Always the Last to Know

by Kristan Higgins

  “Let’s take her in a little deeper,” I said. I put my hand on Honey’s back. “Come on, sweetie. You can do it.” We were knee-deep now, then thigh deep. She flapped once, and the tarp slid out from under her.

  She sank.

  “No! Come on, Honey! Up you go!” I reached in and pulled her up so she could breathe. “Here, baby. Just sit a minute. Get your bearings.”

  “She might be sick, Sadie,” Noah said.

  “She’s not.” Stupid of me to say, but I didn’t want her to be. My throat tightened with tears. All this to watch my little friend drown? No.

  I took her out a few more feet, now waist deep in the ocean, the waves slapping me, sliding over Honey’s blowhole, soaking my sweater. “Maybe you can run back to your truck and drive into town and get some help,” I said, my teeth starting to chatter.

  “I’m not leaving you in the ocean by yourself. With a dolphin. It’s not even fifty degrees today, Special.”

  “Well . . . maybe if we swim her out a little more, she’ll catch on.”

  Noah looked dubious.

  “Please?” I added. “You’re a father. She’s a baby. Doesn’t this inspire your paternal instincts?”

  He shook his head, smiling a little. “Sure. Okay.” We took her out a little more, and her tail moved. I was up to my shoulders now. She wasn’t sinking, but we were holding her up, and let me tell you, a baby dolphin is not a tiny thing.

  “Any other ideas?” Noah asked. A wave slapped me in the face, and I choked. “Pretty soon we’ll be dead, so think of something.”

  I couldn’t help a sputtering laugh.

  And then, like magic, like proof of God, a full-grown dolphin leaped out of the water right in front of us, and I screamed a little as it splashed down. Honey began squeaking and wriggling, and then, just like that, she gave a flip of her powerful tail and swam toward her mother (I thought it was her mother, anyway). She was a dark shape in the water, and then she was gone.

  “Yes! Way to go, Honey!” Noah said.

  But I felt suddenly . . . bereft. That was it? After two hours together?

  It wasn’t. In a glorious whoosh of water that pulled around my legs, Honey and her mama circled us, once, then twice, and for one beautiful second, we could hear their clicking and squeaking.

  Then they were ten feet away, surfacing for air side by side, then twenty, and then they disappeared, indiscernible from the choppy waves in the darkening sea.

  “They thanked you,” Noah said, wonder in his voice. “Now that doesn’t happen every day.”

  I was crying with the beauty of it. Wrapped my arms around Noah and sobbed, then kissed him full on the mouth, tasting the salt of my tears and the ocean.

  “Okay, dolphin girl,” he said, pushing my wet hair off my face. “Let’s get you home.”

  * * *

  — —

  Because God obviously approved of my efforts, the power came on five minutes after we got back to the house. Pepper greeted us ecstatically, and I bent down to kiss her. “We did it! She’s back with her mommy! All because you saw her, Pepper!” I swear she knew what I meant, because she did a victory lap around the downstairs, found her squeaky possum toy and started the musical portion of our evening.

  “Go take a hot shower before you get hypothermia,” Noah said, scrubbing a hand through his wet hair. “Your lips are blue.”

  “You go take a hot shower before you get hypothermia,” I said. “You were just a Good Samaritan, whereas Pepper and I have trained for this all our lives.”

  He rolled his eyes (fondly, I thought). “Don’t be dumb, Sadie. You were out there a lot longer than I was.”

  “Warmed by my love of marine mammals, though.”

  “Get in the shower.”

  “I have to see if my phone will dry out.”

  “Forget your phone.”

  “I have to post something on social media so the world knows of my greatness.”

  “Damn you, Sadie,” he growled, and then—finally—he was on me, mouth on mine, arms around me, tongue against mine. He lifted me up on the butcher block, muttering, “I could’ve made something a lot better than this piece of crap,” before yanking open my jacket, pushing it down my arms so I was pinned. He kissed me like he was drowning, dying, and I was the only one who could save him.

  And you know, saving was kind of my thing that day, so I wrapped my legs around him and kissed him back, freeing one arm so I could grip his wet hair.

  “I have eight minutes of hot water in that tank,” I said, gasping a little. “Let’s make them count.”

  He still knew how to undress a woman with great efficiency. He could still carry me. He still had that look of intense concentration when he worked, and he still smiled during a kiss, hot water running over us, soap sliding between us. He still knew every place I loved to be touched, where I was ticklish, how to make my knees buckle.

  But he was new as well. He turned off the water when it started to cool, stepped out and wrapped me in a towel. Dried himself off fast, his six-pack rippling, his shoulders smooth and hypnotic with muscle. Then he kissed me and kissed me, sliding his hands under my ass, picked me up and carried me upstairs.

  “I’m on the Pill and passed my STD panel with flying colors,” I said as he dumped me on the bed.

  “I see your dirty talk hasn’t improved,” he said.

  “I just want you to know, I’d never take any chances with you, Noah.” I was abruptly serious. “Even if we . . . I mean, if we’re about to do this, I just wanted you to . . . feel safe.”

  He lay down on top of me, his skin so smooth and warm, still damp, his wet curls hanging around his face. “Special,” he whispered, “the last thing I feel with you is safe.”

  I didn’t know why the words were so romantic, why they wrapped around my heart and pulled.

  But they did, and when we were finally making love, finally, finally together again, I knew I was home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Barb

  The morning after the big storm, I had to take John back to Gaylord for an assessment with his team. He’d had another MRI, and they were going to go over the results with us and talk about future therapy and all that.

  Driving the hour plus to Wallingford was almost peaceful. John didn’t talk, though he’d been making more noise lately, trying to say words. And I tried to understand them, but it was tough. Sadie thought it meant a full recovery was just around the corner, but I wasn’t so sure. He seemed to check out a lot, and those words . . . I knew he wanted to tell me something, but his speech was so unclear, and the effort exhausted him.

  Poor John. I wondered if he’d have been so bad off if he hadn’t been riding his bike that day. If someone had been there and saw him fall, gotten to him sooner. If he hadn’t banged his head in addition to having the stroke. In other words, if he hadn’t been having an affair and training for a triathlon in January, maybe the stroke wouldn’t have been so bad.

  But the anger and humiliation I felt had seeped away. It’s real hard to be upset with a man who can’t cut his own food.

  I’d been awfully busy yesterday, fielding calls from people reporting power outages and downed trees, and sent the fire department out to help the Patrick family get their generator started, since Violet had a condition where she couldn’t regulate her body temperature, and if their house got cold, she’d get so cold she’d have to check into the hospital. The Fieldings lost their cat, so once the fire department was done at the Patricks’, they headed over there, and I went, too, since Juliet came over and said she’d watch her dad. I loved cats. Always wanted to get one, but John was severely allergic. We did find the sweet little thing, crouched under the car, scared of the wind.

  Aside from storm issues, there was the impending town-wide celebration for the 350th anniversary of our founding. The garden club needed more
volunteers, the auction that would raise money for college scholarships needed more donations, and half the people who’d answered the e-mail about hosting open houses hadn’t filled in their forms.

  I guess you could say I had a lot on my mind, plus John’s future. Gosh, it made me tired.

  “All right, John, we’re here,” I said, getting out of the car. I had to unbuckle him, because he couldn’t seem to grasp that one. I wished LeVon was still with Gaylord. He’d come by last week to check in and, after John had fallen asleep, stayed for a cup of tea with me. It had been so nice, talking to him again.

  It was slow going to the conference room, since John seemed to wander to the left, and I had to half tow him down the long hallway. The whole team was there—Betsy, the speech therapist; Evan, the head of physical and occupational therapy; Dr. McIntyre, the head of outpatient rehabilitation; two physiatrists. They all had iPads and folders, and I suddenly had a bad feeling in my stomach.

  “Lovely to see you again,” Dr. McIntyre said. She’d been wonderful this whole time, sometimes even calling me on the weekend to check in. We all sat around the table, and my heart started jumping like a scared rabbit.

  “So,” Dr. McIntyre said. “I’m afraid the news isn’t great, which doesn’t mean it’s horrible. John seems to have had at least two smaller strokes since the big one. That explains why his left side seems weaker than before, and why he’s struggling with mobility more than he was a month ago.”

  I put my hand over John’s, not sure what he understood. He seemed calm and unchanged. Sleepy, even. “Oh,” I said, my voice small.

  “He has made a little progress with speech,” Betsy said. “But that seems to have plateaued. He can say a few words, but he’s not putting them together in a meaningful way.”

  “Yes, I . . . I thought so, too.” Oh, gosh. This was going to hit Sadie real hard. It was hitting me, hard, too. “Um . . . the strokes. Does that mean he’ll have more?”

  Dr. McIntyre looked kind. “We’re adjusting his medications, but it’s definitely possible.”

  John was asleep now, his chin on his chest. Good. I didn’t want him to have to hear this. Know this. Oh, he looked so old, so sad!

  “He’s probably safer using the walker all the time,” Evan said. “A wheelchair for when he’s tired. You may want to look into hiring a full-time caregiver. We can give you referrals, of course.”

  “Gotcha. I . . . So he’s not . . . going to improve.” No one said anything. “Do you have any guesses on how long he’ll . . . be with us?”

  “It’s always so hard to predict,” the doctor said.

  So they weren’t going to say the words outright. “Can I have a sec?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Dr. McIntyre said. “Use the room next door.”

  I practically ran to it, closed the door and started to shake.

  So this was it, then. My husband, the once intelligent, wry attorney, was gone. He’d never talk to his grandchildren again. Sadie and Juliet wouldn’t get him back. We’d never have another night where talking was even a possibility, and suddenly, those silent nights of him watching television and me answering e-mails felt awfully precious.

  I shouldn’t have let them operate on him that day in January. I should’ve let him go, but gosh, I don’t even remember that being presented as an option.

  This was his life now. He’d just slip away, inch by inch, confused and scared and exhausted until he died. And not to put too fine a point on it, I’d be his caregiver for the rest of his life, or the rest of mine. Almost without knowing it, I pulled out my phone.

  “Caro?” I said.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” The concern in her voice brought me to tears.

  “He’s not going to get better. He’s had a couple of little strokes, and . . . and he’s not getting better.” I started to cry.

  “Oh, shit, Barb. I’m so sorry. Are you at Gaylord now?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want the girls to come, because I suspected there would be bad news. I just didn’t know it would be so . . . definite.”

  “Barb, why didn’t you call me? I would’ve come! We’re best friends, for God’s sake!”

  “I should have.”

  “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. You come home, I’ll bring dinner tonight, and wine and lots of it, and we can talk to the girls and go from there. Don’t worry, hon. We’ve got this.”

  We. A person forgot what a beautiful word that was when it had been you for so long.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Sadie

  Noah left before dawn, kissing me gently on the lips, whispering that he wanted to see Marcus before he went to work. I spent a blissful half hour dozing, Pepper by my side, before getting up to take her for a walk. There was no evidence of our dolphin rescue; the tide had erased any tracks, and the birds were nearly deafening. I felt as happy as I’d ever felt in my life.

  Grateful . . . a word made sappy by a million tacky wooden signs, yet a feeling that was so powerful. I felt as if sunbeams were shining from my skin. My dad was getting better. Noah loved me. We’d saved a baby dolphin! I had a dog! I’d painted a sunset yesterday, and the coffee was on.

  I took in a few deep breaths of the salt-kissed air, the sun warm on my face. Noticed that Noah had moved the branch that had fallen behind the car. Of course he had.

  God, I loved him. Alexander was barely a memory, though the other two women were my Facebook friends now, and we’d all shared our Alexander Breakup stories. I’d always known he was a pale shadow compared with Noah. I just hadn’t wanted to dwell on it, feeling that good enough was about all I could expect.

  Noah was amazing. He was so kind and decent and trustworthy and good in bed that he was a unicorn among men. I said a prayer of thanks that we were getting this second chance. If yesterday had shown me anything other than the fact that I loved baby dolphins, it was that I loved Noah more.

  The coffee was extra delicious this morning. I took my mug and laptop onto the porch, sat on the step and let Pepper frolic on the lawn. Checked my e-mails.

  Then I jolted upright so fast, my coffee sloshed.

  To: SadieFrost1335@gmail.com

  From: hasan@HasanSadikSoho.com

  Re: your painting at Harriet White/Darcy Cummings house

  Dear Ms. Frost,

  I was recently at a housewarming party hosted by Harriet and Darcy in Brooklyn. They showed me your incredible painting, knowing I have a special interest in emerging artists. I was able to obtain your e-mail from their interior decorator.

  I would be very interested in talking with you about showing in my SoHo gallery this coming fall and perhaps, if you’d be so kind, having the chance to see your portfolio. Is there any possibility you are available to meet? I am desperately hoping you don’t have exclusive contracts elsewhere.

  The very best to you,

  Hasan

  Hasan Sadik SoHo

  29 Walker Street, New York, NY 10013

  I reread the e-mail four times.

  I’d been to that gallery. It was one of those galleries. The “I can make your career in one show” galleries. Aneni had had a show there, during which time a curator for the Guggenheim had bought one of her paintings. The Guggenheim!

  In fact, Hasan Sadik SoHo was the gallery where I’d tried to explain to Noah why my skyscape paintings were touristy drivel and not true art.

  And now the owner—Hasan Sadik himself—was desperately hoping I was free to show at his place. Just like that, a chance came out of the clear blue sky.

  This could make my career. Every dream I’d ever had about art reared up and hugged me tight.

  All I had to do was bang out some more Georgia O’Keeffe–type work, using the same kinds of touches I’d used on the vagina painting to make it clear that it wasn’t just a knockoff and . . . and . . .

  Shi
t. I’d be established. I’d be that New York artist, discovered after teaching Catholic school for years and years and making paintings that matched upholstery. It was a great story!

  I needed to get to work. Mom had Dad at Gaylord today, so my schedule was clear.

  I took a few deep breaths and, hands shaking, wrote back to Hasan Sadik, saying I’d love to meet with him and was a great admirer of his gallery. Kept it short and sweet, and nearly fainted when he wrote back immediately, offering to send a car to pick me up, and perhaps we could also have lunch? And did I have an agent he should be including in these e-mails?

  I’ll be in touch in the next day or two, I wrote, too overwhelmed at the moment, and afraid I’d say something stupid. Thank you so much for your interest.

  Thank God I’d taken down my website years ago so he couldn’t see all my previous attempts to be artistic and unique (or read my idiotic bio where I mentioned Robert Frost). I pulled up some images of Georgia O’Keeffe’s work and printed out a couple for inspiration. Somewhere in one of my unpacked boxes was a juicy coffee table book on her flower paintings. Which box was it, dang it?

  Listen. All work was derivative. It wasn’t like I was doing anything that hadn’t been done a million times before. I found the book, flipped through it and settled on a white rose, the oriental poppies and an iris.

  A chance like this did not come around very often. I’d be an idiot to turn it aside. “Mommy’s going to be a famous artist,” I told Pepper, who nuzzled my hand encouragingly. “Let’s get to work, shall we?” I set aside my sunset painting from yesterday, got a couple of canvases out of the closet, and started working, ignoring the little voice in the back of my head that was telling me to slow down.

  I painted all day. Noah texted, asking me if I wanted to come to his house that evening, and I told him yes, I had some really exciting news and couldn’t wait to see him, but had to have dinner at my mom’s first to talk about Dad’s progress.