“You never did that when I lived there,” Juliet said, a rare rebuke from our gentle girl.
“Didn’t I?” was his response, and I felt the venom well up in my throat, like one of those dinosaurs that could spit acid. Still, I held my tongue.
I continued to be a contributing member of Stoningham, working on committees and serving on boards. I watched my granddaughters when asked—unlike me, Juliet and Oliver liked to go out, and it was a joy to be the one to care for the girls. I’d read to them, or bake cookies with them, or do crafts and let them take an extra-long bath, and when they were asleep, I’d fold some laundry or pick flowers. Juliet’s house was beautiful, and she had a cleaning lady, but I still liked to fuss and tidy.
It was so nice to be wanted.
I thought about divorcing John. It had been so long since we’d done anything meaningful together, connected in any way. But there was that affordability thing. The thought of losing my house.
Then Bill Pritchard said he wouldn’t run again for first selectman.
“You should run, Mom,” Juliet said over dinner at her house when John was on a golfing weekend. The girls were in bed, and we were enjoying a glass of wine on the deck on the top of their house, which overlooked the Sound.
“Oh, absolutely,” Oliver concurred. “Can you imagine how shipshape this town would be if you were in charge, Mum?”
“That community center project would be in the bag, that’s for sure,” Juliet said. She put her hand over mine. “You should do it. You’d be amazing.”
“Honey, I’m almost seventy.”
“And? You have more energy than I do. And organizational skills. And smarts. And everyone adores you.”
The idea took root. I was good at organizing. I’d been on every committee there was. Being Juliet’s mother still carried cachet in this town; everyone loved her (and Sadie, too, just not as much . . . she’d left Stoningham years before, after all, impatient to shake the small-town dust from her shoes).
I won in a landslide. John had the nerve to be surprised on election night. “Well, holy crap, Barb. Who could’ve called that?” he said right there in the school gym, loud enough to be overheard. I saw a few people give him a strange look. An angry flush crept up my chest. Where had he been all these years we’d lived in Stoningham? Didn’t he know how hard I worked, how many people respected me, how much I’d given to this community? How dare he be surprised by my success?
Then he took to calling me Queen Bee at home. “Please stop,” I said. “It’s really not funny, and it’s sexist besides.”
“Oh, it’s a little funny,” he said. “And it’s not sexist in the least. The queen bee is the most important—”
I stopped listening. He loved those nature documentaries that never ended, some British man extolling the virtues of ant colonies or monkey dexterity.
Divorce. I’d give it a year, and then we’d move on. Shouldn’t your husband be the one who truly believed in you? We’d be fine financially, now that I was working, and I’d save every penny of my salary this year. I could probably get the house, and even if I didn’t, well. I’d cross that bridge.
A year. I threw myself into the town. Applied for grants. Talked to almost every single year-round resident about their concerns. I did get the old school approved for a community center, and I didn’t even have to raise taxes to do it, thanks to a hefty state grant and what Juliet called my velvet glove approach with the summer people, asking them to donate in a way they couldn’t refuse.
Not only that, we bought Sheerwater, that magnificent old house on Bleak Point, after Genevieve London died, got it listed on the National Register of Historic Places and got the land approved as a park, the house available for weddings and reunions and other functions. I was on a roll. I worked with the chamber of commerce to increase our tourism outreach, catching some of the casino crowd on their way to the casinos, rather than on the way back, when they were broke. We got rid of the stoplight that wasn’t needed and drove everyone crazy and wooed a salmon fishery to open on the old paper mill site. Clean energy, ecologically responsible and employing seventeen full-time people.
It was a brilliant year. Juliet was so proud of me, and I knew this because she told me. Often. When that first year was up, I decided to wait till after the holidays to tell John I wanted a divorce. Why punish the grandkids over Christmas? Because of course they’d be upset. Our fiftieth anniversary was January 10; I’d do it then, since the fact that we barely acknowledged the date would provide a perfect lead-in. I was tired of dragging the corpse of our marriage behind me. It was over.
On January 9, he had the stroke.
Four hours after I got the call from the paramedics, I found out my husband had a mistress.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Juliet
We’re just so sorry to hear about your father,” said Dave Kingston, one of the partners at DJK Architects, the K in the DJK. “If there’s anything you need—extra time off, more flexibility to work from home—you just let us know.”
“Thank you, Dave. I really appreciate it. And the flowers were beautiful. My mom really appreciated them.” The fact that part of Juliet would rather see her father die than deal with his adultery . . . well, best not to go there right now. A wave of love for that same father washed over her, and she had to swallow the tears in her throat. Not now. Not now. It was becoming her mantra.
Juliet sat in the conference room of DJK with Dave; Dave’s personal assistant, the ever-silent and slightly terrifying Laurie, who took notes at every meeting Dave ever had; and Arwen Alexander. That Arwen was here was . . . disturbing.
Dave had been Juliet’s boss since he hired her out of Yale. He wasn’t a bad boss, not by a long shot, but he had a way of letting her know how grateful she should be to work there. She hadn’t missed the extra time off, the more flexibility.
She’d taken all of three days off, thank you. The firm’s HR policy gave her three weeks of sick time, which included family illness. The last time Juliet had taken a sick day was four years ago, because, like their mother, the girls almost never got sick, having the immune systems of Greek deities. And when Juliet worked from home, she worked longer hours than if she were at the office, and she had the time sheets and productivity to prove it. But at the age of forty-three, she felt her worth to the company was something she shouldn’t have to prove. She’d been here almost seventeen years and worked on many billion-dollar buildings, delighting clients, leading teams, dealing with crises and labor issues, managing projects on time and sometimes even under budget, which, in the world of large-scale construction, was akin to calling Lazarus forth from his tomb.
Her work spoke for itself. Or it used to. In the past six months, there’d been a tremor in the Force. Lots of tremors, actually.
“So,” Dave said. He cleared his throat. “I think we’ll use this as an opportunity to give Arwen a little more responsibility. I’m putting her on the lead for the Hermanos headquarters.”
The tremor became a quake. The new home of a Fortune 500 company under Arwen’s lead? Why? Juliet was completely capable of doing her job.
“Absolutely. Anything I can do to help,” Arwen murmured.
“I appreciate that,” Juliet said, keeping her voice low and pleasant. “But I’m really fine. Totally in the game. Thanks just the same, Dave.”
“Let’s see how it goes. Great. Good meeting. I feel reassured. Again, anything you need. Anything at all. Thanks, Arwen, that’ll be all.”
Arwen put her hand over Juliet’s and gave it a quick squeeze. “I really am so sorry about your dad.” She left, leaving a hint of jasmine in the air. Even her perfume was gorgeous.
When the door closed, Juliet fixed Dave with a firm look. “I do not need Arwen taking over my responsibilities, Dave. I’m the project manager. She has her plate full already.”
“You know what? I think you’r
e right, but we’ll try this out just the same. It’ll be good for you. Good talk. I like that we’re thinking outside the box. Let’s circle back and see if we can move the needle on this project. Great! Good! We’re all on the same page. Give your mother my best.” He stood up, and Silent Laurie closed her laptop and trailed after him, but not before she gave Juliet a look that seemed to say, “Watch your back, sister.”
Juliet sat alone in the big room, Dave’s cliché business-speak ringing in her ears and the too-familiar waves of dread lapping at her feet.
Two years ago, Juliet had recruited Arwen to join DJK Architects. It had seemed so innocuous at the time.
Recruitment was part of Juliet’s job, unofficially . . . to keep an eye out for young talent, especially female talent. Not that anyone made extra time for her to do this—the partners had never said, “Juliet, take two days a month and dedicate them to finding young female architects so we don’t look so middle-aged white male around here, okay?”
It was just a given, since she was the highest-ranking woman at DJK, the only firm she’d ever worked for. The message was she was lucky to work here (and she was), so this would be paying it forward. Sure. She was happy to do it, frankly. There weren’t enough women in architecture, and she could help solve that in her corner of the industry. The firm was international, with branches in seven states and sixteen countries. Bringing in new perspectives was only going to help everyone, from the partners to the clients to the world, who’d get to see beautiful buildings designed by people from all backgrounds.
Arwen came to her attention because of her work at another firm. She’d been Architect II—basically responsible for daily design—on a hospital wing in Denver, and it was gorgeous and ahead of schedule. Her name was mentioned in a small article about the building, and Juliet did a little poking. UCLA undergrad, master’s at SCI-Arc, the Southern California Institute of Architecture. She had five years of experience on big projects.
Juliet did her thing: flew to San Diego, where the other firm was based, and took Arwen out to dinner while Oliver and the girls frolicked on the beaches and went to the botanical gardens. Arwen was sharp, good-natured and a little in awe of Juliet.
“I can’t believe Juliet Frost is taking me out for dinner,” she said the first night as they sat at Juniper & Ivy. “You’ve designed some of my favorite buildings ever. That hotel in Dubai? And the hospital in Cincinnati? Next level.”
But Arwen was happy at RennBore, she said. The weather in San Diego would be hard to beat. Why would she want to move to New Haven?
Game on. Juliet pitched her hard, extolling the loveliness of New Haven, the Yale School of Architecture, the proximity to New York and Boston, the beauty of the state with its many small towns and cities, the vibrant cultural scene (a bit of a stretch, but hey). Then it was onto salary and benefits packages, international opportunities, which would take Arwen years more at a huge firm like RennBore. Arwen considered it, and Juliet took her out again the next night to field any questions.
She finally won Arwen over by offering her a position as Architect III, a jump that usually took a few more years for someone so young, and a step right below Juliet herself as Senior Architect/VP Design. It would be fine. Juliet would work with her closely, and Arwen was talented, smart and hardworking.
She joined DJK within a month. A press release had been sent out and picked up by every major architecture magazine. Arwen Alexander Leaves RennBore for DJK/Connecticut as AIII. A few interviews came Arwen’s way, in which she mentioned her heroes in architecture, including Juliet and Dave Kingston (smart girl, mentioning a partner, even if Dave spent most of his time golfing and drinking scotch). Arwen worked hard. Designed well, took critiques, adjusted her designs when needed, credited other team members. There was nothing—absolutely nothing—wrong with her work.
But here’s the thing about architects. Every generation, there are two or three innovative, change-the-field-forever people. I. M. Pei, Frank Lloyd Wright, Mies van der Rohe, Zaha Hadid . . . architects who invented entire schools of design. They were the geniuses who created buildings the likes of which the world had never seen before. Sometimes that was a good thing (Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater), and sometimes not (Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim . . . can’t win ’em all). But they were the geniuses, the innovators, the type who changed the landscape, literally and figuratively.
And then there’s every other architect. Ninety-five percent of the best architects in the world designed buildings and interiors that were dazzling and beautiful, but built on the shoulders of those greats. Juliet felt she was in that category—creative, energetic, sometimes even brilliant—but not someone who was going to invent a new way of thinking.
Arwen, too, was a solid designer with a lovely portfolio. A little derivative, in that she clearly borrowed from her idols, but that was the way of the world, in everything from literature to fashion. Not everyone was Lin-Manuel Miranda, but that didn’t make them a bad songwriter. Not everyone was Gianni Versace, but that didn’t mean they didn’t make beautiful clothing.
Juliet thought Arwen had some flair. With experience, Juliet thought, Arwen could rise to Juliet’s own level, and sure, maybe surpass her . . . in a decade or so, after she’d learned more about the craft and worked with more senior architects. Hopefully, Arwen would become bolder and more confident, develop her own style and voice.
And then, six months into her employment at DJK, abruptly and without explanation, Arwen became the It Girl of Architecture.
Suddenly, articles about feminism and sexism in the industry appeared, with Arwen giving quotes . . . something Juliet didn’t know until the piece ran in the Times. It was nothing new, nothing that hadn’t been said by dozens of female architects before, but it got buzz. Then Architectural Digest asked Arwen to comment on the booming architecture in China and its impact on the future of cities, even though she’d never been to China or designed a building there.
Juliet had. She’d been lead on a massive retail and office center in Hangzhou, and an apartment building in Chengdu.
The CEO of a Fortune 100 company that DJK had just landed said, “We’d like Arwen Alexander on the team.” Dave and Juliet exchanged quick glances.
“Absolutely!” Dave boomed. “You got it! She’s a keeper, that one!”
All fine. Juliet had been planning to put Arwen on this project anyway. But . . . why had he asked for her by name? Why all this attention? Had Arwen hired a really good PR firm? Was she connected in ways Juliet was unaware of? It wasn’t that the girl—woman—was without talent. But she was a long way from superstar. Maybe someday, but those other greats, like Zaha Hadid, had been dazzling from day one. And Arwen, as solid and reliable as she was, was not dazzling.
That was a minority opinion, apparently.
Arwen was listed as the number one Forty Under Forty in Architectural Review, a “bolt of lightning with her stunning designs and razor-sharp outlook.”
Juliet had turned forty just three months before that article ran. Not being included . . . it stung.
Arwen was quite attractive, which didn’t hurt, but nonetheless, it was a shock for Juliet to see her photo on the front page of the style section in the Los Angeles Times. She was asked to give workshops and even a TED talk.
Apparently, her work was setting the world on fire . . . and Juliet, her boss, was scratching her head. It was great for the firm, this sudden outpouring of adoration, but Juliet was a little . . . baffled. Glad for her success and its echoes on DJK, and yet . . . why Arwen? Juliet had been an architect for more than a decade and a half. She knew brilliance when she saw it, and Arwen was good. She could be great. She was a far cry from brilliant.
Juliet was not the only one to think so.
“I just don’t get it,” muttered Kathy Walker, an interior architect who’d been Juliet’s first female friend at DJK. “Do you?” She lowered her voice to
a whisper. “We’ve had better. You’re way more talented than she is.”
“We work in a subjective field,” Juliet said. Kathy was a friend, but also a gossip, and if Juliet said anything that showed the slightest flicker of faith in Arwen, word would spread. Juliet would die before she seemed jealous. Women in architecture had it hard enough without other women backstabbing or gossiping about them.
“Maybe all this adoration is because she’s”—Kathy looked around—“young.”
Oh, that word. That terrifying word. “Don’t be catty. She’s doing great stuff.”
But of course it had crossed her mind. Juliet was only eleven years older than Arwen. But apparently, those were akin to dog years, and it sent a quiver of fear through her, a shameful fear she couldn’t admit to anyone. She’d always been a solid presence in the architecture world, often asked for quotes or sound bytes, speeches, articles.
Then, just like that, she was yesterday’s news.
After Arwen had been working at DJK for a year, Juliet went out for drinks with some of her closest architect friends, all of them women. They were in Chicago for a one-day design showcase, a PR kind of thing. Arwen was in Maui, checking the site of a hotel expansion, and Juliet suspected she’d been DJK’s second choice as spokesperson for the Chicago gig.
Whatever. The drinks arrived, and within seconds, the issue Juliet knew was coming arrived. “Tell us about your whiz kid,” said Yvette.
“She’s doing very well,” Juliet said. She couldn’t be anything but positive, and she suspected the group knew it.
Silence dropped over the table. “What’s said in Chi-Town stays in Chi-Town?” suggested Lynn. Everyone nodded, except Juliet.
“I’m sorry, Juliet,” Yvette said, “but what’s the big deal with her? She’s not exactly special. Forgive me for saying so, but there it is. All of a sudden, it’s like there’s only one female architect in the world, while the rest of us have been slogging it out for decades.”
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