Always the Last to Know(32)

“Uh . . . uh . . . I’ll have a martini,” she said. Her heart was pounding. “Dry, three olives. Chopin, please.”

Her father was having an affair.

She sank back into her seat and pulled out her phone, thinking she’d call her mom right away. No. No, not Mom. Oliver. He was calm. He’d know what to do.

“All right, darling?” he said, which was his customary greeting.

“I . . . I just saw my father kissing another woman.”

There was a moment of silence. “You must be mistaken, love. John Frost, with a bit on the side? I rather doubt it.”

“Oliver. I just saw him outside the restaurant where I’m having lunch.”

There was a pause. “Was it a joke?”

“No!” she said, though she’d been thinking the same thing. “His tongue was down her throat! His hand was on her ass!” She glanced around apologetically, lowering her voice.

“That’s . . . astonishing,” he said.

“I know!”

“Deep breaths, my love,” he said. “Christ, if this is true, I’m gobsmacked.”

Arwen walked in the door, wearing a white dress that fit her perfectly, black stilettos, and a huge wonking single pearl on a gold strand. Bright red purse. Heads turned, as they always did for Arwen. “I have to go,” she said to Oliver.

“Love you, darling. Ring me later.”

“Juliet. So sorry I’m late.” Arwen bent down and kissed Juliet on either cheek. Weird, since they’d seen each other in the office two hours ago. Probably some body language domination trick.

“No worries. It’s fine. It’s fine.”

Arwen tipped her head. “You sure? You look upset.”

There was that tremor of fear. “I’m great,” Juliet said, adjusting her posture.

“Your martini, madam.” The server set it down. “And for you, miss?”

“Perrier, please. Unless you feel uncomfortable drinking alone, Juliet. Alcohol makes me sleepy, so I never drink at lunch.”

Fuck. Alcohol made Juliet sleepy, too. She’d already lost this pissing match. “No. I’m fine. I . . . ” I just saw my father snogging another woman. “I’m good. It’s nice to see you, especially since we had to miss last month’s lunch.”

“How long do they go on, these mentorship meetings?” Arwen asked. The implication was clear. She no longer needed or desired them.

“We never set a formal policy, but generally, three years,” Juliet said, making it up on the spot. The truth was, all her previous hires loved going out with her, viewing it as special time with the likely next partner of DJK. “How are you? How are things?”

“Excellent.” She took her nonalcoholic drink from the server and nodded thanks, looking both elegant and warm at the same time. Juliet could feel the sweat breaking out under her arms. Her face was still flushed. Arwen took a sip of water and tilted her head. “Pardon me for asking a personal question, Juliet, but are you having a hot flash?”

Fuck you. “No,” Juliet said, trying to laugh. “I’m forty-three. A little young for that.”

“My mom started when she was your age.” A sympathetic smile.

“Well, my mom had a baby at my age.”

“Really? Are you planning to have another?”

You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Me on maternity leave. “No, no. Two is just fine. Wonderful. The best.”

Her father was having an affair. Would her parents get a divorce? A sudden lump rose in her throat. She took a drink of the vodka, its burn welcome. “Tell me about the stadium project. Ian said there was some confusion on ADA compliance.”

“No. He was mistaken.” She smiled. “It’s going beautifully, and even a little bit ahead of schedule. Now. What shall we order?”



* * *



— —

When Juliet got home that night, she was exhausted and wired at the same time. Oliver had fed the girls already, and Sloane was in bed, Brianna doing homework (i.e., messaging her friends).

“I’ve got a lovely big martini ready when you are,” he said. “Salmon, couscous and brussels sprouts, with a fat slab of chocolate cake I picked up at Sweetie Pies just for you.”

“You’re amazing,” Juliet said. “I’ll go say good night to the girls and be right back.”

Sloane was already sleepy, her Patronus being an elderly cat who slept and liked to be petted. “How’s my girl?” Juliet asked, sitting on the edge of her bed, stroking Sloane’s silky hair.

“I’m good, Mommy. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” There was that lump again. What would the girls say if their grandparents divorced? Oliver’s mother lived in London, and while she was fabulous and descended with gifts once or twice a year, it wasn’t the same. Oliver’s dad had died when he was twelve.

Sloane and Brianna saw their Frost grandparents at least three times a week.

Shit.

“Do you want me to sing your good-night song?” she asked.

“No, Daddy already did. He makes up funny rhymes.” She smiled sweetly. Yes. Oliver did everything better than she did.

“Okay. Sleep tight, little one,” she said, kissing Sloane on the forehead, nose and lips. Soon, if she were like her sister, Sloane wouldn’t want kisses anymore and would say things like, “Did you brush your teeth today?” and slice away at Juliet’s heart, one translucent layer at a time.