Always the Last to Know(45)

For once, there was no hostility or subtext. “Well. Good night, Mom,” Sadie said. She went upstairs, the sixth stair creaking reliably, just like it had when she used to sneak out to meet Noah Pelletier.

I sat down next to John. “You used her birthday so you could text your mistress in secret,” I whispered. “How do you think she’d feel about that, her perfect dad having an affair? I was in labor with her for two and a half days, John Frost. How dare you use her birthday?”

He didn’t answer, as he was asleep. “You know, if you’d asked me for a divorce, I’d have burst into song, mister. I would’ve said yes so fast, it would’ve given you whiplash. But no. It was more fun to sneak around, I guess. Maybe you were never going to divorce me. After all, I’m a darn good housekeeper, aren’t I?”

God! I couldn’t bear it. I hated him, this man I once loved. Once, I’d felt so lucky that he’d married me. I’d taken such pride in the life we’d made. The old love, dusty from neglect, was still there, and yet, the knowledge of his affair was a corrosive acid, eating away at it.

“I’m going to meet your lover,” I said. “I’ll report back. Tiger.”

I got up and then sat back down, fast and furious. “I tried, John. I made room for you right until you had the nerve to be surprised that I won that election. Not once did you say, ‘Good job, Barb,’ or ‘I’m proud of you.’ Not once in this entire year! Instead, you found an idiotic woman who can’t even spell, because why, exactly? I wasn’t good enough? Because I had the nerve to get older? Maybe this stroke is exactly what you deserved.”

Tears spurted out of my eyes. Oh, the fury. Sometimes it felt exactly like grief.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN





Sadie


My mom, who thought she knew everything, was irritatingly correct about the little house for sale.

It had a leaking roof, one tiny bathroom on the first floor with a rusting iron tub and no shower, two bedrooms, one of which was too small to fit a twin bed (so they called it a bedroom because . . . ?) and floors that sloped so much, a marble would roll from one end of the house to the other. The kitchen was outfitted with harvest-gold appliances and Ikea’s cheapest cabinets. One cupboard gaped open like a loose tooth. The kitchen was big enough for maybe four people, and the living room had stained beige carpeting and drafty windows. There was no garage, and the basement was made from stone and had a dirt floor and evidence of a recent squirrel rager, based on the litter and tiny little footprints in the dust on the workbench.

We went outside and walked around the . . . well, the structure. It wasn’t quite a house just yet. Juliet closed her eyes and shook her head.

“I’ll take it,” I told Ellen, the real estate agent.

“Seriously?” she said. “I mean, great! It’s a . . . unique property.”

It was.

“You’re an idiot,” Juliet said, tilting her head to squint at the house. It did look straighter that way. “Looks like it’ll collapse in a strong wind.”

“Ah, what do you know? You’re just an architect. By the way, do you do any pro bono work?”

She smiled a little, which was nice to see. Jules hadn’t smiled much since Dad’s stroke. She did have a point about the building in front of us. But I was one of the few people in Connecticut who viewed an eleven-hundred-square-foot house as spacious, and if there was another house I could afford in Stoningham before I won Powerball, it was invisible, like Wonder Woman’s plane.

“I’ll draw up the papers,” said Ellen, getting into her car before my sanity was restored.

“You can live with me, you know,” Juliet said.

“We’d kill each other. It might scar the girls, seeing their mother and aunt lying in pools of blood.”

“True. Well, you have a nice view, I’ll give you that.”

“That’s why I bought it,” I said, turning around to look out to sea, like the wife of a sea captain from long ago. Or like a regular person who enjoyed pleasant views. Because the view was incredible. The house, teetering though it may have been, was on what had become a nature preserve, which meant it couldn’t be expanded or torn down for a rebuild (which is what would’ve happened in a heartbeat otherwise, and a grotesque “cottage” would sit here now). Ten years ago, a monster storm had devastated this area, and none but this house had survived. The owner died in the fall, and the market for tiny, decrepit houses was soft, so I was in luck.

“You haven’t signed anything yet,” Juliet said. “It’s my professional opinion that you shouldn’t. I happen to know a few things about buildings, Sadie. This is a money pit.”

“I enjoyed us getting along for ten minutes,” I said.

“Seriously. You’ll regret this. I can loan you some money for a rental if you need it. A rental with a flushing toilet and everything.”

“I’m only staying in Stoningham till Dad gets better, and I’m not working. I’ll spruce this place up, slap on some paint and sell it at a profit.”

“Stop watching HGTV. It’s all make-believe.” She sighed and looked at me critically, as our mother taught her. “Hard to believe you have enough money for anything more than a paper bag.”