had. He was writing a book, he said, and he'd be around for us a lot more. Lily and I were thrilled. Both parents home? It'd be like the weekend all the time.
Except it wasn't. There were a lot of terse conversations between our parents; we couldn't hear the words from the bedroom Lily and I shared, but we could feel the mood, the energy between our parents brittle and tight, humming with unspoken words.
Mom took a job as manager at the Excelsior Pines, the big hotel at one end of Scupper. She'd always kept books for half a dozen local businesses, her calculator tapping into the night, but now she left the house before we got on the bus and didn't get back till suppertime.
Life changed on a dime. Before this, we'd only see Dad for an hour or two each day. Now he seemed completely dedicated to making fun for Lily and me. After school, he'd be waiting for the school bus, would toss us in the back of the truck and we'd go adventuring. No "wash your hands," "start your homework," "here's your apple." No, sir.
Instead, we'd hike up Eagle Mountain, pretending to be on the run from the law. We explored the tidal caves on the wild side of the island, wondering if we could live there, surviving on mussels, like the Passamaquoddy Indians Lily and I wished we were.
In late spring, Daddy would hold our hands at the top of Deerkill Rock, a granite precipice that jutted out over the ocean. "You ready, my brave little warriors?" he'd ask, and we'd race to the edge and jump out as far as we could, separating almost immediately, a drop so far I thought I might fly, the air rushing past my face, through my tangled hair, the thrilling, icy embrace of the ocean. We'd pop up like corks, Lily and I, coughing, shrieking, our legs already numb as we swam back to shore, our father laughing and proud, swimming beside us.
He'd take us to the top of Eastman Hill Road, that patched-up testament to frost heaves and potholes, and unload our bikes from the back of the truck. Down we'd go, the streamers from my handlebars whipping, the wind whisking tears from my eyes, my arms shuddering with the effort of staying in control. No bike helmets for us, not back then. Lily was too small and skinny to manage it, so Dad would perch her on his handlebars, the two of them soaring in front of me, the sound of their laughter lashing back, wrapping around me.
Dad would cook us the best meals, too. Travelers' food, he called it--stew cooked over the campfire, the way his Hungarian grandmother had taught him. He'd tell us stories of magical people who could hypnotize you into flying, people who could turn invisible, who could talk to animals and ride wild horses. There in the firelight, the ocean lapping at the granite rocks of the island shore, a saw-whet owl calling its lonely cry, it seemed more than just possible. It seemed true.
Then Mom would call us in and get that pinched-mouth look, shaking her head over our filthy feet, and sent us to take our baths.
In the summer, we'd make forts and sleep outside, then come in covered in bug bites, grimy, happy and itchy. During the day, when Mom went to her various jobs or did the grocery shopping, Dad would let Lily and me out into the wild while he worked on his book. We'd wander, spying on the rich folks' houses, scouring the rocky shore for treasures, unsupervised and happy, returning home with Lily sunburned and me brown.
And meanwhile, my mother grew angry. Not that she showed it through anything other than terse orders about homework and chores. But the allure of all that freedom, especially with Dad's beaming approval and frequent participation... We learned not to care what our mother thought.
Sometimes I tried to make her feel better--I'd bring her lupine picked from the side of the road, or find a piece of sea glass for her bowl, but the truth was, I loved having Daddy in charge. As our mother became more and more brittle, our love for Daddy mushroomed. While once I'd had friends--Cara Macklemore and Billy Ides--they didn't come over anymore, and I turned down invitations to go to their houses to play. Home was more fun. We didn't need friends, Lily and I. We had each other, and Daddy. And Mom. Sure. Her too.
So I pretended the tension between our parents wasn't there. Mom worked grimly, Dad wrote his book and played with us and life was mostly wonderful.
Except when Mom would track us down. I don't know how she knew where we were, but every once in a while, her car would appear where we were adventuring, and she'd get out and yell at our father. "What are you doing out here? Are you out of you goddamn mind?"
"Sharon, relax!" Dad would say, grinning, panting from whatever activity we'd been doing. "They're having fun. They're outside, playing, breathing fresh air."
"One of these days, we'll be standin' over a casket if you don't stop this!"
Dad's smile would drop like granite. "You think I'd let something happen to my girls? You think I don't love them? Girls, do you think Daddy loves you?"
Of course we'd say yes. Mom's mouth with tighten, her eyes would grow hard and she'd either order us to get in the car, or, worse, get in the car by herself and drive away, the rest of our day tainted. "You're so brave, my girls," Dad would say. "Why be alive if you can't have adventures, right? Who wants to end up all clenched and angry all the time?"
To prove his point, we'd go for one more swim, one more jump, one more thrilling ride down Eastman Hill. Stay out another half hour, have ice cream for dinner.
Lily was especially good embracing Dad's philosophy. Once Mommy's girl, she started to avoid her, ignore her or worse, talk about why Daddy was so much fun in front of her.
My flowers and sea glass didn't cut it. "Thanks, Nora," she'd say. But I couldn't undo the hurt--I wasn't Lily, after all, the magical, beautiful daughter.
Nothing I did seemed to make much impact on my mother, not the As on my report card, not the Mother's Day art project--a little pinch pot painted yellow with blue polka dots. Lily said she forgot hers at school; it never came home.
I learned to kiss my mother hello when she got home, tell her just about my day to check the mental box of Talk to Mom. Every once in a while, Mom would give me a look that said I wasn't fooling anyone. She wasn't a little black raincloud, our mother, but her skies were unrelentingly gray.
But Daddy laughed a ton, and he and Lily and I had so many fun
times, so many goofy games and adventurings and imaginative meals, long stories at bedtime or in the car when we'd take a ride to nowhere. Of course I loved him best.
The guilt hardly ever panged at me. Lily, she was the one who was really mean to Mom. Not me. At least I tried.
One spring day when I was eleven, Lily and I came off the bus to find my mother sitting at the kitchen table, unexpectedly home from work, drinking her coffee. Lily buzzed right past, running up the stairs to throw her backpack on the floor and flop on the bed, as was her custom.
"Hi, Mom!" I said in my fake-cheery voice. "Guess what? Brenda Kowalski threw up all over our math test, and it almost got on my desk! She had to go home early."
""Well, that's too bad." She didn't look up, just sat there, staring ahead, holding her mug. She'd changed from her work uniform of black pants and a white shirt and was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.
No other words were spoken. Mom just sat there, twisting her wedding ring.
"Where's Dad?" I blurted, unable to take the silence anymore.
Her eyes flicked to me, then back to the middle distance. "He's gone," she said.
"Where?"
"I don't know. Off island."
Without us? That was strange. Usually, he'd wait for us, take us on the ferry to Portland, where there was a bakery filled with the most beautiful pastries, and let us get whatever we wanted.
"When will he be back?" I asked.
"I'm not sure."
My heart started to whump in my chest. "What do you mean, you're not sure?"
"I don't know, Nora. He didn't see fit to tell me."
Something was wrong. Something big. In that second, I felt my childhood teeter.
I pounded up the stairs. Our room had a slanted ceiling and was divided exactly in half; mine neat and tidy (like Mom requested), Lily's a snarled mess. She was lying on her unmade bed with her headphones on, waiting for Mom to leave, for Dad to appear with the afternoon's entertainment, because there was always something fun. Every single day.
I went into our parents' room, and my breath started to shake out of me.
The closet was open, the top two drawers of the bureau--his--open, as well.
On Second Thought Page 39