Always the Last to Know
Kristan Higgins
Acknowledgments
At Berkley, my profound gratitude to my brilliant editor, Claire Zion, for her keen eye and big heart, and to the rest of the brilliant Berkley team: Ivan, Christine, Jeanne-Marie, Craig, Erin, Diana, Bridget, Jin, Angela, Anthony and every single person in art, sales and marketing.
To my agent, Maria Carvainis, who has shaped my career with dedication, enthusiasm and an unwavering eye on the future, thank you, Madame.
Thank you to Mel Jolly, for always remembering what I forget and knowing what I don’t, and for being a lovely person in addition to all that. Thanks to my funny, smart, hardworking intern, Madison Terrill, for her innovation and insight these past two summers.
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I had no idea what this book was about until I slipped off to Cape Cod in the cold winter and hid for a month, just me, my laptop and my good dog. Thanks to the owner who rented her beautiful house to me; to Luther, the most loyal and sweetest dog, who kept me company and got me outside for walks every day; to Ivan of the Red Sox hat and gold tooth, who helped save a dolphin with me that blustery, cold day, and to the marine wildlife rescuers who actually knew what they were doing, and again to Ivan for driving Luther and me home, even though I was sopping wet and covered in sand.
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Thanks and love to my sister, Hilary Higgins Murray, who listens so well and showed me how to fix all the problems with one word—amputate. Who knew? She did!
To Laura Francis, my town’s first selectman, for helping me understand just how much there is to do in a small town; To the folks at Gaylord Specialty Hospital, for the information they provided on stroke and brain injury; To Stacia Bjarnason, for her time, insight, friendship and laughter;
To Jackie Decker, sister of my heart, for her insider information about painting and art;
To Terence Keenan, the love of my life and my best friend, all in one rather adorable package;
To Flannery and Declan, who are such remarkable, wonderful people and fill my heart with love every single day; And thank you, readers, for the gift of your time.
CHAPTER ONE
Sadie
You’re engaged? Oh! Uh . . . huzzah!”
Yes. I had just said huzzah.
You know what? I couldn’t blame myself. Another engagement among the teachers of St. Catherine’s Catholic Elementary School in the Bronx. The fifth this year, and yes, I was counting.
I couldn’t look away from the diamond blinding me from the finger of Bridget Ennis. The stone was the size of a bumblebee, and my hypnotized eyes followed her hand as she waved it in excitement, telling the rest of us teachers—six women, one man—about how romantic, how unexpected, how thrilling it had been.
I had nothing against Bridget. I even liked her. I’d mentored her, because this was her first year teaching. She was twenty-three as of last week; I was ancient at thirty-two (or so it felt in teacher years). It had been raining diamond rings, and despite my having had bubbly hopes on my own last birthday, the fourth finger of my left hand remained buck naked.
Bridget was talking about save-the-date magnets and paper quality and color schemes and flower arrangements and the seventy-nine dresses she was already torn between. Another woman falling victim to wedding insanity. Bridget was the only child of wealthy parents. This did not bode well for me, her sort-of friend. Was it too late to distance myself? Please don’t ask me to be a bridesmaid. Please. Please. I am way too old for this shit.
“My daddy said whatever I want, and I want it to be perfect, you know?” Bridget looked at me, and I felt the cold trickle of dread. “Sadie, obviously I want you as a bridesmaid.” Her pure green eyes filled with happy tears.
Oh, the fuckery of it all.
“Of course!” I said. “Thank you! What an honor!” My cheek began to twitch as I smiled.
“And you, Nina! And you, Vanessa! And of course, Jay’s three sisters and my gals from Kappa Kappa Gamma. And my cousin, because she’s like a sister to me. Do you like violet? Or cornflower? Off the shoulder, I was thinking, but I think my dress might be off the shoulder and . . .” I stopped listening as she began speaking in tongues intelligible only to those addicted to Say Yes to the Dress.
This was not my first time around the bridesmaid block. Bridget’s would be my sixth stint, and I knew what was coming. Engagement party. Bridal shower. Dress shopping for Bridget. Dress shopping for me and the other eleventeen bridesmaids. A lingerie shower. A household goods shower. Meeting(s) of the families. Bachelorette weekend in some city that caters to large groups of drunken people—New Orleans or Vegas or Savannah, which meant a flight and hotel. Rehearsal dinner. The wedding itself. Brunch the next day. All with or without Alexander Mitchum, my boyfriend, who had not yet proposed, despite his references to a future together, his onetime question about if I’d think about changing my last name from Frost to Mitchum—“hypothetically,” he’d added—and the deliberate slowing of my footsteps whenever we passed Cartier on Fifth Avenue.
“You don’t have to say yes, idiot,” came a low voice next to me. Carter Demming, my best friend at St. Catherine’s.
“She’s sweet,” I murmured back.
“Oh, please. Let her sorority sisters be her bridesmaids. Show some dignity for your age.”