Always the Last to Know

by Kristan Higgins

  “I have always loved your house more than mine,” she said. “You know what? I’ll think about it. We could do it on a trial basis, maybe. Let me run it past my boys and see what they think.”

  “That sounds great.”

  We kept holding hands, listening to the birds as they sang their evening songs, sipping our wine.

  “The love of your life, huh?” she said.

  “Well, it’s sure not John.”

  She laughed. “Then I guess you’re the love of mine, too.”

  “Girl power, as the kids say,” I said.

  “Friends till the end.”

  “I do love you.”

  She squeezed my hand. “I love you, too.” She clinked her glass against mine. “Here’s to housemates. Who cares what the boys think? I’m bringing my purple chair, though.”

  “You better. I love that chair.”

  We chatted until it grew dark and the mosquitoes found us, and then moved inside.

  Life partner. Longtime companion. Cherished friend.

  Such beautiful words.

  Love didn’t have to be romantic to encircle you in its arms. It didn’t have to make your heart race or your toes curl. Love could be just this, the sound of laughter on a warm night, the absolute comfort of being exactly who you were with the person who knew you inside and out.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Juliet

  She’d thought she would hate being the one in charge of the details, the legalities, the administration. She was wrong. It was completely different when it was a thing of your own.

  Frost/Alexander opened three weeks after Juliet quit, the week before Memorial Day. Arwen and Juliet might never be friends, but they were a good team—Arwen giving the firm some buzz, Juliet backing that up with her reputation. They hired three other architects on a trial basis and already had six clients. Smaller projects than airport wings and Dubai skyscrapers, but they were just getting started.

  The offices were in Mystic, so Juliet could be closer to home. DJK Architects had been housed in a sleek and stark building; Frost/Alexander occupied a four-story Victorian with stained glass and beautiful bookcases. She hired Noah to put in new windows and fix the front porch, but they were already working there. Arwen was moving from her loft in New Haven, and Juliet had recommended a real estate agent. Kathy was spending two weeks in Napa before starting.

  “Kathy is a little miffed that you’re senior partner,” Arwen had told her over dinner. “But so be it. We needed your experience. And I have to be honest. You have balls, telling me your name goes first.” She raised an eyebrow. “I respect that.”

  “Good,” Juliet said. “I respect you, too, Arwen, striking out on your own so young. You’re a very impressive person.”

  “Let’s order a bottle of champagne,” Arwen said. “To celebrate ourselves and each other.”

  “Maybe we should wait for when Kathy can join us.”

  “We can order it then, too,” Arwen said. She waved the waiter over. “Bring us a bottle of your best champagne,” she said.

  “Mind the budget,” Juliet murmured.

  “Bring us a bottle of your cheapest champagne,” Arwen amended, and they laughed. And cheap champagne . . . hey. It’s not awful.

  A few days later, Kathy showed up at Juliet’s house around dinnertime. “I need to talk to you,” she said tightly.

  “Sure. Come on in and say hi to Oliver and the girls.” She led Kathy up to the kitchen.

  “Hi, Kathy,” Sloane said, the friendlier child. So much like Sadie.

  “Hi, Kathy,” Brianna echoed, barely looking up from her math homework. Just like I used to be, she thought, smiling.

  “Kathy!” Oliver said. “How lovely to see you! Shall I fix you a drink, then?”

  Dear Oliver. So oblivious sometimes. Kathy’s face was already blotchy with anger, and she ignored him. Instead, she jammed her hands on her hips and glared at Juliet. Here we go, Juliet thought. Women tearing other women down. She tilted her head, waiting.

  “How dare you move in on my company?” Kathy said, ignoring the fact that the girls were at the table and now gawping at her. “This was mine! I was supposed to be Arwen’s partner! What did you tell her? How did you weasel your way in?”

  “She asked me,” Juliet said, her voice calm.

  “To work for us. Not to be one of us! Senior partner? That’s ridiculous! I didn’t agree to that!”

  Juliet raised her eyebrow (she could again, thank God, since the Botox had worn off). “That will be a problem, then, since Arwen and I can outvote you.”

  “You bitch. You’ve always had to be the star,” Kathy said. “You think your shit doesn’t stink, and you—”

  “Shut up!” Brianna barked. “How dare you talk to my mother like that! She’s one of the best architects in the country, for one, and for two, this is our house. You should leave now.”

  “Yeah,” Sloane added. “Get out. You’re mean. And quite rude.”

  Oh, that feeling. That feeling! Pride and warmth and love and surprise. Her girls, defending her from a bully. “Thank you, my darlings.”

  “My daughters have a completely valid point, Kathy,” Oliver said. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “I’ll do it, honey,” she said, but Kathy was already striding out on her own, hissing like an old radiator. Juliet caught up to her on the driveway as Kathy yanked open the door of her little MINI Cooper.

  “Kathy, wait. Why are you upset? We’ve worked so well together all these years.”

  Kathy stopped and turned, jamming her fists on her hips. “Jesus, Juliet. I wanted to get away from you. You think you’ve struggled with Arwen being the golden girl for the past two years? Oh, you’re too superior to admit it, but I knew. Well, try that fifteen years.”

  Juliet blinked. “We do entirely different things, Kathy.”

  “Really? I had no idea. Please, lecture me.”

  “I honestly don’t understand the problem.”

  “Well, it’s not my job to educate you. Just think about this. I’ve worked with Arwen since she got here. I coached her and whispered in her ear about how good she was and got her half of those interviews so that she’d do exactly what she did. Leave and take me with her. But instead, you just step in at the last second and somehow get your name on the door. It was supposed to be Alexander Walker.”

  “Not according to Arwen.” She looked at Kathy, who suddenly seemed a little pathetic with her cherry-red hair and painful high heels. “I think you underestimated her. Maybe she worked you a little bit, too.”

  “You both went behind my back.”

  “No, Kathy. If you can’t hold your own, don’t blame someone else. I gave Arwen my terms, and she accepted them. Clearly, she was in the position to make those decisions. Now. If your tantrum is over, I’d like you to stay with us. If it’s not, we’ll have to part ways.” And get a new partner, probably. Brett, maybe. Or Elena.

  “I’ve already talked to Dave about coming back.”

  “Then I wish you the best.” All those lunches together, all those conversations, watching each other’s kids grow up . . . it had meant something to Juliet. Quite a lot. But not to Kathy, apparently, because she just snorted and got into her car. Juliet watched as she sped down the street.

  “I never really liked her,” Oliver said as she came back into the kitchen. He sensed her lingering sadness and put his arm around her.

  “I never liked her, neither,” said Sloane.

  “Me neither,” echoed Brianna. “She was always jealous of you, Mom.”

  Out of the mouths of tweens came wisdom . . . sometimes, at least. Juliet smiled at her oldest, and, a little miraculously, Brianna smiled back.

  “I think we should go out for ice cream tonight,” Juliet said, earning a cheer from both her girls.

  Life was good. She and Oli
ver were better than ever, and that was saying something. The girls were wonderful, even if Brianna was still sulky and hormonal, and Sloane would probably go through that, too. Mom was going to have an easier life when Dad went to Rose Hill, and Dad . . . well, she hadn’t forgiven her father. Maybe she never would. Maybe some things shouldn’t be forgiven.

  But being angry was too great a burden to carry, and Juliet felt it slip away, there in the warm sunshine of the May evening. She owned her own business. She and Arwen would find a new partner. She loved her husband and daughters, mother and sister. There would be grief and loss and conflict ahead, and she’d get through it all.

  She was her mother’s girl, after all.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Sadie

  Joy. That was the word my father had given me, pulled with such effort from the depths of his heart and mind. I knew it was his way of telling me I’d brought him joy, and yet, I’d been thinking it might have been more, too.

  Maybe . . . maybe it was advice.

  Ever since I left Stoningham at eighteen, I’d been looking for that moment when everything in my life came together the way I dreamed it would. It never had, though, had it? I liked teaching quite a bit, loved my little students, St. Catherine’s, loved New York with all its treasures, felt a bit of pride that my couch paintings paid the bills. I’d created a good-enough life in New York. A solid life, a happy life.

  But joy was a different animal, wasn’t it?

  Joy was a quiet night watching the sunset, stroking Pepper’s silky ears, laughing at her antics. Joy was painting those damn skies. Talking with my nieces. Taking care of my dad. Sending my mom and sister to Boston. Joy was that moment when the dolphin and her mama had swum around my legs before speeding out to sea. Joy was walking through the streets of New York looking up, always up, at the beautiful architecture, the sky, breathing in the smell of the city, listening to the constant song of traffic and languages and feeling that surge of life, all that life, swirling around me.

  Joy was being with Noah, from the first time I’d seen him with that beautiful baby strapped to his chest, to irritating him as he fixed my furnace, to walking through a shower of cherry blossoms with him, to finally kissing him again.

  But as much as I loved Noah Pelletier, the fact remained that I didn’t want the life he did. I didn’t really know what life I did want, even now. A little of everything, whereas Noah wanted a lot of one thing. He wanted home, a partner who was always there, more kids, and who could blame him? Those were nice, good things to want.

  I was pretty sure I didn’t want those things. Oh, I loved my nieces, loved little Marcus even, loved hearing Mickey talk about the horrors and wonders of motherhood. But in my heart of hearts, I wasn’t sure it was for me. My mother had once called me a butterfly, flitting to whatever bright thing caught my attention, and she wasn’t wrong.

  I just wasn’t sure how to make a life around being a butterfly. I mean, those things didn’t live real long, did they?

  A few days after my meeting in New York, I went to the hardware store for some more plastic to patch up another hole in my roof. I turned down the aisle and there was Noah, studying a drill bit. He did a quick double take when he saw me.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi.” My insides flooded with heat, my heart pulsing with that beautiful scarlet red only he could incite.

  “How was New York?”

  “Oh . . . it was . . . it didn’t work out. My stuff wasn’t what he was looking for.”

  “Then he’s an idiot.”

  I snorted a little. “An idiot with a lot of influence.”

  He just looked at me a minute. “I’m sorry, Sadie.”

  “No, it’s fine. It’s nothing I haven’t heard a hundred times before. Two hundred. Five, maybe. Anyway. How are you?”

  “Good.”

  That seemed to be all. “Well,” I said. “Nice to see you. Love you.” Shit. “I do. I mean, you know that. Anyway. Have a good day.”

  I left before I made things worse, and went to see my dad.

  He hadn’t spoken again since that day. It was awfully hard, finally admitting he was the man in front of me, in a place I couldn’t reach or see. Maybe he’d have another breakthrough, but I had a feeling he was done.

  Rose Hill had space for him in their new wing. It was only a half hour away. Still, the tears slid down my face. I’d visit a lot.

  “I’m thinking about staying in Stoningham, Dad,” I said. His expression didn’t change. “Maybe I can get a teaching job up here. Keep doing my couch paintings, pop down to the city once in a while, keep the apartment on Airbnb. I don’t know. Maybe not Stoningham, since it would be hard to see Noah, you know? Maybe Mystic or Old Lyme.”

  I sighed. Even talking to myself, I couldn’t make up my mind.

  Hasan had told me what I’d always known. Those skyscapes weren’t all that special. Not to the New York art world. Any first-year art student could do them. They weren’t even that hard, technically speaking.

  “I’m not that good as an artist, Dad,” I told him, and tears filled my eyes. He didn’t answer, but I wedged myself in the chair against him and put my head on his shoulder. His arm came around me, just like old times, but for once—for the first time since his stroke—I didn’t look for more. Sometimes an arm around you is all you need.

  “Thanks, Daddy,” I whispered, and there it was again. Joy, soft and quiet this time. My father loved me. It was May. I had a good dog and options in front of me. Joy would be the key to my life. Be in the places that made my heart sing, do the things that made me feel whole and fulfilled, spend time with the people who did the same. No more phoning it in, no more good enough for now. I would find a way to make a life based on joy, because really. What if you fell off your bicycle one day and injured your brain?

  “Thanks for the pep talk, Dad,” I said, and maybe it was my imagination, but I thought he held me a little closer.

  * * *

  — —

  On Memorial Day weekend, Stoningham celebrated its 350th birthday. I had to hand it to Gillian, my mother and the scores of volunteers. It was beautiful.

  We started the day with a parade. I brought Pepper, since she loved people, and she wagged joyfully at every person she saw. At the last minute, I’d found myself one of the volunteers—the person in charge of the nursery school float had had a meltdown over the responsibility of it all, and my mom recommended me to step in. It was right up my alley, after all. Kids. Art. Last-minute accomplishments.

  There’s something so tender about a small-town parade. The handful of Stoningham veterans, some of them so old, so noble, riding in a convertible, waving with a gnarled hand as the townspeople cheered and teared up. The National Guard volunteers, somber in their uniforms. My mom, looking beautiful in a blue pantsuit with a red scarf, and the other two selectmen. The town clergy—Rabbi Fierstein, whose daughter had been my bus buddy in grammar school; Reverend Bateman, who used to read The Giving Tree on Easter Sunday; the handsome Catholic priest.

  Then came the kids. The 4-H club, the sailing club, the school music bands (including Brianna on trumpet). The Brownies, Sloane looking so stinking cute in her uniform, saying, “Hi, Auntie!” like she hadn’t just seen me that morning.

  Then came my float, bright as a garden, decorated in hundreds and hundreds of crepe paper flowers (not the vaginal kind), all the little kids wearing (or taking off) the beaks and wings I’d made out of papier-mâché. Damn cute. Fly, Little Birds, Fly! I’d written across the banner, making the letters out of their handprints. As I said, it was my groove.

  I saw Noah, Mickey and Marcus across the street. Mickey waved, nudged Noah, and he waved, too.

  We hadn’t spoken since the hardware store run-in. I understood. His son needed stability. Noah needed stability, and I wasn’t exactly that. Love was not all you needed. You needed to match, t
o fit, to want the same things. I had never wanted five kids. I wasn’t sure I wanted any. I’d never really known what I wanted, except to be a painter.

  But my heart hurt just the same, looking at him. I loved him, and I didn’t make him happy, and that was an awful ache I didn’t know how to fix. I petted Pepper to remind myself I wasn’t alone in the world.

  After the parade, the shops and businesses of Water Street hosted a sidewalk stroll, serving snacks and drinks, putting bowls of water out for doggies. Sheerwater, that splendid house the town now owned, was open all day, the garden club giving tours and hosting a high tea. There was a small regatta (we were Connecticut, after all). In the evening, there’d be the auction to raise money for scholarships.

  I hung out with my nieces, letting Oliver and Jules go to the high tea so my brother-in-law could get his Brit fix. When the girls got hot and tired, we went to my parents’ house for a little rest, and I parked them in my old room and put cool cloths on their heads, like my mom used to do for me when I was little.

  “Rest, little ones,” I said, and they both smiled, even though they were pretty big. Dad was asleep downstairs, back from his overnight at Rose Hill, Pepper curled up next to him, good pup that she was.

  My father had never been a great husband. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that. These past few weeks, I’d seen some looks exchanged between Mom and Jules, and overheard a few whispers.

  It was dawning on me that my father may have had an affair. Honestly, I didn’t want to know. It was a moot point now. He was still our dad. He’d released my mom from her duties, something she would never have done for herself.

  I looked at him now, the old man who needed his eyebrows trimmed. “You’re a good guy, Daddy,” I said. Maybe not the perfect man I’d once thought, but good enough. I could still love him, and he deserved that love.