“Maybe it’s timing,” Juliet said. “You know how it is. Sometimes you just get attention.”
The other women murmured. A few looks were exchanged—disappointment, maybe, that Juliet wasn’t going to throw her protégé under the bus.
“Do you ladies know I love opera?” Susan said. She was the oldest of the group at sixty-five and, at one time or another, had been a mentor to every other woman at the table. “I even studied it in college, believe it or not. Music performance minor.”
“You’re so cool,” Juliet said with a smile.
Susan smiled back, her face kind. “One time, my husband and I went to hear Pavarotti sing. And from the first note out of his mouth, my body just broke out in goose bumps. Everyone in that building knew we were hearing the greatest tenor in three generations.” She took a sip of her martini. “Then, a few years later, we heard Andrea Bocelli. You know, the handsome one?”
“He’s blind, you know,” said Linda.
“Yes, dear, everyone knows that,” said Susan. “So we went to the concert, and Bocelli was good. Very good. It was very entertaining. The crowd was in love.” She paused. “But he’s no Pavarotti. He’s not even a great opera singer. He’s a pop star who sings opera, Elvis Presley and Christmas carols. Which is not to take away from his talent, his spark. But if you love opera, if you know opera, he’s a mediocre singer who gives a great performance.”
“By which you’re saying . . .” said Lynn.
“This young woman we’re discussing is no Pavarotti.”
Juliet was so relieved, she closed her eyes. It wasn’t just her.
The week following the conference, Santiago Calatrava, one of the actual living legends of architecture, was quoted saying Arwen Alexander was the most exciting new voice out there.
Susan sent Juliet an e-mail. Guess I was wrong about Andrea Bocelli. What do I know?
A week later, Arwen was nominated for the AIA Young Architects Award and the Moira Gemmill Prize for Emerging Architecture.
No one at DJK had ever been so recognized. Juliet’s friends, those women at the table in Chicago, went silent. Arwen was on the rise, and you didn’t cast aspersions on a woman on the rise no matter what she did or did not bring to your field.
It was the elephant in the room. If there were any men who shared the opinion that Arwen was a Bocelli, not a Pavarotti, they didn’t dare say it, especially after Santiago had praised her.
Arwen was no dummy. Without saying a word, the dynamic in the office changed. She stopped popping into Juliet’s office to chat, or asking if she wanted to grab a glass of wine before heading home. Her clothes got better—she’d always had style, but now it was Armani and Christian Louboutin, Tom Ford and Prada. She bought a Tesla. She moved from a rental in downtown New Haven to an incredibly hip and spacious loft in a former manufacturing building and had a party for the entire staff plus spouses, and did all the cooking herself. Apparently, she’d developed a passion for Northern Indian cuisine when she spent a summer there during college. Oliver, who had lived in New Delhi for a few years as a teenager, said Arwen’s samosas were the best he’d ever had. Traitor.
Architects were paid well. But not that well. Family money? A rich lover? Arwen never mentioned anyone, and she lived in the loft alone. As far as Juliet knew, she was single.
Juliet still offered input and guidance on Arwen’s projects, because that was her job . . . but there was that tremor. Arwen seemed to tolerate her advice now, not seek it. Dave and the rarely seen Edward Decker, the D in DJK and the other living partner, stopped by Arwen’s office to chat when Edward graced the New Haven office with his presence. Once, it had been Juliet he stopped by to see.
It was chilling. It was as if architecture were a river, and Juliet had been a white-water rafter for all these years. Suddenly she’d been turned into a rock, the water flowing around her, the raft way, way ahead.
Well. She was a rock sitting in a conference room who had better get to work while she still had a job. Her phone chimed, reminding her the girls had a half day. Oliver had taken off three days on Christmas break, so this was definitely her turn.
Leaving the office early had never felt like a liability before.
Snap out of it, she told herself. You have a lovely marriage. (Which reminded her, she should have sex with Oliver tonight, because it had been almost a week and he got grumpy if he went too long. He’d been so wonderful about Dad and deserved some attention.) You have two healthy children. (Who haven’t had a full week of school since mid-September; honest to God, who sets these school calendars?) You love your job. (Even if your star is sinking, you feel helpless and you’re having panic attacks in your closet.) You were raised by parents who love you. (Take the girls to see Dad, and try to get Brianna not to sob when she sees him, and also check in with Mom and see how she is, because there’s something she’s not telling you.)
That smoke-jumping job looked awfully great right about now. The mountains. A cabin. A good dog. Lots of books and a woodstove, and no one around who needed anything.
Juliet felt like crying. Like crying and eating an entire box full of Dunkin’ Donuts Boston Kremes.
If she’d known how hard it was to have it all, she would’ve asked for less.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Barb
John had come home, and I wasn’t feeling real thrilled.
Oh, go on, now. He’d been cheating on me for God knows how long with some floozy, and now he needed a full-time caregiver, and guess who won that prize?
The six weeks without him had been hard, of course—I visited him almost every day while still handling the myriad duties of first selectman, from going to the Winter Concert at the elementary school to commissioning a summer traffic study to getting more money for the library budget, because what was a town without a decent library?
But on those nights when I got home from Gaylord, which took a solid hour and fifteen minutes, or on those even better nights when I just couldn’t find the energy to go, I’d pour myself a glass of wine and make a sandwich. Watch Broadchurch on Netflix—gosh, what a show!—or see if Caro wanted to come over and visit. In the mornings, I got up at seven; John liked to get up at five so he could go to the gym (and now I knew why), so the extra sleep was bliss. I’d make my coffee (I liked it stronger than John did, and always had to dump out his weak brew and wash the pot out, because God forbid he did that himself). I made oatmeal, one of the rare dishes from my childhood I had loved. John hated oatmeal. Said it gave him the dry heaves just looking at it.
I hadn’t realized how much room he took up. How much space he demanded.
There was less laundry. Less noise, because John loved those punishing Russian composers. He often walked around in those silly clip shoes he wore to ride his bike. The house was immaculate again without his workout gear littering the place—the pants with the padded behind, his aerodynamic helmet, gloves, Day-Glo shirts, water bottles, running shoes. (I’d called them sneakers and been schooled in what may have been our last conversation.)
I had never lived alone. I’d gone from my parents’ house to an apartment with roommates to marriage.
Living alone, I was finding, was rather wonderful. I just didn’t want it this way, a husband trapped in a brain that no longer worked the way it used to. Almost every night, I’d wake up and think about him, not being able to speak, confused, needing help with everything from going to the bathroom to getting out of bed. Was he scared? Was he in pain? What was he thinking? Did he miss home? Did he miss WORK and all her texts and wonder why she hadn’t visited him? Did he even know his children? Did he remember me?
Then the tears would slip out of my eyes, down my temples and into my hair. He was a liar and a cheater and hadn’t been a good husband even without that. But no one deserved what he was going through. And I was going to have to suck up my hurt and stay with him and do my best to take care
of him. And I would, because I’d meant those marriage vows, even if he’d forgotten his.
Sometimes, being an honorable person was quite the dang burden. Here I was, trapped in the in-between space of being a devoted wife and a wronged woman, a wife who’d wanted to leave my husband and was stuck with him forever now. And not even him. A husk of his former self.
He came home, requiring my dining room to be turned into his bedroom, the beautiful walnut table put in storage along with the chairs and the highboy that had been John’s grandfather’s. I packed it all up with Caro and Sadie one Sunday; Juliet had been in Chicago on a business trip. We made room for a hospital bed and a bureau, made sure he had ample space so he wouldn’t trip and a cleared path to the downstairs bathroom, which luckily had a shower. He was brought home, and the next phase started, and I was so tired already.
Yes, I had help—LeVon Murphy was just wonderful, a cheerful, strong and handsome man who came at eight and left at four. He handled John’s physical and occupational therapy, took him for walks, tried to engage him with puzzles and problem solving. Sometimes he stayed for dinner, and it was so nice, having a man who complimented me on my cooking and helped wash up. In addition to LeVon, a speech and language therapist came three times a week.
And Sadie was here, sleeping in her old room. I had to give her credit. She stepped up. She did the grocery shopping, the housework, took John to his doctors’ appointments and kept a log of who said what and when. Filled his prescriptions and sat with him, talking, bringing her paints over, sometimes even bringing Brianna and Sloane to do art therapy, saying it was good for John to have the kids around. She wiped her father’s face at dinner with a tenderness that made me almost jealous. Would she have done that for me? I doubted it.
Sadie and I picked at each other. I didn’t mean to, and some of my comments were harmless enough—Do you think you’ll get a job?—but Sadie always found a way to take offense. That calm sense of being alone faded with her there, tromping up and down the stairs, reading aloud to her dad, asking me question after question about his care.
Not that John seemed to notice she was here. He looked at everyone like a curious chickadee, head tilted. Or he’d fall asleep in the middle of a conversation.
Even in his current state, he could make me feel irrelevant. It wasn’t a fair thought, but it came nevertheless.
One night, Sadie plunked herself down in the sitting room, where I was knitting a rainbow sweater for Sloane. John was in the dining room, and the TV we’d moved from his study was on. “Mom,” she said, “I think I’m going to move out.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” There it was, the edge to her voice.
“Okay, then.” Sometimes there was nothing to do but agree with my younger daughter. Truth be told, it was no picnic having her here.
“I’ll come over every day after LeVon leaves and help out till Dad’s bedtime.”
I sighed. “I’m finding a home health aide to keep an eye on him when I’m not here.”
“I just said I’ll do it.”
“And I just said no.” My voice was sharp. “It’s not your job to take care of your father. He’d hate that, and you know it. You’ve been real great, Sadie, and of course you can visit and spend as much time here as you like. But you should be living your own life. So go ahead. Move out. There’s a real cute fixer-upper that just came on the market if you’re looking to buy. Then again, I don’t know how much you make with those paintings of yours, or if you’ve managed to save anything on a teacher’s salary, or if that rich boyfriend of yours is ever going to propose, but let me know if I can help.”
Sadie’s jaw was like iron, because of course I said the wrong thing. I always did to her way of thinking. “I’ll come over every day, Mom.”
“Good. That’d be real nice for your father.”
“Great.” She stood up and left the room.
Always the two of us rubbing each other the wrong way, scraping and chafing like corduroy pants that were too tight.
John’s phone chimed. I kept it with me at all times for obvious reasons.
Ah, WORK. She was a faithful correspondent, that was for sure.
Baby, me so horny! LOL!!! But totally true, too! R U back from Cali? Hope U R not too sad!!!
Broken heart, red heart, smiley face blowing kisses, a cat with heart eyes, a lipstick imprint, a smiling devil, fire and, inexplicably, a chicken. Best not to know why that poor chicken was included.
So this was love? This was what John had wanted? A semiliterate lover who communicated through tiny cartoons?
I had been texting WORK for weeks now. John’s mother, may she rest in peace having died before Sadie was born, had once again gone on to her great reward . . . at least, that’s what I told WORK. Guess John and his lover had never gotten around to talking about family, too busy being new and happy and horny again.
The estate, I had told the other woman, was complicated with many valuable pieces of art and furniture to be dealt with. Not to mention the house on the water in Santa Barbara. The response had been immediate:
OMG! I love SB! Babe, do U need company??? I can come help and we could spend some time together doing all sorts of dirty things! LOL!
An emoji of an eggplant had followed. Caro hooted over that one. “You are too much, Barb! Hey. If WORK is a moneygrubbing whore, she deserves what’s coming.”
I set my knitting aside and considered what to write. It was probably time for John to come home from his poor mother’s second funeral. I put on my reading glasses, glanced to make sure Sadie wasn’t hovering, and typed.
Baby, me so horny, too!!!! Not too sad, bc Mom was 105. I didn’t know she was such an art collector! The Sotheby’s guy went cray-cray.
John’s IQ had dropped well before his accident, so I felt no compunction about making him sound like an idiot.
WORK: Really??? Can’t wait to hear!!!
“I bet you can’t,” I muttered.
JOHN: So many wonderful surprises! Much to discuss. When can we meet??? I miss U!!!
WORK: ANYTIME! Love you so much, tiger!!!
I sighed.
JOHN: Will be in touch soon! Love you too, my sweet honey angel kitten!!!
Nothing appeared to be too nauseating with these two.
I then took a screenshot of the exchange and texted it to Caro.
I’m going to meet the other woman. You in?
The answer was immediate.
Holy crap, yes.
Caro was worth her weight in diamonds.
After that, I read for a while. When it was time for me to go to bed, I got up first to check on John. Sadie was in there, just getting up from the chair next to his bed.
“I was reading to him, and he fell asleep,” she said, her voice husky. “Just like he used to do for me.”
“That’s real nice of you, honey. I’m sure he appreciates it.”
For once, there was no hostility or subtext. “Well. Good night, Mom,” Sadie said. She went upstairs, the sixth stair creaking reliably, just like it had when she used to sneak out to meet Noah Pelletier.
I sat down next to John. “You used her birthday so you could text your mistress in secret,” I whispered. “How do you think she’d feel about that, her perfect dad having an affair? I was in labor with her for two and a half days, John Frost. How dare you use her birthday?”
He didn’t answer, as he was asleep. “You know, if you’d asked me for a divorce, I’d have burst into song, mister. I would’ve said yes so fast, it would’ve given you whiplash. But no. It was more fun to sneak around, I guess. Maybe you were never going to divorce me. After all, I’m a darn good housekeeper, aren’t I?”
God! I couldn’t bear it. I hated him, this man I once loved. Once, I’d felt so lucky that he’d married me. I’d taken such pride in
the life we’d made. The old love, dusty from neglect, was still there, and yet, the knowledge of his affair was a corrosive acid, eating away at it.
“I’m going to meet your lover,” I said. “I’ll report back. Tiger.”
I got up and then sat back down, fast and furious. “I tried, John. I made room for you right until you had the nerve to be surprised that I won that election. Not once did you say, ‘Good job, Barb,’ or ‘I’m proud of you.’ Not once in this entire year! Instead, you found an idiotic woman who can’t even spell, because why, exactly? I wasn’t good enough? Because I had the nerve to get older? Maybe this stroke is exactly what you deserved.”
Tears spurted out of my eyes. Oh, the fury. Sometimes it felt exactly like grief.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sadie
My mom, who thought she knew everything, was irritatingly correct about the little house for sale.
It had a leaking roof, one tiny bathroom on the first floor with a rusting iron tub and no shower, two bedrooms, one of which was too small to fit a twin bed (so they called it a bedroom because . . . ?) and floors that sloped so much, a marble would roll from one end of the house to the other. The kitchen was outfitted with harvest-gold appliances and Ikea’s cheapest cabinets. One cupboard gaped open like a loose tooth. The kitchen was big enough for maybe four people, and the living room had stained beige carpeting and drafty windows. There was no garage, and the basement was made from stone and had a dirt floor and evidence of a recent squirrel rager, based on the litter and tiny little footprints in the dust on the workbench.
We went outside and walked around the . . . well, the structure. It wasn’t quite a house just yet. Juliet closed her eyes and shook her head.
“I’ll take it,” I told Ellen, the real estate agent.
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