“I’m trying to be fun and spontaneous and . . . not so serious.”
“Darling, we’re married with two children. Spontaneous happens only when we put it on the calendar.”
Well. She just couldn’t fucking win, could she? Everything Oliver said was true, and he looked like vomit warmed over, but it didn’t do much for her battered ego.
At that moment, the door banged open. “Daddy! Mommy!” yelled Sloane. “Guess what? Brianna got her period!”
“I rest my case,” Oliver murmured.
“Shut up, Sloane! I hate you!” Brianna said.
Juliet opened the laundry room door as Brianna flew by, her eyes red.
“She’s a woman now,” Sloane said solemnly. “She could have a baby.”
“Sloanie-Pop, this is a personal matter,” Oliver said. “Let’s get you a snack while Mummy talks to your sister, right?”
Sure. Give the hard child to me, Juliet thought. But yes. This was a mother’s job.
She went to Brianna’s room and knocked once. There was no answer, so she went in. Brianna was lying on the bed, sobbing.
Juliet didn’t know what to say, so she just put her hand on her daughter’s hair. “Hello, baby,” she said.
“It was horrible! It was in math class, and I felt this stickiness, and then George Tanner said, ‘Don’t mess with Brianna, she’s on her period,’ and everyone laughed. The blood was on my jeans, Mom! You knew I had cramps last night! Why didn’t you tell me to wear a pad?”
Yes. Why hadn’t Juliet been more psychic? The fact that Brianna had been claiming to have cramps every time she wanted to get out of a chore for two solid years was probably not what she wanted to hear.
“I’m sorry, honey. If it’s any consolation, I’ve gotten blood on my pants, too. So has Sadie, and just about every female I know.” Except Arwen. It probably hadn’t happened to her.
Brianna gave her a sullen look. “I thought it would be different,” she said, tears still dripping down her face. “I thought it would be cool and I’d feel sophisticated and in some kind of older girls club, but it’s just gross and my stomach hurts and my legs do, too.”
“I’ll get you some Motrin,” Juliet said. “And a hot-water bottle. It’ll feel good against your tummy.”
She went into her own bathroom and got the necessary items. A pad, just in case, and a tampon, too. She’d bought Brianna her own supplies last year, as well as a book about periods, but nothing ever did prepare you, did it?
She went back into Brianna’s room and gave her the Motrin and a glass of water. Put the hot-water bottle against her daughter’s abdomen and nodded at the tampons and pads. “In case you need it.”
“I have my own,” Brianna muttered. She rolled away from Juliet. “You can go now, Mom. Thanks.”
Once again, dismissed. What would Barb, the perfect mother, do? “You’ll always be my little girl. No matter how old you get.”
“Thanks. Could you go? I just want to sleep.”
“Right. Sleep tight.”
By the time Juliet had made dinner and cleaned up, even though it was Oliver’s turn (but he was suffering greatly), and checked on Brianna and helped Sloane with her reading and took a shower and got into bed, Oliver was asleep. He rolled over and put his arm around her, then started gently snoring in her ear.
So much for being the spontaneous, sexy, positive lover.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Barb
LeVon had gone to his new job, and John had recovered enough that he could handle the stairs. We moved him back into his bedroom, and the dining room furniture was returned. A home health aide named Kit came to keep him company and make his meals, but she was sullen and didn’t talk much, and was no replacement for LeVon. Sadie also came over every day, always optimistic, always talking up John’s mental progress (which I sure couldn’t see, though having him go up the stairs was great, don’t get me wrong). The speech therapist continued to come three times a week, and while John did seem to be trying to say words from time to time, the only clear thing he’d said was you the first day Janet came over.
Janet still visited once or twice a week, and I was grateful, if a bit mystified at her motives. If I was home when she visited, we’d have coffee and talk; if I was at work, she’d leave me a nice little note and, once, a pot of pansies. She worked at a nursery. I took to making sure there was some baked good in the house, cake or cookies, and always texted her to help herself.
Juliet was working like crazy these days. Caro, too. Sadie would move back to the city eventually; those paintings she did were fine as a side job, but I knew she wasn’t exactly fulfilled (as I had predicted all those years ago, but who listened?). She seemed to like teaching in New York, and sooner or later, she’d get restless and leave again.
So this was what the rest of my life would be like. Alone, but a caregiver. Married, but to a man I’d wanted to leave, a man who’d found someone else and had been stepping out on me for God knew how long.
On a soft, gentle evening in April, I herded John onto the slate patio. Sloane and Brianna and I had planted pansies in the window boxes out here, and the birds were singing, and it was real nice. I settled John in a chaise longue, covered him with a blanket and got myself a glass of wine, then came back out and sat down next to him. Gosh, I was tired. I had a dozen things to do, but technically, I didn’t have to work sixteen-hour days.
Everything could wait. My back twinged as I leaned back, and I wished I had a pillow, or someone who would bring a pillow to me. It was fine. The twinge stopped after a minute, and John was silent and still.
I loved this patio. We used to eat out here when the weather was nice, the whole family. I’d combed the countryside for antiques to decorate the space—a granite horse head sculpture sitting on the gatepost to the backyard, an old millstone, the iron planters.
The wine tasted so good—a fat, buttery chardonnay that John had hated, being the kind of wine snob who only drank reds, or port as an after-dinner drink. He’d made fun of me in that wine-tasting class. Barb’s the type who thinks there’s nothing wrong with ice cubes in her pinot grigio. The teacher had winced before recovering.
“Guess I got the last laugh,” I said now, even though he couldn’t know what I was talking about. “No more alcohol for you, John. I bet you miss it.”
He was listening. Sometimes he just stared off into the middle distance, but tonight, he seemed a little more present.
“Juliet’s party is this Saturday,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m not bringing you. It’s just that I need a little break. A few hours with people who like me, don’t you know?” Another sip of the glorious chardonnay. “I’ve been wondering when you stopped, by the way. We were happy once. We were solid for a long time, I thought. Not exactly setting the bedroom on fire, but I liked our life. Thought you liked us, too. We had the girls and then the grandbabies. That was enough for me.”
Except it hadn’t been. Not really, if I was going to be honest.
“I’ll tell you something, John. I was planning on divorcing you. I was going to tell you on our anniversary, for effect. ‘Hey, we’ve been married for fifty years and I’d like a divorce. Happy anniversary.’ I didn’t know you were cheating. I was just done with you. It was how little you thought of me, John. I wonder how often I crossed your mind, even living in the same house.”
“Dig,” he said, startling me. I looked at him, and he scowled.
“That’s good, John. Keep trying. You’re doing real good.” Or was he just making noise, poor thing?
“Horse.”
“That’s right. The horse head. You never liked it.” These word bursts were a good sign. Dig could be because of the gardening, but maybe that was a stretch.
His mouth worked.
“Got anything else to say there, John?” I asked.
He scowled again and pulled
the blanket up to his chin, sulking much like Brianna did these days. Well, maybe he liked me talking to him as if he could understand. Maybe he could, who knew?
“I met a friend of yours.” I poured a second glass of wine, glad I’d brought the bottle with me. “Karen. Your girlfriend. WORK, as she was listed in your phone. Gotta say, I was surprised when I saw her. Then again, I don’t really know your type, except that I’m not it. She didn’t seem like the brightest bulb in the box, but I suppose IQ isn’t high up there on the list of things an old man looks for in a mistress.”
He was still scowling.
“Caro and I met her for coffee. I told her about your stroke and whatnot.”
His face changed, the scowl sliding down into old-man sadness.
I reached over and patted his hand. “I’d like to tell you she sent a card or stopped by or texted you, but she hasn’t. I’m sorry about that.”
Listen to me, apologizing that Karen didn’t give a good gosh darn about him. Must’ve been the wine.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
“We’re on the patio, Caro!” I said, letting go of John’s hand. “Grab a wineglass. The bottle’s out here.” I heard the cupboard open, and a second later, there she was, looking so stylish and pretty.
“You two look cozy,” she said, pouring herself some wine and taking a seat across from us.
“I’ve just been telling John about our meeting with Karen.”
“Oh, that slut.” She looked at John. “You do not deserve Barb, John. You hear me? You don’t deserve to clean her toilet.”
“Hush now,” I said. “He’s my husband. Not a great one, mind you, John, but my husband just the same.”
“You’re too good, Barb.”
“You betcha,” I said, and we laughed, Caro and I, and maybe, just maybe, John smiled a little bit, too. I closed my eyes, listening to the birds.
If this was my life now, I guess I’d have to take it. Aside from a cheating husband, I’d been real blessed. My girls, my friend, my home, this town . . .
“Go to bed, Barb,” Caro said. “You must be exhausted.”
“I’m pretty tired, I’ll give you that.”
“I’ll get this old bastard settled, and I’ll hardly kick him at all. How’s that, John?”
“Oh, Caro. You’re all talk. Don’t listen to her, John. She’ll take real good care of you.”
And I did go to bed, not even brushing my teeth first. My clothes felt as heavy as lead.
Would John live a long time? Would I be able to keep this up?
Thank God for Caro. I lay down, comforted by the sound of my best friend’s voice as she talked to my husband. I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sadie
For the first time in years and years, Noah and I were in a car together.
It brought back a lot. Sure, we were driving down I-95 to Brooklyn, but memories of steamy windows, hands under shirts, lush kissing, panting breath, the way he knew exactly how I—
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes! Why? Jeesh.”
“You just squeaked.”
“Did I? I don’t think so. Must’ve been the truck.”
This was going to be a long ride.
Why were we going to New York together, you ask?
I was delivering a painting to Janice, the interior decorator. This one was a “huge painting with those big flowers that look like vaginas. It’s a lesbian couple, so don’t hold back.”
When I called her to ask about the delivery, Janice had been more frantic than her usual self. “Can you come down and hang it yourself? This whole job is going to shit. It’s a brownstone, and it needs custom work, and the guy who was supposed to make the window seat on the staircase landing just bailed, and I’m telling you, no one is available unless you book a year in advance these days, and they discontinued the wallpaper the owners loved and I’m pulling my hair out.”
“Sure, I’ll come,” I said. Janice had probably forgotten that I was here in Connecticut with my dad, but I could use a day in the city. I hadn’t spent any time there except to dump Alexander a few weeks ago, and I’d been in a state, obviously. It would be good for the soul, as it always was. There was nothing like a spring day in Brooklyn.
An idea popped into my head. “Hey, Janice, I might know someone who can make a window seat.”
“Really? Oh, Sadie. That would be miraculous.”
“I’ll call you back.” I hung up, then looked at my dog. “Don’t judge,” I said. “It’s only business.” She wagged kindly, her eyes suggesting I wasn’t fooling anyone.
Noah had put in the beam so my house was no longer in danger of falling in on itself. He’d also put in the picture windows, and it was amazing how it changed the look of the house, both from the outside and the inside. Sure, it was still a bit crooked, but Noah said if I put on a new roof, it could be fixed. The thing about house renovation, I was learning, was that the more you did, the more you wanted to do. The huge vagina flower painting (sorry, Georgia O’Keeffe) would put some money in the bank.
A big butcher block island with stools would let you eat while staring out at the salt marsh. Maybe Noah could put in a spiral staircase, like Juliet’s. Maybe he could make the entire northern wall a bookcase.
Maybe I just wanted to spend more time with Noah.
I was still recovering from Alexander’s cheating and lying, granted. I had loved him, or the him I thought he was. Then there were the feelings of stupidity and humiliation, of being less than, because he needed three girlfriends, not just me. I’d thought I found a man who loved me without that sense of . . . expectation Noah always had. Like, until I lived life the way Noah wanted me to—that was, move to Stoningham and start popping out babies—I was a disappointment.
Alexander had taken me exactly as I was. He’d been generous, fun, not unintelligent, easygoing. All he needed was two other women to make his life complete.
Oh, the fuckery of it all.
At any rate, I’d called Noah, told him two wealthy brownstone owners needed a window seat pronto, did he want a quick job in the city? Much to my surprise, he said yes.
When I arrived at his house this morning, he’d been passing off Marcus to Mickey in the front yard, daffodils blooming, sun shining on his hair.
“Girlfriend!” sang Mickey. “How you doing? Damn, you’re so stinkin’ cute. I could be gay for you.”
“You are gay, you tease. Hi, Marcus.” The baby smiled at me, and my ovaries spontaneously frothed over with eggs.
“Want to hold him?”
“We need to get on the road,” Noah said at the same moment I said, “God, yes.”
Mickey smiled and passed me her son. The warm, wriggly weight of him, his sturdy little legs kicking, and yes, people, the smell of his head . . . God. “Hello, gorgeous,” I said. His lashes were so long and silky, and his cheeks were fat and pink and delicious.
“Dwah!” he said, taking a fistful of my hair and tugging. “Baba!”
“He’s a genius!” I said to the parents.
Noah was smiling. Just a little, and probably at his son.
“Please, please, let’s get together,” Mickey said. “I want to see your goofy little house and drink wine.”
“Done,” said I.
“You’re nursing,” Noah said.
“Oh, am I, Noah? I forgot that my breasts are as big as watermelons and my nipples look like saucers and milk spurts out of me every time this baby smiles.” She rolled her eyes. “Mansplainer. Shame on you! I’ll pump that night and chuck it. Jeez. The nursing police here, Sadie.”
“He’s horrible. I’m sorry for all you endure.” She grinned. I liked her so much.
“We do need to go, Sadie,” Noah said.
I kissed the baby’s head—oh! The soft
spot! So dear!—and handed him back to Mickey. “I’ll call you.”
“You better. Bye, Noah! Marcus, wave bye to Daddy!” She held up his fat fist and jiggled it.
Noah leaned in and kissed his child. “I love you,” he said, and my ovaries frothed again. “See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”
Which brought us to my current horndog state, sitting in Noah’s truck, his tools and some walnut planks in the back, the smell of wood and coffee the best foreplay I could think of. “I brought pastries from Sweetie Pies,” I said. “Want something?”
“Sure.”
I handed him a chocolate croissant and watched as he ate it, his jaw moving hypnotically. Would it be inappropriate to brush the crumbs out of his lap?
“Who’s watching your dog today?” he asked.
“What? Nothing! Oh. My nieces.” I took a calming breath and chose a cheese and raspberry Danish to get my mind off Noah’s lap.
“How are they?”
“They’re good. Brianna got her period and is officially a horrible adolescent, and Sloane is a little behind in school, but they’re awesome.”
He smiled, and I had to look out the window to avoid wrapping myself around him like an octopus.
When we got to the brownstone, all was chaos, as it tended to be with Janice. Movers were bringing in furniture, painters were finishing up, and she pounced on me, despite the fact that I was carrying the huge wonkin’ vagina flower painting wrapped in brown paper.
“Let me see it! Let’s get it inside. Up those stairs, second door on the right.”
Noah followed with his toolbox.
“You must be Noah, thank you for coming, you’re an angel, you really are, I hope you’re good enough to do this right because I don’t really have a choice right now. Unwrap the painting, Sadie, let’s have a look!”
I glanced at Noah with a smile. Hopefully Janice hadn’t offended him with her run-on sentences and half praise. He smiled back.
Unwrapping the painting carefully, I leaned it against the bed. “What do you think?”
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