Always the Last to Know(34)

Juliet wiped her eyes and let Oliver kiss her on the cheek. They ate dinner, and since it was late, went to bed, where they made love, tenderly and quietly, since Brianna had ears like a bat. “I love you, sweetheart,” he whispered just before he fell asleep.

“I love you, too,” she said, but the words almost made her cry.

Her father loved her mother, once. Now look.

Ten minutes later, Oliver sound asleep, Jules got out of bed, put on her bathrobe and went to her study. Googled “why do married men cheat?”

All the clichés were true. Boredom. Trying to reclaim lost youth. Not getting enough at home. The thrill of the chase. Lack of communication.

The hard fact was, if someone wanted to cheat, they could. If someone wanted a divorce, he or she could just end things. I don’t want to be married anymore. Well, not to you. And just like that, your carefully built life would crumble.

Juliet’s mother had built a life so carefully. She had always put the family first, and Dad had reaped those benefits. The beautiful home, the respect of the community, Juliet and Sadie themselves, and now, by extension, Oliver, Brianna and Sloane. She saw how hard her mother tried—she’d always seen it. Cooking lovely meals, the house always a haven, trying to make conversation with topics such as “tell me the happiest thing that happened to you today” at dinnertime. She remembered her parents taking ballroom dancing classes, going to Scotland, learning about wine.

So if Barb couldn’t pull it off, who could?

Oliver was perpetually happy, and not tremendously empathetic to people who weren’t, always a little confused as to why they didn’t just shrug off what they couldn’t control and focus on the positive.

Which made it hard to talk to him about difficult, complicated matters like her parents. Or Arwen, since he said things like, “Sounds like you picked a winner in that one!” or “That’s bloody fabulous for her!” missing the point entirely.

It was hard to talk about the fact that Brianna made her feel sad and tired these days, and not liking her own child made her feel small and mean. She couldn’t say out loud that she liked Sloane better, and she couldn’t discuss the fear that Brianna would be able to tell, the same way Sadie knew Juliet was the favorite, and this was karma getting Juliet back for being their mom’s favorite.

And now, it would be hard to talk about the creeping terror that if her father could somehow justify cheating on her mother, Oliver would see his point.





CHAPTER TWELVE





Barb


I hadn’t wanted another child. I was too old. My husband and I were both too old to have another child. It was absurd. We had one, and she was—forgive me—perfect.

Juliet had been that way since birth. Since conception, to be honest, because I hadn’t had one day of nausea or swelling or heartburn. And my body was miraculous. I could do everything she needed—nurse her, soothe her, intuitively know when she was about to wake up at night, or when she was coming down with a cold.

She was a happy, healthy, beautiful baby, speaking in full sentences by her first birthday, smiling, a good sleeper. She began reading at three. She was a friend to all her classmates, especially those who seemed to need a little more—the boy who wet his pants every day in kindergarten, or the girl who had a speech impediment. Teacher after teacher told me she was exceptional.

She was Mommy’s girl. John loved her, of course—who wouldn’t?—but he worked more during her childhood. He switched from family law to regulatory compliance, which required him to travel out of state once or twice a week. Sometimes, he’d stay overnight or come home very late, and I loved those mother-daughter nights.

Juliet was the purpose that had been missing in my life, because marriage wasn’t enough, and work had been a placeholder for me. Our house and my role in town were just to prepare the way for Juliet. I was born to be her mother, and we lived in a beautiful world built by the two of us. I made sure she got enough fresh air, taking her for walks every day, first in the pram, then holding her hand. We took our big canvas tote to the library and filled it with books, even when she was tiny, and I read to her for hours. I made nutritious meals and snacks, way ahead of the curve regarding organic, locally sourced food. I chose my words carefully, always explaining to her why she shouldn’t touch something rather than just “because I said so.” Even my voice changed, and my flat upper-midwestern accent morphed into the blander, more cultured Connecticut non-accent.

Every day was bliss. It truly was.

John faded into the background. I never hired a babysitter. Every few years, John’s mother would visit from Seattle, where they’d retired, and spend a week with us. Eleanor would urge John and me to go out, and we would, but I was anxious, never able to relax the way I sensed I was supposed to. I only wanted to be home with my precious, wonderful daughter. The very word was magical. My mother-in-law deserved a little time alone with her, though, so I did it.

Home, our gracious, warm, inviting home, was made more perfect because of Juliet. Her artwork hung on the fridge, and I couldn’t seem to take enough photos of her. Her room was a delightful chaos of books and stuffed animals and projects. I turned one of the extra bedrooms into her own library, filling it with books she had loved, did love, would love. Oh, the happy hours we spent there, reading together!

My parents visited only once (we bought them tickets, but even so, you’d think they were being sent to a work camp in Outer Mongolia). They’d never seen the house before, and all my mother had to say was, “Aren’t you the fancy-pants now?” My father commented that I “fawned over” Juliet, and maybe I could send some money Elaine’s way, since I liked to flash it around so much. Who needed a house with five bedrooms when you had one single kid?