Always the Last to Know

by Kristan Higgins

  So it could happen to them. Had she and Oliver fought? Of course. About stupid things, like . . . well, like the time she had to leave vacation early because of a work crisis a few years ago. The time he broke her favorite mug, because even though she told him it was fragile and special to her, he handled dishes as if he didn’t have opposable thumbs. The way he let Brianna get away with things when Juliet tried to lay down the law. But they’d never spoken about unhappiness or a lack of love. Never. They’d never raised their voices to each other. Never.

  Mom and Dad had never fought, either.

  So reminding Oliver that she was a desirable woman who loved sex and was spontaneous and adventuresome, especially after she hadn’t been able to kiss him for the past three days, thanks to those stupid injections . . . that was on her list. As was coming to this party, because Mom was utterly heroic, doing all this, trying to get people around Dad. (God. If she only knew.)

  Juliet had dressed up for this evening, which Mom always appreciated, and wore a stretchy white dress that required a serious bra, which currently seemed to be intent on embedding itself in her rib cage. Three-inch red suede heels she hadn’t worn in years. A thong for the planned seduction. A thong that may or may not have worked itself into her lower intestine.

  Sparkly. Sparkly. She had to be sparkly. She’d talked to everyone here tonight—the event planner Mom thought so highly of, Noah, Mickey Watkins, Ted, Caro, Sadie’s friend from the city, who was very nice. She’d held little Marcus. Endured Sadie’s predictions of a full recovery for their father. If only Sadie knew. God. That would kill her, knowing their dad had had an affair. The two of them had always been so close. Dad had never paid too much interest in Juliet. Not that she resented it. Much. Anymore.

  She finished her glass of wine and got another before everyone sat down. Sadie had been in charge of the wine tonight, and Juliet had brought a couple of additional bottles, correctly anticipating that her sister wouldn’t bring enough. Not that she was cheap; she just wouldn’t think too hard about how many people were coming.

  “How’s the house, Sadie?” she asked brightly as everyone sat down to dinner. “Fallen in the Sound yet?”

  “Not yet,” Sadie said. “A few shingles blew off the roof last night, but I plan on getting up there and fixing all that.”

  “Please don’t,” Noah said. “Hire someone.”

  “I think I’m very handy, actually,” she said. “But thanks for your concern.”

  “You’re handy?” Carter asked. Yes, Carter, that was his name. The friendly friend from the city. “Remember when you broke the sink in the teachers’ bathroom because you forgot which way the knobs turned?”

  “I have no recollection of that event, no,” Sadie said, grinning. Always getting away with being a ditz and thinking it was charm. Maybe it was. Maybe Juliet should try it.

  “Does anyone mind if I breastfeed?” asked Mickey, and, not waiting, pulled up her shirt and attached the baby. “No one is scared of boobs, right? Although I have to say, they do look a little scary these days. No one told me I’d become Joan from Mad Men after popping out this little bruiser. I was a 34-B before Noah knocked me up.” She glanced at Gillian, who looked green. “Sorry. Shit, Gillian, I’m really sorry. You too, Sadie.”

  Right. Right. The event planner had been engaged to Noah. The baby was making smacking sounds.

  Sadie’s teacher friend smiled. “I love watching a woman breastfeed,” he said. “So natural.”

  “Thanks, dude,” Mickey said. “You’re okay.”

  Dad, too, was staring at Mickey’s breast. It was hard to miss, but was he looking at it lustfully? And if so, doubly gross, because (a) it belonged to a woman not his wife and (b) it was feeding a baby, so lusting was just icky.

  She really had to tell her mother about that other woman. Or she really shouldn’t ever tell her mother. God! How could her father be such an asshole? She hated him . . . except seeing him wobbly and silent and staring at a strange woman’s boob made her both want to curl into a ball and sob or kick him and also have him just die already and let her mother be free.

  “Barb, this asparagus is wonderful,” said the event planner. Gillian.

  “It is,” Oliver agreed. “You’re a smashing cook, Mum.”

  The nicest man in the world was her husband. Time for a little seduction. She slid off her shoe (blessed relief) and reached her foot out to slide up his pant leg. Nothing . . . nothing . . . Could a foot grope? If so, her foot was groping into emptiness. There.

  She hooked her toe in his pants and slid it up.

  Mickey jumped. Oliver didn’t. Shit. Wrong leg. Mickey gave her a reproachful look over her baby’s head.

  “Sorry,” Juliet murmured. “I thought you were my husband.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  Okay, so no foot sex or whatever that move was called. More wine was a good idea.

  Caro and Ted seemed to be fighting in whispers. Gillian looked wretched. “My mom says you’re amazing at what you do, Gillian,” Juliet said. “How did you get started?”

  “Oh, funny story,” Gillian said. “So, it was my mom and dad’s thirty-fifth anniversary, and I thought, why not throw them a big party? And I got the bug! I just love organizing.”

  Juliet waited for the funny part, but apparently Gillian was done.

  “That is funny. Ha. Ha ha.” Yes. She was a little drunk. Dad was looking at Gillian now. Maybe he was interested in her in his foggy, befuddled state. Like the woman he’d been kissing, Gillian had dark hair.

  How many women wished their fathers were dead after seeing them cheating on their moms? CNN should do a poll.

  A knock came on the kitchen door.

  “Who could that be?” Barb asked, getting up to answer it.

  “Elijah the prophet?” Oliver suggested. It was his go-to joke when someone interrupted dinner, and it always made her laugh. No one else got it, apparently, and her laugh sounded too loud in the vacuum.

  “Can I help you?” Barb said. “Oh! Hello there!”

  It was Janet, the woman from Gaylord whose brother had been down the hall from Dad. She’d been really nice, Juliet remembered, if fashion challenged. Her hair was in two long, gray braids, and she wore overalls over a flannel shirt. “Oh, shit,” she said. “You’re having a party. I’m so sorry. I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop in.”

  “No, no, come in. Please. Girls, do you remember Janet? How’s your brother, Janet? Have a seat. Would you like some wine?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t drink. Hey, Juliet. Sadie. Everyone else.” Her eyes stopped on Dad’s face. “Hey, John. How’s it going, buddy?”

  Dad’s mouth hung open for a second, then he burst into a big smile. “You!” he said. “You.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “That’s right, Dad,” said Sadie, her voice breathless. “You know her!”

  “You sure do,” Janet said, going closer. “How’s my old pal?”

  Dad grabbed her hand and kissed it. Jesus. How nice for Mom. Had he slept with Janet while at Gaylord? Probably not, but still. Cheating asshole.

  “You,” he repeated.

  His first word since the stroke, and it wasn’t even directed at a family member, the bastard. Why put family first when he’d had his tongue down some other woman’s throat? When he didn’t even have the decency to divorce Mom before cheating on her? That slut should be the one stuck with him now.

  Forty-three years old, and feeling like Brianna, sullen and judgmental and wishing she could kick a sick old man. Not a proud moment. She poured herself more wine and drank it, grateful that tomorrow was the weekend.

  * * *

  — —

  An hour later, Sadie was still happily snuffling her tears of joy. Mom had called LeVon, who said this was a very good sign, and Caro had gotten Janet a plate an
d heated it up in the microwave. Janet was talking about her brother’s progress at Rose Hill, a care facility north of Stoningham. Noah was holding his sleeping baby, Mickey was in the bathroom, Gillian was subtly texting someone for help, no doubt, and Juliet was drunk.

  That was when the vacuous waste of space known as her sister’s boyfriend walked in.

  “Our yacht salesman is here! The man of the people has arrived!” Juliet announced.

  “Hon,” Oliver said in a low voice, “I think you should tone it down a little.”

  “Why? He’s three hours late.”

  Sadie got up and hugged him, but not before shooting a look at Noah. “Honey! You made it. Guess what? My father spoke tonight! He recognized Janet!”

  “And who’s Janet?” he said. “Mrs. Frost, I’m so sorry I’m late.”

  “Don’t worry about it, dear,” she said. “Do you know everyone? This is Janet, our friend from Gaylord, and Noah and Mickey and their little boy, and this is Gillian, a friend of mine.”

  “Hello. Nice to meet you,” Alexander said, smiling blandly.

  “We’ve met, actually,” Gillian said. “I organized the yacht christening in Clinton last fall. The Parkers?”

  “Oh, right!” he said, clearly not recognizing her. “Small world.”

  Mickey came in, still buckling her pants. “How long did it take for your period to get back to normal after you had babies, Juliet?” she asked.

  “Nope. Not gonna talk periods at a dinner party,” she answered.

  “Thank you!” said Alexander, and Juliet rolled her eyes.

  Bad idea. The room was starting to spin a little. “Let’s go home and get naked,” she whispered to Oliver. He gave her a look that did not say great idea.

  Perhaps she had been a little loud.

  Gillian stood up. “I should go. This has been . . . yes! Thank you, Barb. I’ll be in touch. So good to see everyone.”

  Poor thing. “Sorry!” Juliet called. “We’re usually better company than this.”

  “I’m taking you home,” Oliver murmured.

  “I should stay and clean up.”

  “No, you should come home and sleep it off. Come on. Mum, thank you. We have to get going.” They muttered a minute, talking about her, no doubt.

  As soon as they were in the car, Oliver said, “What on earth is going on with you?” His voice was sharp.

  “Um . . . nothing?”

  “You were really off tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re pissed, for one.”

  “You know what, Oliver? It’s kind of hard to see my father like this. Then he recognizes that woman? Not me, not Sadie, and God forbid, not Mom. Some woman he barely knows.”

  “So that makes it all right for you to get drunk at your mum’s party? Does that make it easier on anyone?”

  “Yes, Oliver. It makes it easier on me.” She looked at him. “Don’t be mad. I’m just a little”—past my prime at work and hiding a horrible secret about my father and considering a job as a smoke jumper and not sure our older child loves me anymore and a little terrified that you’ll leave me someday—“stressed. Take me home and ravish me.”

  “I don’t think so,” Oliver said. “I don’t ravish drunk women.”

  “Even your wife, who just asked you to?”

  “When you’ve sobered up, I’d really like us to have a meaningful conversation.”

  Shit. Panic threaded through her foggy brain. “About what?”

  “Darling. You’re drunk. You had at least three glasses of wine.”

  “In England, that would be called a good start.”

  “You haven’t been yourself lately, and it’s not just your dad, though of course that’s hard. But something’s off, and it has been for months.”

  “Pull over.”

  “What?”

  “I’m gonna puke.”

  And so her evening ended, barfing in front of the McMasterons’ house, her husband sighing and holding back her hair.

  So much for seduction.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Barb

  LeVon was leaving us.

  I knew the day would come, but I cried just the same. He was going to Rose Hill Rehabilitation and Care Center a half an hour north, the place Genevieve London had endowed before her death. LeVon would be director of patient services, and of course I couldn’t begrudge him the change. He said it was his dream job.

  “We’ll stay friends,” he said over tea, kindly covering my hand with his. “And I can recommend some great caregivers and therapists.”

  I nodded. “You’re irreplaceable, LeVon.” I had to wipe my eyes on a napkin.

  “I think you’re pretty amazing yourself, Barb. A lot of people fall apart when something like this happens.”

  “They must not be from Minnesota.” He laughed, those kind eyes and ready smile. I squeezed his hand. “If I’d ever had a son, I hope he would’ve been like you, LeVon.”

  It was his turn to get teary. “That means a lot to me. I’ll be here till the end of the month, so don’t you worry. I’m not abandoning this ship.”

  “Will he get better, LeVon? I know you’re not supposed to guess, but what do you think?”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Technically, you’re right. I can’t guess, and patients surprise us all the time. But I don’t think he’ll ever recover completely, no. Most of the patients I’ve seen with hemorrhagic stroke and traumatic brain injuries . . . at his age, no, I don’t think he’ll ever go back to being the guy you used to know.”

  I nodded, my heart sinking even though I’d kinda known that already. “Well. Thank you.”

  Sadie wasn’t coming today; she had to do something with that little pile of sticks she called a house, so I’d left work early. I had to e-mail Gillian about the town’s birthday (and apologize for that wretched dinner party) and call Juliet (who had been a bit tipsy, which wasn’t like her). I had a speech to write for the Small Town Coalition and a few e-mails to return. A phone call to Lucille Dworkin, who had been pestering Lindsey to see if we would arrest her neighbor for using his leaf blower before eight a.m. on a Saturday.

  I looked in on John, who was asleep in his chair, and took the soft cashmere throw I’d splurged on last year, tucking it around him in case he was cold. Regulating his body temperature was one of his medical issues these days. His hair was sticking up on one side, and I smoothed it down. He didn’t stir. I hadn’t shaved him today, because it made him agitated, and he had a fuzz of white stubble on his face.

  He looked so old.

  A knock came on the door, and it was a relief to answer it.

  Janet Hubb, who had crashed our dinner party and inspired John to say his first intelligible, post-stroke word, stood there, smiling.

  “Hey, Barb,” she said. “On my way to see my brother, thought I’d pop by.”

  “Hello, Janet. Come on in.”

  I wasn’t sure why I liked Janet, but I did. She was the type of woman who didn’t care about postmenopausal facial hair—I had to force my eyes not to study her lip—and she only seemed to wear overalls and those awful gardening clogs. I liked her hair, her granny glasses, her bulky, hand-knit sweaters (although perhaps I’d knit her something with a little less hay in it, fewer dropped stitches).

  “How you doing today, friend?” she asked, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “How’s our John?”

  Our John. “He’s resting.”

  “Yeah. So it’s none of my business, but I picked up some weird vibes last weekend, and I just wanted to check on you.”

  “Ah. Yes.”

  “How are you feeling? I mean, you’ve been through the wringer. Your kids, too. The drunk one? I thought she might stab me with her fork.”

  “Oh, Juliet is lovely. She would never stab anyone with a
fork. Or any instrument.” I sat down, too. “Tell me, Janet. You obviously like John for some reason.”

  “Yeah. He’s cool.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know. He listens really well.”

  “He has no choice, does he?”

  She smiled. “Good point. I feel like he hears me, though.”

  “I feel like he hears you, too. He always brightened up when you came into his room at Gaylord, and the fact that he spoke when he saw you . . . that was a real breakthrough.”

  “Has he started talking more?”

  “No.” Just those three yous when he saw Janet. Apparently, the women who inspired John were not in his family. I wondered what he’d do or say if Karen visited, but she wouldn’t, would she? Theirs was a love that was more than a love only when she thought he was wealthy. She wasn’t the type who would wipe drool from a man’s face.

  As Janet had last weekend, after the hand kissing.

  “This is a really pretty house, by the way,” Janet said.

  “John cheated on me,” I said. “I only found out after his stroke.”

  “Well . . . fuck.”

  “Yes. My daughters don’t know.”

  “So you’re all alone with this?”

  “My best friend knows. Would you like some coffee? I baked cookies with my granddaughters yesterday, too.”

  “I love cookies. Sure, I’ll take a coffee. Thanks, Barb.”

  For the next hour, we talked. Janet told me about her brother and his progress. They only had each other, she said; their parents died when they were teenagers, and Janet had become Frank’s legal guardian at the age of eighteen to his twelve. They’d had no other relatives for most of their lives, and they were so close they lived on the same street before his accident.

  I thought about my six siblings. Nancy had sent a card when I told her about John via e-mail, but otherwise, I hadn’t heard from anyone.

  “Have you thought about putting John in Rose Hill?” Janet asked. “It’s fab. They have a saltwater pool, and the food is great.”

  For a second, I imagined the freedom of having John in a facility. Those weeks when he was at Gaylord and I was alone in the house, and how . . . peaceful they had been. I was so tired these days.