Always the Last to Know

by Kristan Higgins

  The door opened, and a young couple came in with their baby. “How’s your grandbaby doing, by the way?” I asked, and Carol pulled out her phone to show me the latest pictures of Garrett, her second grandson. “Beautiful. Looks like you, Caro.”

  She flashed me that gorgeous smile that lit up her whole face. “I thought so, too,” she said.

  Then the door opened, and a woman came in, late fifties, maybe.

  “Hey,” Caro said. “We know her. It’s . . . uh . . . oh, shit, I can’t remember.”

  “It’s Karen, the teacher from ballroom dancing, remember?” I had great facial recall, which helped in my job. Also, we took those lessons for a few months, in those days when I’d still been trying to work on my marriage, making sure John had enough fun, trying to feel something other than irritation toward him.

  “Right!” Caro said. “Hi, Karen! How are you?”

  Karen looked over, then flinched.

  The penny dropped, as the saying goes.

  Seems we had just met WORK.

  “Come on over!” Caro called. “Remember us? We took dance classes from you. We were all terrible.”

  Karen came over, her arms crossed tightly in front of her.

  Caro went on blithely. “This is Barb Frost, and I’m Caro, and . . . oh. Oh, shit. It’s you, isn’t it?”

  Yep. Her eyes darted between us.

  “Here to meet my husband?” I asked, oddly numb.

  “Um . . . uh . . .” She closed her eyes. “I think I might faint.”

  “Great. A drama queen,” Caro said. “Well, faint away. We’ll throw a bucket of water on you. You’re not leaving till you’ve answered some questions.”

  “It’s just that I only had a kale smoothie for breakfast, and—”

  “We don’t care,” I said. “Sit down, you . . . adulteress.”

  “Oh, Barb,” Caro said. “Call her what she is. Sit down, slut.”

  “Where’s John?” she asked, holding her giant fabric bag in front of her.

  “We’ll get to that,” I said.

  Karen. Karen something boring. Sanders or Saunders.

  She sat across from Caro and me, and I took a long look at her. Her face was flushing a dull red, and she looked at the table. Dyed black hair, a dull, drab color that came from a drugstore, not a salon. I was a natural blond, and over the years my hair had gradually become streaked with silver. Never colored it a day in my life. She was dressed like a twenty-year-old bohemian—long full skirt, a low-cut leotard showing off her speckled, bony chest. Hard features, small eyes, but cunning, like a . . . like a rhino. A beaky nose, thin lips.

  Well, he wasn’t with her because of her looks.

  “So I guess you know,” she said, swallowing.

  “I sure do, Karen. Or should I call you angel kitten?”

  “Barb’s been texting you for almost two months. You didn’t even know it wasn’t your tiger,” Caro said.

  “How dare you?” she said, and Caro and I both laughed.

  “Barb,” Caro said, “the slut is mad because you pretended to be John.”

  “Caro,” I said, “I’m mad because the slut was sleeping with my husband.”

  “It wasn’t like that!” Karen said.

  “Oh, please,” Caro said.

  She twisted one of her silver bracelets. “I . . . we love each other. And you didn’t understand him,” she said. “He said your marriage had been over for years.”

  “Jeesh,” I said. “The oldest line in the book, kitten. Did you fall for that? He gave me a beautiful ruby pendant for Christmas.” Juliet had picked it out, of course, but technically, it was from him. “Did he mention how much fun we had with our children and grandchildren?”

  She glanced away. “Does he know you’re meeting me?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, kitten,” I said. “Let me guess. He and I had grown apart. He wasn’t happy anymore. You made him feel young. He didn’t know what love was until he found you, and if only he’d met you first, gosh golly, life would’ve been super great. He’d leave me, but the children. Or the . . . what, Caro?”

  “Or the fact that a divorce would cost him every dime he ever made,” she supplied.

  “That’s true, now, isn’t it? Hm.”

  Karen’s little eyes darted between us, and she fiddled with her ugly bag. “He was going to leave you. He probably still is.”

  Caro laughed.

  “Is that what you want? Would you marry him, kitten?” I asked.

  “Please stop calling me that,” she said. “And yes. I love him.”

  “Oh. How touching,” Caro said. “She loves him, Barb.”

  “My heart.” This was oddly fun. “Well, you can have him, Karen. In sickness and in health.” I took a bite of Caro’s cake. “Tell me, what makes a woman go after a married man? Don’t you have any morals?”

  “I am a good Christian woman,” she said, huffing.

  Caro and I looked at each other and laughed. “Isn’t there a tiny commandment about adultery?” Caro asked.

  “You know, Caro, I think there is. I’m sure of it.”

  “This is different,” Karen said.

  “How so, dear?” I asked.

  She glanced around. That hair was not only unnatural in color, it didn’t move a bit when she turned her head. Helmet hair, my girls would call it. “Look. I’m sorry he doesn’t love you anymore. But we didn’t plan this. It just happened.”

  “So . . . you fell into a deep sleep and when you woke up, you were screwing another woman’s husband?” Caro asked.

  “No! We . . . we ran into each other at a treadmill class last spring.”

  I rolled my eyes. Just when you thought it couldn’t get worse. “You had to take a class to learn how to walk on a treadmill?”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “And then what happened, angel kitten?”

  “We remembered each other. We got a carrot juice at the juice bar. We just . . . clicked. We ended up talking for hours. It was amazing.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I said. “It was inappropriate and dishonest. He’s married. Which you well knew. What God has put together, let no one put asunder, good Christian woman.”

  “I’m telling you, it wasn’t like we planned to have an affair. It was just juice at first. But I started to look forward to it. He’s so . . . wonderful. A brilliant man.” Caro snorted. “The chemistry was undeniable. And you didn’t even notice.” She straightened her shoulders a bit, and her sternum bones showed even more.

  She did have a point. I hadn’t noticed. Last spring, Sloane had appendicitis, and I stayed with Juliet for four nights and played board games with Brianna and cooked for the family. I’d also been doing the job Stoningham’s residents had elected me to do.

  “How long did it take for these juice dates to lead to adultery?” I asked.

  “About a week.” She smirked, obviously proud of herself.

  The words hit me in the heart like a hammer shattering glass.

  A week. That’s how much time and consideration he gave our marriage. Our vows. Our five decades together.

  One goddamn week.

  “The attraction was just so strong,” she said, raising her penciled eyebrows at me. “I’m not that type of girl—”

  “You haven’t been a girl in sixty years,” Caro said.

  “—and I’ve never done anything like that before. But I believe God put us in each other’s path, and life is too short. The past isn’t a compass for the future. You have to give yourself permission to chart a new course.”

  “Been reading Snapple caps?” Caro asked.

  “I won’t apologize for loving someone with all my heart.” Her little rhino eyes teared up. “I take it you gave him an ultimatum. What are you holding over his head, Barb? Is this why he has
n’t been in touch? He said you were controlling and had anger issues, but this is beyond the pale.”

  “Oh, hush,” I said. “I’m not holding anything over his head. He had a stroke.” She sucked in a breath, her sharp nostrils flaring. “I found out about you when I was at the hospital. While my husband was having brain surgery to save his life, I got to read his idiotic, juvenile sexting with you.”

  “He had an operation? How is he now?”

  For some reason, it was hard to say the words. “You tell her, Caro.”

  “Well, funny you should ask, kitten,” Caro said. “He has the IQ of a celery stalk.”

  Karen jerked back. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s nonverbal and needs a full-time caregiver,” I said. “Good thing you love him so very, very much. This must be why God put him in your path.”

  “Barb,” Caro said, putting her hand on my shoulder, “I’m so glad you won’t be shackled to him anymore, now that Sex Kitten will take over. You know, since their love is more special and so different from any love the world has ever seen.”

  “The house is in my name,” I said. “And I have power of attorney over our finances. But I’m sure you’re not materialistic. Good thing, too, since you won’t be getting a fucking cent.”

  Her eyelids fluttered.

  “I love that you said fucking,” Caro said.

  “It felt good.”

  Karen started to stand, then sat back down. “So he won’t get better?”

  “You’d have to ask God about that, Karen, since you and He are on such close terms. John can’t talk, and he can’t write, but he did learn to toilet himself, so he only wets the bed once in a while.”

  “What would Jesus do?” Caro asked. “I bet Jesus would comfort the sick, don’t you, kitten? Small price to pay for ruining a marriage.”

  “I . . . I have to go,” Karen said.

  “Yes. You do.” My voice was hard.

  She got up and wobbled over to the door, and then she was gone.

  “Well, we’ve seen the last of her,” Caro said. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  “Yep. That’s true.”

  Caro looked at me with her kind, dark eyes and gave a sad smile, and that was it. The tears came hard and fast, and I cried in gulping sobs that made the other folks in the café look at me, but I couldn’t seem to stop.

  Caro put her arm around me, and we sat there for a long, long time, and a thought came to me. I didn’t have a great husband, and maybe I never had.

  But I sure had a wonderful friend.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sadie

  I got a dog. I needed a dog, for several reasons: company, of course; and snuggles; protection from murderers, since I didn’t live close enough to anyone and my screams would go unnoticed during said murder; and to run for help if my house fell in on top of me, as it seemed intent on doing.

  Stoningham’s animal shelter had only three doggies—a wee little purse dog, who, though tempting, would not protect me (not very well, anyway) should a serial killer come knocking. Then there was a wheezing, balding sheepdog who was blind and deaf but also spoken for (God bless that person). And finally, Pepper.

  Pepper was a mutt of House Mutt, proud descendant of mutts. Shepherd-bloodhound-rottweiler-something-something else, we’d never know. She was reddish-brown with some black markings, about thirty pounds and growing, and when I came to her little kennel, she wagged her tail so hard she fell down. Her ears were silky soft, and the top of her snout was velvety and plush. If she wasn’t going to defend me, at least I’d have a sweet, wagging pup as the last thing I saw as I slipped this mortal coil.

  Her talents seemed to be licking people and pouncing on leaves. And cuddling. She was great at cuddling. Also, barking at such threats as wind, rain, the coffeepot and my cowboy boots.

  I’d had her a week and now couldn’t imagine life without her. I talked to her a lot—“Do you think this bucket is big enough to catch the leaks?” I’d ask, or “Should I have fish for dinner, or popcorn?”

  The truth was, I was lonelier than I’d anticipated. The temporary loss of my dad made me realize how much and how often we talked and texted. Sometimes, it was just silly things—a photo of that grimy Elmo in Times Square, or a pigeon sitting on the shoulder of a sleeping man in Central Park. Sometimes it was an article . . . I’d send him links to writing workshops, hoping he’d still give it a shot, or events that he might want to come down for. He’d send me cartoons or make Dad jokes, teasing me for not drinking more, saying I was sullying his legacy.

  Sometimes he’d just call me to say he loved me and was thinking of me and wondering what I was looking at.

  Juliet was a good-enough sister, though we didn’t have much in common. I loved her daughters and always had fun with them, but less was more in that respect. You couldn’t be the cool auntie if you were around all the time. My mother was very . . . competent. But I had never met my Minnesotan relatives; Mom didn’t get on with anyone except Aunt Nancy, and Dad was an only child. So as family went, Dad was kind of it for me. Dad, and Alexander, and I missed them both so much. Missed my life in New York fiercely.

  But Alexander was coming to visit this weekend, thank God, and Carter had broken his vow never to leave the five boroughs and was coming up tonight for Mom’s dinner party, though he’d booked an Airbnb after I FaceTimed him from my house.

  It was so quiet here. Quieter in this little house than my parents’, where there was always some kind of noise—cars, neighbors, the distant thump of music from the restaurants on Water Street, just two blocks away. Stoningham always had some event on the weekends—the library fund-raiser, a Presidents’ Day trivia contest at the library, storytelling night and open mic night at the local bar. To its credit, Stoningham tried very hard not to be a summertime-only seaside town.

  I hadn’t realized how much my mother did. When she had run for first selectman, I thought it was cute, and pictured her sitting on a panel, fielding questions from disgruntled residents. Now I knew she worked with the state government, figured out how any federal and state budget cuts would affect Stoningham, built partnerships with the business community, tried to woo the kind of industry to town that would be green, clean and employ locals . . . and yes, handled complaints from disgruntled residents.

  I felt a little bad that Dad and I had made some jokes about her being the queen of Stoningham.

  And now she was having a dinner party, to which I was invited. The first time I’d be my mother’s guest at something other than a family event. It felt kind of strange. Alexander was due in this afternoon . . . March was a busy time for him—all those rich folks getting itchy for summers on the Vineyard or Penobscot Bay or in San Diego. Many yachts to sell. We’d only seen each other three times since I moved back here—two quick runs back to the city for me, and once, dinner in New Haven. But he was coming tonight, staying all weekend, and I couldn’t wait.

  To show how strange life had become, I found myself looking forward to going to Mom’s. It was the highlight of my social life since coming home.

  Stoningham hadn’t exactly welcomed me back with open arms. I was a local who’d let it be known I couldn’t wait to leave my posh and pretty hometown behind, eager to be a New Yorker. Some of my classmates had never left, and I understood. It was a beautiful area. Others left to go to URI or UConn, came back and settled in, happy as clams. Mickey, Noah’s baby mama, had done that—she was the music teacher at the elementary school and taught piano and violin on the side. Some kids, like Juliet, left and came back wreathed in glory, the local success stories, living in the best neighborhoods.

  And then there were the blue-collar folks of any place like this . . . those who worked for the submarine plant in Groton or for the wealthier residents through skilled or unskilled labor. The townies who had struggled to make their peace with a fishing village turned summer
retreat for the wealthy. Noah was one of those; his dad remembered when most of Stoningham was dairy farms with a few gracious houses on the water.

  And then there was me. I’d run into a few old classmates since coming home, and they seemed confused to see me. Wasn’t I in New York? Art, right? Still painting? Anything good? Oh. Private collections? (It sounded better than couch paintings.) What was I doing back? Was I staying? No kids? Oh. Still not married? This last one was always said with a little meanness, as if getting married would have proven my worth in a way that the other parts of my life could not.

  I was a stranger in my hometown, in some respects. I knew the names of the people I’d grown up with—Mrs. Churchill from the library and her four grown sons, or Caroline DeAngelo, who taught me to double Dutch in sixth grade. There were the kids I used to babysit, now grown, and their parents, who still recognized me. There were the middle-aged women who used to babysit me.

  So I knew people, but I didn’t have any friends here. Jules let me come over and hang with the girls, and Oliver smiled and smiled. My New York pals felt far away, and the truth was, I didn’t have a lot to say to them on the phone. My dad is still recovering. I’m painting a little. I, uh . . . got a dog. No, I can’t have guests just yet, it’s kind of tiny here, and the roof leaks . . .

  There were nights when I was alone in my little house, wishing someone would text me or drop by, feeling a little afraid to reach out in case I’d be rejected. (You’d think a woman in her thirties wouldn’t have those feelings. You’d be wrong.) I worked on the house every morning, learning what wood rot was, finding mouse droppings in my insulation, realizing that one outlet downstairs was probably not enough. In the evenings, I painted for my interior decorators—they’d send me a swatch of fabric or take pictures of a throw pillow and instruct me on what the homeowner wanted—those “little dot paintings” (Seurat, I assumed) or “swirly” (Van Gogh) or “messy” (Pollock) or “those weird stick figures where the person only has one eye” (Picasso). My favorite was “little bitty brushstrokes so up close you can’t tell what it is but from far away, you can, like those Magic Eye puzzles” (Monet. So sorry, Claude).