Always the Last to Know

by Kristan Higgins

  “We never set a formal policy, but generally, three years,” Juliet said, making it up on the spot. The truth was, all her previous hires loved going out with her, viewing it as special time with the likely next partner of DJK. “How are you? How are things?”

  “Excellent.” She took her nonalcoholic drink from the server and nodded thanks, looking both elegant and warm at the same time. Juliet could feel the sweat breaking out under her arms. Her face was still flushed. Arwen took a sip of water and tilted her head. “Pardon me for asking a personal question, Juliet, but are you having a hot flash?”

  Fuck you. “No,” Juliet said, trying to laugh. “I’m forty-three. A little young for that.”

  “My mom started when she was your age.” A sympathetic smile.

  “Well, my mom had a baby at my age.”

  “Really? Are you planning to have another?”

  You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Me on maternity leave. “No, no. Two is just fine. Wonderful. The best.”

  Her father was having an affair. Would her parents get a divorce? A sudden lump rose in her throat. She took a drink of the vodka, its burn welcome. “Tell me about the stadium project. Ian said there was some confusion on ADA compliance.”

  “No. He was mistaken.” She smiled. “It’s going beautifully, and even a little bit ahead of schedule. Now. What shall we order?”

  * * *

  — —

  When Juliet got home that night, she was exhausted and wired at the same time. Oliver had fed the girls already, and Sloane was in bed, Brianna doing homework (i.e., messaging her friends).

  “I’ve got a lovely big martini ready when you are,” he said. “Salmon, couscous and brussels sprouts, with a fat slab of chocolate cake I picked up at Sweetie Pies just for you.”

  “You’re amazing,” Juliet said. “I’ll go say good night to the girls and be right back.”

  Sloane was already sleepy, her Patronus being an elderly cat who slept and liked to be petted. “How’s my girl?” Juliet asked, sitting on the edge of her bed, stroking Sloane’s silky hair.

  “I’m good, Mommy. How are you?”

  “I’m fine.” There was that lump again. What would the girls say if their grandparents divorced? Oliver’s mother lived in London, and while she was fabulous and descended with gifts once or twice a year, it wasn’t the same. Oliver’s dad had died when he was twelve.

  Sloane and Brianna saw their Frost grandparents at least three times a week.

  Shit.

  “Do you want me to sing your good-night song?” she asked.

  “No, Daddy already did. He makes up funny rhymes.” She smiled sweetly. Yes. Oliver did everything better than she did.

  “Okay. Sleep tight, little one,” she said, kissing Sloane on the forehead, nose and lips. Soon, if she were like her sister, Sloane wouldn’t want kisses anymore and would say things like, “Did you brush your teeth today?” and slice away at Juliet’s heart, one translucent layer at a time.

  But maternal love was required to be unconditional, so Jules went into Brianna’s room, knocking once.

  “What?” her oldest said.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” she said.

  “Why did you work so long today?”

  “It’s Thursday. I always work till seven on Thursdays. You know that. That way I get to be home when you’re done with school on Monday, Tuesday and—”

  “Okay. Fine. I remember. Sorry.” She widened her eyes as if Juliet had been screaming at her.

  “How was school?”

  “Fine.”

  “Any quizzes or tests or fun things?”

  “No. It was boring. Um, I’m kind of busy, if you don’t mind. Ackerly and I are doing math homework.”

  Ackerly was the most poisonous of Brianna’s friends, and one of these days, she would take Brianna down. Juliet could see the handwriting on the wall. “What about Lena? She’s good in math, too.” Lena hadn’t been over lately, and Brianna had stopped talking about her as much as she used to. The two had been friends since preschool.

  “Mom. Ackerly is also good in math. If it’s okay with you.”

  Juliet opened her mouth to say, I don’t trust her or Watch yourself with that one or Lose the attitude, Bri, or you’re grounded. “Watch your tone,” she said, the best she could manage.

  “Okay. Sorry. Good night.”

  “Good night. Love you, baby. Lights out in half an hour.”

  There was no response. Juliet closed the door and went down the stairs, pausing in front of a beautiful black-and-white photo of Brianna as a baby. Back when she loved her mother. God, those dimples! Her father’s huge, smiling eyes, and Juliet’s square chin, and those dimples.

  When was the last time Brianna had smiled at her?

  Juliet knew this was normal. Teenage girls were hormonal and beginning that process of pulling away from their mothers especially. Because how could you bear to leave if you didn’t hate your mother a little bit? Except Juliet never had. She’d cried and cried when Mom had dropped her off at Harvard, and had to pretend to love it for six weeks before it became true. It was only because Barb was so diligent in checking in, coming to visit, sending care packages, that Juliet made it through her freshman year. She was her mother’s favorite, she knew.

  And Sloane was hers. Mothers shouldn’t have favorites. She loved both girls the same. But she liked Sloane a lot more these days. If Brianna could give her something to work with, it would be easier.

  Please, God, she thought, don’t let Sloane ever get to this point.

  Oliver was waiting, shaker in hand. He loved making cocktails to a fault, trying the Tom Cruise moves from that terrible movie.

  “All right, darling? Must’ve been a terrible shock, seeing your dad today.”

  “Yep.”

  “Sloanie-Pop still awake?”

  “Just barely.”

  “And Brianna?”

  “Doing homework.” She sat down on the stool. Remembered she hadn’t kissed him that day, and since she’d vowed never to be one of those wives who took her man for granted, got up and kissed him, then sat back down. “So.”

  “Right. I’ve been thinking about the situation,” Oliver said, the ice clacking around in the shaker. “Thanksgiving is in three weeks. Perhaps wait till after to address all this muck? Your mum does love that holiday.” He rattled the shaker dramatically over one shoulder, then poured her drink. “And her turkey is the stuff of legend.”

  Her second martini of the day. She’d had to drink hers at lunch, since Arwen had thrown down the gauntlet, and fought the afternoon sleepiness that it caused out of sheer will.

  But if ever a day called for two martinis, it was today.

  “Do you think she’ll leave him?” Juliet said, her voice low.

  “I would leave you, darling. And you’d have me murdered and thrown in the ocean in tiny bits and pieces.”

  “They’ve been married almost fifty years, Ollie.” Her throat was tight. “How can you cheat on someone after fifty years?”

  “Oh, my darling, there, there.” He came around the counter and put his arms around her, and she clutched his shirt. “I’ve no idea. Your father’s a twat.”

  “What do I do? Tell him I saw? Tell her? Order him to tell her or I will? Ignore it? I mean, it’s not like they have the best marriage in the world. God. Maybe they have an open relationship.”

  “Well, darling, Barb has been incredibly busy this year, and—”

  She jerked back. “And what? That gives my father permission to cheat on her?”

  “No! Not at all. It’s just that perhaps things on the home front have . . . I’m going to stop talking now. This is awkward, isn’t it? Go on, love. What were you going to say?”

  “Nothing. I have to let this sit a little while.”

  “Good plan. Maybe talk
to a friend? Saanvi?”

  Saanvi was one of their summertime neighbors. She worked in New Haven, too, at the hospital, and sometimes she and Juliet had lunch or, more rarely, a glass of wine after work. She couldn’t see bringing up her parents’ marriage, though. Too personal.

  The truth was, Barb was Juliet’s best friend. In any other circumstance, Barb was the one she’d go to.

  Juliet wiped her eyes and let Oliver kiss her on the cheek. They ate dinner, and since it was late, went to bed, where they made love, tenderly and quietly, since Brianna had ears like a bat. “I love you, sweetheart,” he whispered just before he fell asleep.

  “I love you, too,” she said, but the words almost made her cry.

  Her father loved her mother, once. Now look.

  Ten minutes later, Oliver sound asleep, Jules got out of bed, put on her bathrobe and went to her study. Googled “why do married men cheat?”

  All the clichés were true. Boredom. Trying to reclaim lost youth. Not getting enough at home. The thrill of the chase. Lack of communication.

  The hard fact was, if someone wanted to cheat, they could. If someone wanted a divorce, he or she could just end things. I don’t want to be married anymore. Well, not to you. And just like that, your carefully built life would crumble.

  Juliet’s mother had built a life so carefully. She had always put the family first, and Dad had reaped those benefits. The beautiful home, the respect of the community, Juliet and Sadie themselves, and now, by extension, Oliver, Brianna and Sloane. She saw how hard her mother tried—she’d always seen it. Cooking lovely meals, the house always a haven, trying to make conversation with topics such as “tell me the happiest thing that happened to you today” at dinnertime. She remembered her parents taking ballroom dancing classes, going to Scotland, learning about wine.

  So if Barb couldn’t pull it off, who could?

  Oliver was perpetually happy, and not tremendously empathetic to people who weren’t, always a little confused as to why they didn’t just shrug off what they couldn’t control and focus on the positive.

  Which made it hard to talk to him about difficult, complicated matters like her parents. Or Arwen, since he said things like, “Sounds like you picked a winner in that one!” or “That’s bloody fabulous for her!” missing the point entirely.

  It was hard to talk about the fact that Brianna made her feel sad and tired these days, and not liking her own child made her feel small and mean. She couldn’t say out loud that she liked Sloane better, and she couldn’t discuss the fear that Brianna would be able to tell, the same way Sadie knew Juliet was the favorite, and this was karma getting Juliet back for being their mom’s favorite.

  And now, it would be hard to talk about the creeping terror that if her father could somehow justify cheating on her mother, Oliver would see his point.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Barb

  I hadn’t wanted another child. I was too old. My husband and I were both too old to have another child. It was absurd. We had one, and she was—forgive me—perfect.

  Juliet had been that way since birth. Since conception, to be honest, because I hadn’t had one day of nausea or swelling or heartburn. And my body was miraculous. I could do everything she needed—nurse her, soothe her, intuitively know when she was about to wake up at night, or when she was coming down with a cold.

  She was a happy, healthy, beautiful baby, speaking in full sentences by her first birthday, smiling, a good sleeper. She began reading at three. She was a friend to all her classmates, especially those who seemed to need a little more—the boy who wet his pants every day in kindergarten, or the girl who had a speech impediment. Teacher after teacher told me she was exceptional.

  She was Mommy’s girl. John loved her, of course—who wouldn’t?—but he worked more during her childhood. He switched from family law to regulatory compliance, which required him to travel out of state once or twice a week. Sometimes, he’d stay overnight or come home very late, and I loved those mother-daughter nights.

  Juliet was the purpose that had been missing in my life, because marriage wasn’t enough, and work had been a placeholder for me. Our house and my role in town were just to prepare the way for Juliet. I was born to be her mother, and we lived in a beautiful world built by the two of us. I made sure she got enough fresh air, taking her for walks every day, first in the pram, then holding her hand. We took our big canvas tote to the library and filled it with books, even when she was tiny, and I read to her for hours. I made nutritious meals and snacks, way ahead of the curve regarding organic, locally sourced food. I chose my words carefully, always explaining to her why she shouldn’t touch something rather than just “because I said so.” Even my voice changed, and my flat upper-midwestern accent morphed into the blander, more cultured Connecticut non-accent.

  Every day was bliss. It truly was.

  John faded into the background. I never hired a babysitter. Every few years, John’s mother would visit from Seattle, where they’d retired, and spend a week with us. Eleanor would urge John and me to go out, and we would, but I was anxious, never able to relax the way I sensed I was supposed to. I only wanted to be home with my precious, wonderful daughter. The very word was magical. My mother-in-law deserved a little time alone with her, though, so I did it.

  Home, our gracious, warm, inviting home, was made more perfect because of Juliet. Her artwork hung on the fridge, and I couldn’t seem to take enough photos of her. Her room was a delightful chaos of books and stuffed animals and projects. I turned one of the extra bedrooms into her own library, filling it with books she had loved, did love, would love. Oh, the happy hours we spent there, reading together!

  My parents visited only once (we bought them tickets, but even so, you’d think they were being sent to a work camp in Outer Mongolia). They’d never seen the house before, and all my mother had to say was, “Aren’t you the fancy-pants now?” My father commented that I “fawned over” Juliet, and maybe I could send some money Elaine’s way, since I liked to flash it around so much. Who needed a house with five bedrooms when you had one single kid?

  We didn’t invite them back. Still, I sent them a Christmas photo of Juliet each year; though they had more than twenty grandchildren by then, I felt they should see her utter perfection.

  By the time she was nine, Juliet was doing algebra and reading at a twelfth-grade level. She took ballet and was wonderful, even dancing the part of little Clara in The Nutcracker. She was helpful and thoughtful and funny, doing her chores without being asked, taking on extra-credit projects or tutoring other kids just because she liked to.

  In the evenings, when her homework was done, she’d snuggle up next to me on the couch and say, “What are you doing, Mommy?” The fact that she, this bright star, was interested in me . . . it touched my heart in a way I couldn’t explain. Even though she was clearly smarter than I was, she never made me feel unneeded. She asked me to teach her needlework—her room was filled with pillows and sachets I’d embroidered, and her closet full of gorgeous sweaters knit by my own hand. She wanted to learn to knit, too, so we could do it together. I loved to bake, and she loved to help. We picked flowers and arranged them, and the house shimmered with our love.

  Then, when Juliet was eleven, that magical age when she was starting to ask questions about the world, as we started to be able to really talk about life, and our relationship began to bloom with that added gift of friendship, my mother was diagnosed with stomach cancer. It had already spread to her intestines and liver, and she didn’t have long to live.

  It surprised me—that panicky sensation, the primal yearning for my mother, no matter how mediocre she’d been. I found myself crying uncharacteristically, and eating at all hours, something I’d never done. My mother was dying in slow agony, and when she was gone, I’d lose the chance to ever win her approval.

  By the time I visited in March, the cancer had spread
to her brain and bones, and she was thrashing around on the bed like a trapped animal. Oh, I cried and cried when I saw her—that poor skinny body, her skin bruised, face sallow. The hospice nurses said it could happen anytime, but that tough old bird just wouldn’t die, as much as she wanted to. She lasted and lasted, in constant, grueling pain, and it was torture. There was just no other word for it.

  I ate my emotions. My period was light, then stopped for a month or so, which I attributed to stress. It had happened to Caro when her husband was deployed. Then Mom finally did die, and I went back for the funeral with John and Juliet.

  So I didn’t suspect pregnancy, not after all the trouble I’d had. I was old enough to start flirting with menopause. Nancy had hit it at thirty-nine, Elaine at forty-three. Besides, John and I had only had two very mediocre . . . couplings . . . this entire year.

  Well, I was pregnant, turns out. No signs this time. No flash of knowing. I had no idea until I saw a chiropractor for back spasms.

  “How many weeks are you?” she asked, and I actually laughed.

  “I’m not pregnant,” I said. “My mom died recently, and I stress-ate. I . . . oh.”

  Oh, no. The crying. The hunger. I hadn’t been eating my emotions; I’d been eating for two. I went from the chiropractor to my regular doctor, and yep. I was pregnant. Almost halfway along.

  Juliet was in sixth grade, high school and teenage years just around the corner, not a time I wanted to be distracted by an infant. My god, an infant! Middle-of-the-night feedings, spit-up, dragging around a diaper bag for two years, ever in need of a shower. What had been a privilege with Juliet now seemed like a terrible burden.

  Surprisingly, John was thrilled. Even more so than when I was pregnant with Juliet. “It’ll be a second chance,” he said, and I snapped back with, “A second chance at what?”

  “At family life,” he answered, and I may have hissed at him.

  Juliet, true to form, was happy, though she admitted that my pregnancy was “kind of gross and embarrassing.” I couldn’t disagree. To know your parents were having sex when you’re in junior high school (even if it had been practically an immaculate conception) was gross and embarrassing.