Always the Last to Know(68)

It would be nice to like my mother as much as other people did. Then again, they didn’t get the side of her I did—the slightly irritated, impatient, better-things-to-do mother who already had a perfect daughter and couldn’t be bothered with me. She had a knack for peeing on everything I liked or did in ways both subtle and obvious and then wondered why I didn’t seek her out the way Juliet did. It was exhausting.

I took a deep breath and went back to the dining room. I bet my dad missed being in a proper bedroom. Pepper was still curled at his side, looking like a giant cinnamon bun, snoring gently. My father’s eyes were open. “Hey, Dad,” I said. “Mom’s driving me crazy, but what else is new, right?”

He glanced at me, looking blank, and my eyes filled. “It’s me, Dad. Sadie. You know who I am, right?”

I thought his expression softened a little. “Of course you do. I’m your daughter, and I love you.” Pepper’s tail wagged, beating on the bed. “And my little doggy loves you, too. Right, Pepper?”

“Do you need help?”

Noah. I wiped my eyes before turning. “Sure. Thanks.” He came closer, and his hair was extra curly. Must’ve just washed it. Not that I was thinking about Noah in the shower or anything. I cleared my throat. “Hey, I’m sorry my mom invited your . . . um, Gillian.”

“Why?”

“Because it might be awkward for you.”

“It’s not. She’s a good person.” There was already an edge in his voice.

“I’m sure she is.”

“Is it awkward for you?”

“Of course not! Why would it be? I’m great! How’s the baby, by the way? And Mickey’s still nursing? Is it going well?”

He gave me a pained look. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“I will do so.” Blathering like an idiot yet again, and over my father’s balding head. “Come on, Dad. Time for dinner.” Noah took one of his arms, and I took the other.

“Whose dog is this?” Noah asked.

“Mine. Pepper, meet Noah. Noah, this is my puppy, Pepper.”

She licked his face, and he laughed.

Oh, that laugh. That sooty, low scraping laugh. A hundred memories of Noah laughing flashed through my head—hearing it in high school, turning to see him smiling at me, the two of us walking to get coffee, his big, strong hand holding mine, or best of all, in bed, his skin warm against mine, that soft, tangled black hair framing his face.

Yep.

Pepper was going to town on him, lucky thing, and he picked her up and set her on the floor. “Okay, Mr. Frost, one, two, three. There you go.”

Together, we helped Dad get his walker and come into the kitchen.

It was really, really unfortunate that my boyfriend was stuck in traffic. I could use an ally to fight these memories before I fell in love with Noah Pelletier all over again.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE





Juliet


Juliet Frost had seduction on her mind, which was hard enough since she was in her mother’s house with her brain-damaged father, her yappy sister and about six other people.

But sex with Oliver was on her list of things to do tonight, and she owed him some sparkly time. She sipped the wine she’d brought and smiled hard.

Knowing that her father had had an affair had shaken her to the roots. That her father—her father, that steadiest of men, married for fifty years—could have an affair made her feel that every second Oliver was not in view, he, too, could be screwing some other woman, or thinking about it, or flirting or looking or . . . or smelling some other woman.

Perhaps she should lay off the wine.

Which wouldn’t calm her fears. Oliver had never once indicated anything but happiness in their marriage, but it happened. Half of marriages ended in divorce! Half! Why were she and Ollie any better than anyone else? She’d spent half her workday Googling “why do men have affairs?” It happens even in the best marriages, the literature said darkly.

So it could happen to them. Had she and Oliver fought? Of course. About stupid things, like . . . well, like the time she had to leave vacation early because of a work crisis a few years ago. The time he broke her favorite mug, because even though she told him it was fragile and special to her, he handled dishes as if he didn’t have opposable thumbs. The way he let Brianna get away with things when Juliet tried to lay down the law. But they’d never spoken about unhappiness or a lack of love. Never. They’d never raised their voices to each other. Never.

Mom and Dad had never fought, either.

So reminding Oliver that she was a desirable woman who loved sex and was spontaneous and adventuresome, especially after she hadn’t been able to kiss him for the past three days, thanks to those stupid injections . . . that was on her list. As was coming to this party, because Mom was utterly heroic, doing all this, trying to get people around Dad. (God. If she only knew.)

Juliet had dressed up for this evening, which Mom always appreciated, and wore a stretchy white dress that required a serious bra, which currently seemed to be intent on embedding itself in her rib cage. Three-inch red suede heels she hadn’t worn in years. A thong for the planned seduction. A thong that may or may not have worked itself into her lower intestine.

Sparkly. Sparkly. She had to be sparkly. She’d talked to everyone here tonight—the event planner Mom thought so highly of, Noah, Mickey Watkins, Ted, Caro, Sadie’s friend from the city, who was very nice. She’d held little Marcus. Endured Sadie’s predictions of a full recovery for their father. If only Sadie knew. God. That would kill her, knowing their dad had had an affair. The two of them had always been so close. Dad had never paid too much interest in Juliet. Not that she resented it. Much. Anymore.