Always the Last to Know(117)

Life was good. She and Oliver were better than ever, and that was saying something. The girls were wonderful, even if Brianna was still sulky and hormonal, and Sloane would probably go through that, too. Mom was going to have an easier life when Dad went to Rose Hill, and Dad . . . well, she hadn’t forgiven her father. Maybe she never would. Maybe some things shouldn’t be forgiven.

But being angry was too great a burden to carry, and Juliet felt it slip away, there in the warm sunshine of the May evening. She owned her own business. She and Arwen would find a new partner. She loved her husband and daughters, mother and sister. There would be grief and loss and conflict ahead, and she’d get through it all.

She was her mother’s girl, after all.





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE





Sadie


Joy. That was the word my father had given me, pulled with such effort from the depths of his heart and mind. I knew it was his way of telling me I’d brought him joy, and yet, I’d been thinking it might have been more, too.

Maybe . . . maybe it was advice.

Ever since I left Stoningham at eighteen, I’d been looking for that moment when everything in my life came together the way I dreamed it would. It never had, though, had it? I liked teaching quite a bit, loved my little students, St. Catherine’s, loved New York with all its treasures, felt a bit of pride that my couch paintings paid the bills. I’d created a good-enough life in New York. A solid life, a happy life.

But joy was a different animal, wasn’t it?

Joy was a quiet night watching the sunset, stroking Pepper’s silky ears, laughing at her antics. Joy was painting those damn skies. Talking with my nieces. Taking care of my dad. Sending my mom and sister to Boston. Joy was that moment when the dolphin and her mama had swum around my legs before speeding out to sea. Joy was walking through the streets of New York looking up, always up, at the beautiful architecture, the sky, breathing in the smell of the city, listening to the constant song of traffic and languages and feeling that surge of life, all that life, swirling around me.

Joy was being with Noah, from the first time I’d seen him with that beautiful baby strapped to his chest, to irritating him as he fixed my furnace, to walking through a shower of cherry blossoms with him, to finally kissing him again.

But as much as I loved Noah Pelletier, the fact remained that I didn’t want the life he did. I didn’t really know what life I did want, even now. A little of everything, whereas Noah wanted a lot of one thing. He wanted home, a partner who was always there, more kids, and who could blame him? Those were nice, good things to want.

I was pretty sure I didn’t want those things. Oh, I loved my nieces, loved little Marcus even, loved hearing Mickey talk about the horrors and wonders of motherhood. But in my heart of hearts, I wasn’t sure it was for me. My mother had once called me a butterfly, flitting to whatever bright thing caught my attention, and she wasn’t wrong.

I just wasn’t sure how to make a life around being a butterfly. I mean, those things didn’t live real long, did they?

A few days after my meeting in New York, I went to the hardware store for some more plastic to patch up another hole in my roof. I turned down the aisle and there was Noah, studying a drill bit. He did a quick double take when he saw me.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.” My insides flooded with heat, my heart pulsing with that beautiful scarlet red only he could incite.

“How was New York?”

“Oh . . . it was . . . it didn’t work out. My stuff wasn’t what he was looking for.”

“Then he’s an idiot.”

I snorted a little. “An idiot with a lot of influence.”

He just looked at me a minute. “I’m sorry, Sadie.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s nothing I haven’t heard a hundred times before. Two hundred. Five, maybe. Anyway. How are you?”

“Good.”

That seemed to be all. “Well,” I said. “Nice to see you. Love you.” Shit. “I do. I mean, you know that. Anyway. Have a good day.”

I left before I made things worse, and went to see my dad.

He hadn’t spoken again since that day. It was awfully hard, finally admitting he was the man in front of me, in a place I couldn’t reach or see. Maybe he’d have another breakthrough, but I had a feeling he was done.

Rose Hill had space for him in their new wing. It was only a half hour away. Still, the tears slid down my face. I’d visit a lot.

“I’m thinking about staying in Stoningham, Dad,” I said. His expression didn’t change. “Maybe I can get a teaching job up here. Keep doing my couch paintings, pop down to the city once in a while, keep the apartment on Airbnb. I don’t know. Maybe not Stoningham, since it would be hard to see Noah, you know? Maybe Mystic or Old Lyme.”

I sighed. Even talking to myself, I couldn’t make up my mind.

Hasan had told me what I’d always known. Those skyscapes weren’t all that special. Not to the New York art world. Any first-year art student could do them. They weren’t even that hard, technically speaking.

“I’m not that good as an artist, Dad,” I told him, and tears filled my eyes. He didn’t answer, but I wedged myself in the chair against him and put my head on his shoulder. His arm came around me, just like old times, but for once—for the first time since his stroke—I didn’t look for more. Sometimes an arm around you is all you need.