“Oh, Sadie! It’s beautiful! You signed it, right?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Look how it matches the comforter!”
I suppressed a sigh. This was my bread and butter, after all.
The painting was a close-up of lilies, that most vaginal of all flowers, and sweet peas (labia), and I was rather proud of it. The lesbian couple could go to town under that painting. Unlike the “swirly” or “scribbly” paintings I often did, this one had taken more work and time. Sure, it was an O’Keeffe knockoff, but it was beautiful, and not just an imitation. Oil this time, with more texture and detail than the great Georgia. Her style with a tiny bit of my own.
“It’s really pretty, Sadie,” Noah said, staring at the painting, his head tilted the slightest bit. “Very . . . detailed.” Then his dark eyes cut to me with a slight smile, and I felt my skin prickle with a blush. There was a bed right behind me. Just sayin’.
“Okay, hang it up, and Noah? It’s Noah, right? Let’s get you started on the window seat. You got the pictures I sent you, right? Can you match that? Did you bring wood?”
Yes, Noah, did you bring wood? God. I was ridiculous.
I hung the painting, chatted with the movers, wandered through the brownstone. What a lucky couple! I’d always been a Manhattanite, Brooklyn being too hip for me, but damn. The building was a block off Prospect Park on a street with fully leafed-out maples. All the windows were open, and the sun shone through the stained glass window on the landing, making it appear that Noah worked in a church.
He did look like an angel. Or maybe Joseph, Jesus’s dad. The carpenter dad, not the God dad. Or with that black, unruly hair, scruffy beard and olive skin, maybe Jesus himself.
“Stop looking at me,” he said without looking at me.
“Need a helper?” I asked.
“Sure. Sit there and don’t touch or do anything.” He cut me a look, and I felt it in my stomach. He had a black elastic on his wrist and, in a practiced movement I remembered well, pulled his hair back into a short ponytail to keep it out of his eyes as he worked. A few curls escaped.
Heathcliff hair. Jon Snow hair. Darcy hair. Damn you, Noah, I thought. You’ve only gotten better. Watching him work, his movements sure and confident, it hit me again that my wild boy was a man. A father, and who could be a better father than Noah?
“How’s your dad?” he asked, picking up on paternal vibes.
“He’s doing well,” I said. “He’s trying to talk, and write. I mean, he held a pen the other day, but he didn’t write anything. Still, he held it the right way. Mom said he said ‘horse’ the other day. And maybe ‘dog.’ He definitely responds to Pepper.”
“Good. He likes Marcus, too.”
“Everyone loves that baby.”
No response. He ran his hand over the walnut panel, which he’d already varnished. Lucky panel. “Pass me the hollow ground planer blade.”
“I heard the words, but they mean nothing to me.”
A flash of a smile. “Maybe you can walk around the block a couple times, hm?”
“Are you saying I’m in the way?”
“Yes. You’re in the way, Sadie.” His eyes met mine. “Take a walk, Special.”
Time stopped. That name. It sliced into my heart like a burning arrow.
“How’s it going here?” Janice said, racing up the stairs, her arms full of pillows. “Will you be finished by three, do you think? They’re having a housewarming party! Tonight! It’s just crazy! I have to stage the whole house, get fresh flowers and make all the beds and hang the towels and put this damn cow statue somewhere, what was I thinking when I ordered it, oh, and guess who doesn’t like fake orchids? My lesbians, that’s who!”
Good for the lesbians. “Can I help?” I asked. “I’m just in Noah’s way, and I’m great at making beds and such.”
“You’re an angel, Sadie! An angel! Noah, three o’clock?”
“No problem,” he said, looking back down at his work.
By three o’clock, the house was more or less in order, Noah was finished, Janice was thrilled with the window seat and now on her phone, yelling at someone. She handed us two envelopes, mouthed, Angels! and waved goodbye.
We walked out of the brownstone, despite the fact that I’d sort of been hoping to meet the owners and be invited to the party and end up snogging Noah on a pile of coats somewhere.
Noah opened his envelope. “Holy shit,” he said. “This is twenty percent more than my estimate.”
“She pays a rush fee. She’s a little crazy, but she’s kind of wonderful, too.”
“I should work here more often.”
Words I would’ve killed to hear once upon a time. I let it go, but the casual way he said it scraped my heart. “Well, now that she’s seen your work, she may well call you again.”
“Thanks for the referral, Sadie.”
“Of course.”
“You gonna see your boyfriend tonight?” he asked as we walked toward the truck.
“Oh. No. We broke up. He had a girl in every port, as the old saying goes. Or two ports, anyway.”
Noah stopped in his tracks. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“You heartbroken?”
For someone with the kind of verbal diarrhea I had, it was oddly hard to talk about this. Because it was him. Noah, the real breaker of hearts. “A little bit. I feel pretty dumb.”
“Because you didn’t know?”
“Yeah.” Naive, dopey, innocent Sadie.
“Because you trusted him to be honest.”
“Yep.”
“That’s not dumb, Sadie. That’s just . . . you. You believe in people.”
The wind rustled the maple leaves, which were so green and fresh they glowed. “Thanks, Noah.”
“You want me to beat him up for you?”
I laughed. “Nah. He’s a soft yacht salesman. You’re a badass carpenter. It would hardly be fair.”
The corner of his mouth tugged up. “Well, then. You wanna eat? I’m starving.”
“You mean here? In this horrible city you hate?”
“I don’t hate Brooklyn. Brooklyn’s nice.”
“Jump on the bandwagon, why don’t you? Sure, let’s go eat some street meat. It smells incredible.”
And so we got a couple gyros on Seventh Avenue and took them up to Prospect Park to eat while we sat on a bench overlooking the grassy field. When we were done, I said, “Come on, wild boy. Let me show you the botanical gardens. You think you like Brooklyn now, just wait. It’s the perfect day for it.”
And it was. Late April, the cherry trees so fat and fluffy with pink blossoms, a few drifting down into Noah’s hair, which I left for effect. What the lad didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Thousands upon thousands of flowers were in bloom, and Canada geese strutted about, their little goslings following in quick, darting movements. The constant noise of traffic and music that defined the city was silent here, and the smell of grass and flowers combined in the perfect perfume. Ahead of us was a guide dog, a Golden retriever, and I thought of Pepper. Would she like the city? Probably not at all, given what she was used to, romping on the shores of the tidal river, going for swims in the Sound, rolling in dead seagull whenever possible. Maybe she’d transition to pigeons. The thought made me wince. The pavement in New York could get so hot that . . .
Okay, no. I wasn’t going to worry about that right now. My father was getting better, and I’d be in Stoningham till the end of summer, and it wasn’t even May. People had dogs in New York. Pepper would be fine.
And I was with Noah, whose hair had escaped the elastic. Women looked at him, and so did a few men—he was cooler than cool because he wasn’t trying at all. Levi’s and work boots that actually saw work, a worn flannel shirt over a dark green T-shirt devoid of ironic sayings or rock band names. He was authentic
, and that was something rare in this part of Brooklyn, especially among men our age.
“This is so beautiful,” Noah said as we walked under an archway of entwined cherry blossoms. “I can see why you love this part of the city. There’s a lot more to it than cement and noise.”
My heart hurt. “True,” I whispered.
“I’m glad we’re friends again.”
“Me too, Noah. I missed you.” There it was, my heart on a plate, waiting for him.
He nodded. “Same.”
A man of few words. We looked at each other a long minute. “Okay,” he said briskly. “What’s in that glass place there?”
“A whole lotta fun, that’s what,” I said, a little relieved. “Off we go!”
The conservatory was fun, a creative array of biospheres to explore. I tucked the hurt away, not saying anything about how things could’ve been if only he’d been a little more open-minded back then, and just . . . relaxed.
But Noah knew me. He could practically read my mind, and I could read his. We weren’t going to have a summer romance. At the end of the day, I’d be coming back here, and he had a child and a full life in Stoningham, and if we broke each other’s hearts again, it would be unbearable.
For just this day, we’d be friends again, like we’d been before we ever started dating, when just being together and talking was as uncomplicated and easy and as natural as breathing. For this day, I’d pretend not to be in love with him, because there was simply nowhere to go with that without leading to hurt. I’d cut off my hand before I hurt Noah Sebastian Pelletier again.
We ended up eating dinner at a little Italian restaurant and drove home late. I fell asleep at some point and woke up as we pulled off the highway to Stoningham.
“Sorry,” I said.
“No need to be sorry.”
“This was a great day.”
“It was.”
I guess the chatty part of it had ended, though. Noah didn’t say anything else as we drove through town, past the now-closed shops and restaurants. I thought about asking him to drop me off at my parents’ so I could check on my dad, but it was almost eleven.
Pepper had been returned, and as soon as we pulled into my driveway, I heard her happy barking. Noah got out, too, and a warm tingle began low in my stomach, spreading to my arms and legs.
If he kissed me, if he wanted to stay, I’d be helpless to say no, given the lust factor, the love, the everything he was.
He walked me up to the porch. “How’s the roof?” he asked.
“Still leaking in a hard rain.”
“I’ll try to come over one day this week. There’s a storm due about Wednesday.”
“That’s okay. I’ll get to it.”
“Why does the image of you on a ladder make me think of ambulances? Save your mother the worry. Let me do it.”
Pepper was going crazy inside, so I opened the door and let her out. She waggled at me, licking my hands, and I bent down to pet her. She repeated the action on Noah with a little leg hump attempt. Like owner, like dog. “Off you go, girl,” he said, sending her down the steps with a gentle shove.
“Want . . . coffee? Or water? I have water.”
“I’m good.” The wind blew then, and he pushed my hair back, his fingers sliding against my scalp. I closed my eyes for just a second. Then I was in his arms, and he was hugging me . . . not kissing, but a full-on, all-enveloping hug that made me feel so good, so safe and so . . . loved. I could feel his heart slamming against my chest. He smelled like home. Felt so perfect. I hugged him back for all I was worth, feeling his solid muscle, his collarbone against my cheek.
“I better go,” he whispered.
“Okay.” Neither of us let go. For a second, he hugged me that much closer, and every inch of me wanted him.
Then he stepped back, took a shaky breath and said, “Okay. Bye.”
And that was that. A second later, he started up his truck and backed out, and I stood there, watching him leave.
Story of my life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Juliet
Juliet hated throwing parties. This was unfortunate, given that she was doing just that.
Even having her small book club over caused her a great deal of agita—what drinks should she serve? If she made cocktails, would everyone be okay to drive? Was wine boring? Should she have baked something? Why had she chosen a nonfiction book? Was popcorn an acceptable snack?
This party was ten times the size of her book club. Had she had a couple of horse tranquilizers, she would happily take them. At least she had help for this one, but the stress level was even higher, given the work week she’d had.
But it was May first, and this was their tradition, hers and Oliver’s. When they first moved to Stoningham, bought the old house that had once stood here, torn it down and created this gorgeous structure of wood and glass, they’d had a housewarming party on the first of May. It became a tradition. Cocktails served by a bartender, caterers with trays of food, fairy lights strung in the trees, the house filled with bouquets of lilacs, and the rooftop deck shaded by the retractable awning. Square cement planters burst with ornamental grasses, and every table had a centerpiece—pots of live moss and ferns, very Brooklyn, very cool. The food was all farm-to-table, and four high school girls were earning twenty-five dollars an hour to serve and clear.
Juliet knew her house was extraordinary—a slender, four-story structure of dark wood and glass. It was an upside-down house—The ground floor had a beautiful entryway, a mudroom, a family room, a game or craft room, depending on the girls’ interests, and Oliver’s study. The second floor held the bedrooms—four of them, three full baths, as well as a cozy reading room with couches where she and Oliver read to the girls at night, or where they now read to themselves. The third floor held the huge kitchen, dining room and Juliet’s spacious office, complete with antique drafting table and a huge desk for her computer monitors.
And the fourth story was what Brianna, then age four, had dubbed the sky room. One giant room on the entire floor. The view was so vast that on a clear day, you could see the very tip of Long Island. It was a gorgeous place to watch storms, the lightning crackling from sky to ocean, or the snow blowing against the windows, making you feel as safe and charmed as the heroine in a fairy tale. The pièce de résistance was a rooftop deck with cable railings and a retractable awning, couches and lounge chairs, a small bar and outdoor kitchen, and planters bursting with whatever annuals struck Juliet’s fancy that year.
It was clearly an architect’s house, meant both to impress visitors and shelter and nurture the family. This party was intended to remind people that the Frost-Smitherington family was here, that they cared about the neighborhood and community. That she was a Frost of the Stoningham Frosts. Barb’s daughter.
It should’ve been nice. It usually was, hostess nerves aside.
But this year, Juliet wasn’t feeling it. She stood in the sky room, feeling awkward and alone and hoping it didn’t show. Oliver was laughing with some of his work friends—one woman was standing awfully close and tossing her hair. Should she go over and make a claim, slide her arm around his waist and say, “Back off, bitch?” Was that how her father’s affair had started, with someone from work? Who was that practically drooling on Oliver? Had Juliet ever met her? Oh, now she was laying her hand on Oliver’s arm, and was he doing a damn thing about it? No.
“Juliet, what a lovely party, as always!” Saanvi Talwar, their neighbor and Juliet’s almost friend, smiled as she hugged her. “Now that Genevieve is gone, you’re taking over as Stoningham’s most beloved hostess.”
Shit, I hope not. “So glad to see you, Saanvi. How are things at the hospital?”
“Oh, God, the insurance companies are killing medicine as we know it, but we soldier on!”
“Well, I’m sure you’re doing great work. Di
d you try the dumplings? Make sure you do. I think you’ll love them.”
“Let’s get together sometime, just us two,” Saanvi said. “We should make a monthly wine date.”
“I would love that.” She would. But when? Was Saanvi just being her kind self? Would it be rude to whip out her phone and force her to commit?
“Oh, there’s Ellen. I haven’t see her in ages! Thank you again for having us, Juliet. This house is such a showplace.” Saanvi smiled and walked away, effortless in her social grace. Juliet had to fake it.
She should’ve become a doctor, like Saanvi and her husband. Doctors didn’t get upstaged by younglings, did they? They just got better and more esteemed.
Speaking of upstart younglings, here came Arwen. She drifted gracefully over to Juliet, almost floating as heads turned. “Thank you for inviting me, Juliet. What a lovely home you have!” The European air-kiss on each cheek.
“So glad you could make it. Hello, hello!” God.
Arwen wore a long white dress and simple sandals, looking like a Greek goddess with a badass haircut. Sandals, a toe ring, and a brown leather bracelet set with a single turquoise stone. One gold ring on her index finger, just above the second knuckle. She held a glass of rosé that seemed to complement her skin tone and outfit, her graceful fingers cupping the stemless glass.
Juliet felt immediately outclassed and overdressed. The formfitting black cocktail dress was meant to show that yes, she ran six miles on the treadmill every single day. No stockings, black kitten heels that had cost a fortune but suddenly felt a bit old-school.
“Oliver!” she called. “You remember Arwen!” She waved at her husband, who finally left the hair-tossing hand-layer and ambled over, drink in hand.
“Hello, Arwen. So nice to see you again. Did you bring a friend?”
“I did. Cecille, come meet our wonderful hosts.” Arwen waved to a very tall woman with a beautiful Afro. “Cecille, this is my colleague, Juliet Frost, and her husband, Oliver.”
Colleague? She was Arwen’s boss.
“So nice to meet you,” Cecille said. “What a gorgeous view. Did you guys build this house, Mrs. Frost?”
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