Always the Last to Know

by Kristan Higgins

  Then I pictured myself in his situation, away from home, surrounded by strangers.

  “I don’t know that he meets the criteria,” I said. Rose Hill was for the profoundly disabled, so far as I knew, and John could walk and do some of the tasks of daily living. “My girls and I can take care of him, anyway.”

  “You’re good people, Barb.”

  “Thank you. You too.”

  “Okay if I visit with the old man?”

  “Absolutely. He’s in the living room, sleeping in the recliner.”

  She popped the last cookie in her mouth, waggled her impressive eyebrows and left the room.

  It was strange, how many people had come to visit John. Caro’s Ted came fairly often, even though the men had never been particularly close outside of our couple nights. Noah brought his baby over at least once a week, and seeing John hold sweet little Marcus made me happy and brokenhearted and angry. If Sadie ever had a baby, would John know it was hers? Would it break Sadie’s heart, knowing her father could never be the type of grandfather who’d give piggyback rides and read stories? Not that he’d done that with Sloane or Brianna, mind you. Always with one foot out of the room, John.

  Juliet and Oliver came, too, often bringing the girls. And Sadie was here every day. She was so devoted. Had it been me in that recliner, I wondered if she would’ve moved back.

  Well. Apparently John had a way with people. Just not with me. Our window had closed long before his stroke, and maybe long before I decided to divorce him.

  It takes two to make a good marriage, and only one to ruin it. But in the past several weeks, I’d been spending a lot of time awake at night, thinking about my role as a wife. I had stopped making John a priority a long time ago. When Juliet came into this world, she had outshone everything, and I resented his half attention to her, the way he didn’t seem to adore her as much as I did. He became superfluous to our life. If I hadn’t had Sadie, I wondered if we might have divorced years ago.

  I had tried, yes. Those dance classes (ugh), the forced conversations, the date nights, all that. But maybe it had been too little, too late. Maybe John had been waiting for me all those years when I gave him my half attention, my irritation, the unpleasant but honest feeling that he was in the way. I wanted to love him, and I’d thought I might again . . . but the truth was, I’d cast him in the role of inept and irritating husband long ago.

  Not that it excused his affair, not at all. I’d been ready to divorce him; he’d gone the cheap and easy way of cheating.

  Sometimes, though, I’d remember the way his eyes lit up when I came into the room in our little red house in Cranston. I’d had that, and yet somewhere during the in-between spaces of our lives, I let it slip away. Infertility had eaten away at me, and I’d tried to drown my sorrow by becoming part of Stoningham, and then, when motherhood did come, we stopped being a real couple. Maybe we would’ve faded away no matter what, but I didn’t try real hard, either.

  So maybe I owed John more than I wanted to admit. To love, honor and cherish . . . maybe I’d broken my vows, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sadie

  It was so, so good to spend the weekend with Alexander. He reminded me of who I was outside of my family, something more than the “other” daughter, the one who wasn’t as smart, accomplished or wealthy, or married and a mom.

  With Alexander, I was fun, smart, hot, interesting—a person he wanted to be with. Same as my dad (minus the hot part, obviously). We drove up to the casino for dinner with Carter and Josh. Carter, ever on my side, made a few little hints about marriage—“Can’t wait to be your man of honor”—okay, pretty big hints. Alexander put his arm around me and kissed my temple. He picked up the tab with great flourish, and we all left fatter and happy and full of laughter and friendship. I felt loved again. I really did.

  I felt better than I had since Dad’s stroke. The way he’d recognized Janet was astonishing, and I’d been over every day, trying to get him to say another word (my name, can you blame me?). The speech therapist and I talked for two hours, and I went to the house when she was there. He might’ve said dog when Pepper jumped on his lap. Duh . . . It was close to dog, right? He was getting there.

  But today, I told Mom I had to spend some time on my house and had already painted the upstairs bedroom pale gray. If Dad improved enough, I could go back to the city in the fall, so this little hovel had to be on the market for summer. Hours on the Internet had taught me everything I needed to know. Ikea was my friend, and yes, I could wield the sledgehammer taken from my parents’ shed.

  My plan was to knock down the wall separating the kitchen and living room, put in white cabinets and a couple of rough wooden shelves (so on trend), and make or buy a butcher block island for the middle. Small, yes, but also smart. Buff out those old floors, stain them dark walnut, spring for a new couch, and hang a Sadie Frost original abstract on the wall. Throw pillows. Rocking chair from my old room. A coffee table made from some cool wood. Bamboo and rice-paper blinds so the serial killers couldn’t see in. Sand the rust out of the bathtub, bleach the shit out of the tile floor, buy some bright blue towels, and voilà. A summertime jewel.

  You’d think with an architect sister, I might get some help. You’d be wrong. Juliet was weird lately. Jumpy. I invited her over one night, hoping for some advice and (cough) sisterly bonding, but she said she had to spend time working on Sloane’s reading skills. Fair enough.

  Time to take down that wall. “Okay, Pepper Puppy, stand back,” I said, and she cocked her head at me, pricking her silky ears. “Maybe you should go outside,” I said, remembering that people usually wore respirators for this kind of thing. I let her out; she never ran away, good doggy that she was. Then I tied a dishcloth over my face, cranked up Prince for company—“I Would Die 4 U”—and got a-swingin’.

  Boom! Ohh. Therapy and home improvement rolled into one. Boom! Swinging a sledgehammer was fun!

  And honestly, it didn’t take that long, probably because the house was older than dirt, the Sheetrock crumbly with years of humidity and mold. Even the two-by-fours came down easily enough, crooked old nails and bits of other types of wood testifying that the house had been built by someone without a license.

  Twenty minutes later, I stood in a much bigger area, a pile of rubble at my feet. “Take that, Jules,” I said, and texted her a picture of my destroyed wall.

  DIY, baby!

  Then I turned off the music, went outside to get the dust out of my lungs. My dishcloth was covered in nastiness, which I hopefully hadn’t inhaled.

  Pepper lay on the lawn, gnawing on a stick, which I pried out of her mouth and threw.

  “Fetch!” I said, and she raced after it, picked it up and lay down again. “Bring it here, Pepper! Here! Come! Come on!”

  Nothing. Well, we all had our talents. I sat on the front steps of the porch and felt the stillness settle over me, seep into my bones.

  The air was heavy with the smell of brackish water. The tide was coming in, the river rushing along the reed-filled banks, and the sunset was setting up to be glorious.

  If I were to paint the scene, I’d use my palest blue for the sky, and slate gray for the clouds, edging them with tangerine and apricot, and a hint of gold. Every minute, the color changed, deepening, sliding from one shade to the next. The tidal river picked up some reflected color—red, salmon, pink—and the gold of the grasses seemed to glow. The red-winged blackbirds chuckled, and somewhere far away a wood thrush sang, rich and full.

  This porch was perfect for sunset viewing. A little wicker couch, or two Adirondack chairs and a little table to hold your wineglass.

  An osprey flew over me, its white belly and striped tail feathers picking up the gold of the setting sun. That would be in my painting, too. I glanced over my shoulder and saw someone driving over the bridge now, a pickup truck, its headlights sweeping the increasing dus
k.

  Yes. This would be my painting. This moment, right here, right now. Homecoming, I’d call it.

  Not that I did that kind of thing anymore.

  But suddenly, I wanted to.

  I hadn’t painted a skyscape in years and years. Not since I left for school and found out the art world didn’t want pretty pictures of pretty places.

  Fuck the art world. I headed inside for my camera to capture the colors, the moment, the scope and feeling.

  Just as I went into the house, a pickup truck came into my driveway at top speed. I paused.

  It was Noah, practically leaping out of his truck. “Sadie! Get out of the house!” Pepper ran to him, wagging her tail so hard it looked like it was going in circles as she yipped with joy.

  “Hi!” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  He ran up onto the porch, grabbed my arm and dragged me back into the yard. “Your sister texted me. You just knocked down a load-bearing wall.”

  “Is that bad?” I asked.

  “Honey, get away from the house, okay?” He held my arms as if he wanted to plant me in place. “Let me see if I can get something up before the second floor falls in.”

  Honey. He called me honey.

  Le sigh.

  Then I blinked. “What? Shit! Let me help you. What’s a load-bearing wall?”

  “The kind that holds up the second floor.” He cut me a look. “You need to stop being handy.” He opened the door. “Jesus. You’re lucky you’re not buried right now. Come on. I have support beams in my truck. And a stepladder. Quick.”

  I helped him haul the materials in.

  Support beams, I quickly learned, were the kind that hold up second stories after people who watched too much HGTV did idiotic things. Noah quickly made two inverted Vs of fresh two-by-fours to hold up the second floor, securing them so they were jammed tight between floor and ceiling.

  When he stood on the ladder to nail them in, his T-shirt pulled out of his jeans, exposing a strip of his lean belly, a trail of hair running from his navel into his waistband. I swallowed.

  He knew what he was doing, this guy. Nail gun, drill, a few swear words, big, thick, strong arms, that beautiful head of hair . . . everything you’d want in a carpenter.

  “You can’t sleep here tonight,” he said. “I’ll come back tomorrow and put in a permanent beam, but this should hold it for now. Can you stop watching HGTV?”

  “That’s exactly what Jules said.”

  “She might know something, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. Okay. I’m . . . I . . . thank you, Noah. You saved me. And Pepper.” At the sound of her name, my dog collapsed on his work boots, rolling over to expose her belly should he be so moved as to rub it.

  He obeyed her silent command. “Just leave the carpentry to the carpenters.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pelletier.”

  He almost smiled at that. “You know,” he said, jerking his chin at the front of my house, “I’d get rid of this picture window here and put in three floor-to-ceiling windows. The view is the only thing this house has going for it. Might as well make the most of it.”

  “Do you know any carpenters who might be available?”

  “Finlay Construction. They’re the best.”

  “I was broadly hinting that you might do this for me, Noah. I’ll pay you, of course.”

  “I don’t really do construction. I’m a finish carpenter. I work for Finlay on a lot of jobs. Furniture, doorframes, trim work.”

  “But you could do it. You are capable of doing it.”

  He looked at me assessingly. “I’m expensive.”

  “I just won Powerball. I can afford you.”

  “Good, because I’ll charge you an irritation fee.” He folded up the stepladder and grabbed his nail gun or screw gun or whatever the yellow thingy was called. “Don’t go upstairs for anything. Your mom or Juliet will have a toothbrush and clothes you can borrow.”

  True enough. “Want a beer?” I asked. “We can drink it on the porch. Or in the back of your pickup.” Well, didn’t that sound like a proposition. “Or on the porch. If it’s safe.”

  He hesitated before answering. “Sure.”

  As Noah put his stuff back in the truck, I got two IPAs from my fridge, uncapped them (gently, in case the noise caused my bedroom to fall on me), and went out to the porch. Noah came and sat next to me, keeping a couple of feet between us. From somewhere behind us, the peepers were singing. It was full dark now, but the moon was rising.

  “Full moon,” I said.

  Pepper lay down between us, and Noah petted her idly.

  “Almost full. Tomorrow. The pink moon.” He took a swig of beer.

  “How do you know it’ll be pink?”

  “That’s what the full moon in April is called.”

  “They have names?” I asked. What a cute idea.

  “Yep.”

  “What’s March’s full moon called?”

  “The worm moon.”

  “Really? Poor March. What about May?”

  “Flower moon.” He glanced at me.

  “Are you making this up?”

  He grinned. “Nope. Just a Farmers’ Almanac geek.”

  I took a sip of beer, too. The peepers were so shrill and sweet. I’d forgotten that sound. “How are you, Noah? Are you happy?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did fatherhood do that for you?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “It’s nice, seeing you with a baby. You look like a natural.”

  He didn’t answer for a minute. “I always thought we’d have kids together.”

  There it was.

  “Me too,” I whispered, then cleared my throat. “Yeah. Me too. Life is funny that way.”

  “Are you happy, Sadie?”

  Earlier that evening, I had been. But right now, sitting next to my first love, the song of the little frogs in the background, the gurgle of the tidal river and the almost-full moon rising, all I felt was the sorrow of what could have been. The fullness and heft of it.

  My eyes were wet, and I was grateful for the relative darkness. I took a drink of my beer, and Noah let my lack of an answer go. Pepper spied a leaf and bolted off the porch to pounce on it, then rolled in the grass.

  “Cute dog,” he said.

  “She is.”

  We watched her antics another minute.

  “Hey, Noah? You know how you told me we weren’t going to be friends?”

  He nodded, not looking at me.

  “I was wondering if you might reconsider.”

  He closed his eyes a second, then put his arm around me, pulling me a little closer. “Sure.”

  He was warm and solid, and his good Noah smell and the tickle of his hair made me want to go back to that pub across from Grand Central Station and figure out a way that I could have said yes. I would’ve told those two stubborn, stupid kids to wrap themselves around each other, to look into each other’s eyes, to kiss with all the love and passion in their souls, and instead of talking about all the reasons why it wouldn’t work, just say yes, goddamnit. Yes, yes, we’ll find a way, because a love like this doesn’t come around twice.

  “I should go,” Noah said, putting down his half-empty beer bottle and standing up. “I’ll come by tomorrow if the wind hasn’t knocked this place down.”

  “I wish people would stop saying that.” I couldn’t look at him, so I let Pepper lick my hands instead. “You’re the best, Noah. Thank you.”

  He started to say something, then stopped. “Good night, Sadie.”

  I watched him drive off, the earlier image of homecoming in reverse. His headlights cut through the night, then disappeared, and the sky seemed cold and lonely.

  * * *

  — —

  I opted to sleep over at Juliet’s and sp
ent the rest of the evening playing Apples to Apples with Sloane, then lying on Brianna’s bed as she stroked Pepper’s ears. My niece told me about her friends and why they weren’t really her friends, and how she wanted them back but didn’t actually like them anymore and wished she could go to boarding school. “This town is so stupid,” she said.

  “It is, and it isn’t,” I said. “It’s a good place to grow up.”

  “You couldn’t wait to get out of here.”

  “And here I am, back again.”

  “Only because of Grampy.” She rolled onto her belly and propped herself up with her elbows, my sister’s little miniature. “Is he going to die, Sadie?”

  “Nope,” I said. “I mean, what happened was scary, and it was life-threatening, but he’s out of the woods now.” I tapped her little nose. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “Then why does Mommy cry in her closet?”

  Juliet? Cry? “Uh . . . well, it’s stressful, you know?” Shit. “I mean, Grampy’s getting better, but he’s not his old self, and I’m sure she misses that. I do. Do you?”

  She shrugged. “I guess so. I like Nana better, to be honest. She’s the fun one.”

  “What does she do that’s fun?” As ever, that image stung—my mother, a completely different person when I wasn’t around. I listened as Brianna detailed things like planting seeds to grow flowers for the garden, baking, taking her clothes shopping, going to the movies just the two of them, getting matching pedicures.

  Sounded damn nice. I hadn’t known my grandmothers.

  “Bedtime!” Juliet called, lurching to a stop as she saw me on her daughter’s bed. “Sadie, the guest room’s all made up.” Pepper leaped off the bed, ready for the next adventure.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Good night, Princess Brianna. I love you!”

  “Love you too, Sadie,” she said with a smile. “Good night, Pepper.”

  A little while later, Jules stopped in my room. I had already thanked her profusely for sending Noah over, admitted my inadequacies as a home renovator and sworn to listen better and be nicer to Mom.