Always the Last to Know(110)

“Yes! If it made his life better, you’re damn right I would.”

“And would you stick him in one?”

Ha. I had her there. She looked away, conceding defeat, and I got into the car and backed out of the driveway, heading for Noah’s.

Those doctors were wrong. Dad was clearly getting better. They didn’t spend as much time with him as I did. I mean, seriously. When was the last time they’d even seen him?

I was crying, and crying while driving was not safe. I pulled over and let myself bawl a little. Two more strokes? When? Yes, he’d been a little . . . wandery lately, listing off to the left, but . . . but . . . the idea that I’d never have the old Dad back was intolerable.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. My father was getting better, and . . . and I didn’t know what else, but that had to be true. It had to be.

I hadn’t been to Noah’s house since I came back. I knew the address well, though; it was his parents’ old house—Mom had told me years ago that the elder Pelletiers had moved to Ottawa, where Noah’s grandmother lived.

The Pelletier home was in one of Stoningham’s quiet little areas, the houses shaded by big maples whose branches wove together above the street as if the trees were holding hands. The sidewalk was pleasantly uneven from their roots.

I ran a hand through my hair and looked at my face in the rearview mirror. Red eyes, blotchy face. Another deep breath. Seeing Noah would make me feel better. He’d put things in perspective.

As you might expect, since both he and his father were carpenters, Noah’s house was lovely. It was white, with a wide front porch, two stories. It had changed quite a bit since I was here: bigger windows, a new front door, the garage resembling a barn now. There was a baby swing hanging from a branch in the crab apple tree in the front yard.

It was a house for a family, that was for sure. Not like my crooked little place.

I knocked on the door, wishing I’d thought to bring something.

Mickey answered. “Hey! Heard you two got it on last night.”

I couldn’t help a smile. “Wow. He spilled, did he?”

“Well, we agreed that if one of us was in a relationship, the other should know. Well done. He looks very happy. Come on in. He’s giving Marcus a bath.”

The house was beautiful—different from when I was here last, when Noah and I were still hanging on to the threads of our relationship. Back in the day, Mrs. Pelletier would pop out of her study—she’d been a science editor for a news organization—and tell me to help myself to whatever was in the fridge. The floor plan was now open and bright, wide oak planks having replaced the beige carpeting. Ridiculously tidy, with sturdy furniture, and all the beautiful touches you’d expect from a carpenter. Cabinets with glass panes, a beautiful mantelpiece, built-in bookcases.

I followed Mickey toward the kitchen, then jolted to a stop.

There, on the stair landing, was the painting I’d made for him when I was sixteen years old. The one he’d refused to give up for Gillian.

Just a blue sky with soft, golden clouds.

No. There was nothing “just” about it. I hadn’t seen that painting in years, and it hit me. The sky was cerulean, the clouds lit with gold and edged with Noah-red. The sun had been just about to rise that day, and I’d painted the sky from memory, not a photo. I could almost see the clouds drifting past on the soft breeze and hear the birds, feel the damp air of the early morning and smell the muffins baking at Sweetie Pies. I’d ridden my bike out to watch, to the bridge near where I now lived, in fact, and with all that young love in my heart, made this painting for Noah.

It was so beautiful.

“In here,” Mickey called.

I snapped myself out of my reverie and went into the kitchen, which was cobalt blue and white. “Did the photographers just leave?” I asked. “Seriously. What man has a white kitchen?”

“I know. I can’t wait till Marcus starts walking and his grubby little hands turn everything gray. I’ll feel less inferior then. I’m not quite the housekeeper Noah is. When are you going to come over to my place, by the way? Tonight would work, since it’s Noah’s night with the little prince. Hang on, you probably want to nail the carpenter, right? See what I did there?” She laughed. “Don’t scar my kid. Then again, Marcus does sleep through everything. Even that storm yesterday. So if you two were going to fool around—”

“Yeah, okay, let’s change the subject. Speaking of the storm, did Noah tell you about the dolphin?”

“Is that a euphemism for penis or something? Want a beer or some wine or whatever he has?”

“Yes to wine, and no, a real dolphin.” I sat at the kitchen table and told her the story.

“My God! You rock, kid,” she said. “You both do. A fricking dolphin!”

“Thanks. In this case, I’d have to agree with you.” I took a sip of wine. “Where do you live, Mickey?”

“Right next door.”

“Oh, my gosh, how perfect.”

“Yeah. No point in making life harder on the kid, right? So if you two are gonna get married, we should probably have a serious talk, don’t you think?”

“Marriage is not currently being discussed.”

“But you’re gonna get there eventually, right?”

“Uh . . . how long do baths usually take?”