Always the Last to Know(70)

Dad grabbed her hand and kissed it. Jesus. How nice for Mom. Had he slept with Janet while at Gaylord? Probably not, but still. Cheating asshole.

“You,” he repeated.

His first word since the stroke, and it wasn’t even directed at a family member, the bastard. Why put family first when he’d had his tongue down some other woman’s throat? When he didn’t even have the decency to divorce Mom before cheating on her? That slut should be the one stuck with him now.

Forty-three years old, and feeling like Brianna, sullen and judgmental and wishing she could kick a sick old man. Not a proud moment. She poured herself more wine and drank it, grateful that tomorrow was the weekend.



* * *



— —

    An hour later, Sadie was still happily snuffling her tears of joy. Mom had called LeVon, who said this was a very good sign, and Caro had gotten Janet a plate and heated it up in the microwave. Janet was talking about her brother’s progress at Rose Hill, a care facility north of Stoningham. Noah was holding his sleeping baby, Mickey was in the bathroom, Gillian was subtly texting someone for help, no doubt, and Juliet was drunk.

That was when the vacuous waste of space known as her sister’s boyfriend walked in.

“Our yacht salesman is here! The man of the people has arrived!” Juliet announced.

“Hon,” Oliver said in a low voice, “I think you should tone it down a little.”

“Why? He’s three hours late.”

Sadie got up and hugged him, but not before shooting a look at Noah. “Honey! You made it. Guess what? My father spoke tonight! He recognized Janet!”

“And who’s Janet?” he said. “Mrs. Frost, I’m so sorry I’m late.”

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” she said. “Do you know everyone? This is Janet, our friend from Gaylord, and Noah and Mickey and their little boy, and this is Gillian, a friend of mine.”

“Hello. Nice to meet you,” Alexander said, smiling blandly.

“We’ve met, actually,” Gillian said. “I organized the yacht christening in Clinton last fall. The Parkers?”

“Oh, right!” he said, clearly not recognizing her. “Small world.”

Mickey came in, still buckling her pants. “How long did it take for your period to get back to normal after you had babies, Juliet?” she asked.

“Nope. Not gonna talk periods at a dinner party,” she answered.

“Thank you!” said Alexander, and Juliet rolled her eyes.

Bad idea. The room was starting to spin a little. “Let’s go home and get naked,” she whispered to Oliver. He gave her a look that did not say great idea.

Perhaps she had been a little loud.

Gillian stood up. “I should go. This has been . . . yes! Thank you, Barb. I’ll be in touch. So good to see everyone.”

Poor thing. “Sorry!” Juliet called. “We’re usually better company than this.”

“I’m taking you home,” Oliver murmured.

“I should stay and clean up.”

“No, you should come home and sleep it off. Come on. Mum, thank you. We have to get going.” They muttered a minute, talking about her, no doubt.

As soon as they were in the car, Oliver said, “What on earth is going on with you?” His voice was sharp.

“Um . . . nothing?”

“You were really off tonight.”

“Why?”

“You’re pissed, for one.”

“You know what, Oliver? It’s kind of hard to see my father like this. Then he recognizes that woman? Not me, not Sadie, and God forbid, not Mom. Some woman he barely knows.”

“So that makes it all right for you to get drunk at your mum’s party? Does that make it easier on anyone?”

“Yes, Oliver. It makes it easier on me.” She looked at him. “Don’t be mad. I’m just a little”—past my prime at work and hiding a horrible secret about my father and considering a job as a smoke jumper and not sure our older child loves me anymore and a little terrified that you’ll leave me someday—“stressed. Take me home and ravish me.”

“I don’t think so,” Oliver said. “I don’t ravish drunk women.”

“Even your wife, who just asked you to?”

“When you’ve sobered up, I’d really like us to have a meaningful conversation.”

Shit. Panic threaded through her foggy brain. “About what?”

“Darling. You’re drunk. You had at least three glasses of wine.”

“In England, that would be called a good start.”

“You haven’t been yourself lately, and it’s not just your dad, though of course that’s hard. But something’s off, and it has been for months.”

“Pull over.”

“What?”

“I’m gonna puke.”

And so her evening ended, barfing in front of the McMasterons’ house, her husband sighing and holding back her hair.

So much for seduction.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO





Barb


LeVon was leaving us.

I knew the day would come, but I cried just the same. He was going to Rose Hill Rehabilitation and Care Center a half an hour north, the place Genevieve London had endowed before her death. LeVon would be director of patient services, and of course I couldn’t begrudge him the change. He said it was his dream job.