Always the Last to Know(83)

So this was what the rest of my life would be like. Alone, but a caregiver. Married, but to a man I’d wanted to leave, a man who’d found someone else and had been stepping out on me for God knew how long.

On a soft, gentle evening in April, I herded John onto the slate patio. Sloane and Brianna and I had planted pansies in the window boxes out here, and the birds were singing, and it was real nice. I settled John in a chaise longue, covered him with a blanket and got myself a glass of wine, then came back out and sat down next to him. Gosh, I was tired. I had a dozen things to do, but technically, I didn’t have to work sixteen-hour days.

Everything could wait. My back twinged as I leaned back, and I wished I had a pillow, or someone who would bring a pillow to me. It was fine. The twinge stopped after a minute, and John was silent and still.

I loved this patio. We used to eat out here when the weather was nice, the whole family. I’d combed the countryside for antiques to decorate the space—a granite horse head sculpture sitting on the gatepost to the backyard, an old millstone, the iron planters.

The wine tasted so good—a fat, buttery chardonnay that John had hated, being the kind of wine snob who only drank reds, or port as an after-dinner drink. He’d made fun of me in that wine-tasting class. Barb’s the type who thinks there’s nothing wrong with ice cubes in her pinot grigio. The teacher had winced before recovering.

“Guess I got the last laugh,” I said now, even though he couldn’t know what I was talking about. “No more alcohol for you, John. I bet you miss it.”

He was listening. Sometimes he just stared off into the middle distance, but tonight, he seemed a little more present.

“Juliet’s party is this Saturday,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m not bringing you. It’s just that I need a little break. A few hours with people who like me, don’t you know?” Another sip of the glorious chardonnay. “I’ve been wondering when you stopped, by the way. We were happy once. We were solid for a long time, I thought. Not exactly setting the bedroom on fire, but I liked our life. Thought you liked us, too. We had the girls and then the grandbabies. That was enough for me.”

Except it hadn’t been. Not really, if I was going to be honest.

“I’ll tell you something, John. I was planning on divorcing you. I was going to tell you on our anniversary, for effect. ‘Hey, we’ve been married for fifty years and I’d like a divorce. Happy anniversary.’ I didn’t know you were cheating. I was just done with you. It was how little you thought of me, John. I wonder how often I crossed your mind, even living in the same house.”

“Dig,” he said, startling me. I looked at him, and he scowled.

“That’s good, John. Keep trying. You’re doing real good.” Or was he just making noise, poor thing?

“Horse.”

“That’s right. The horse head. You never liked it.” These word bursts were a good sign. Dig could be because of the gardening, but maybe that was a stretch.

His mouth worked.

“Got anything else to say there, John?” I asked.

He scowled again and pulled the blanket up to his chin, sulking much like Brianna did these days. Well, maybe he liked me talking to him as if he could understand. Maybe he could, who knew?

“I met a friend of yours.” I poured a second glass of wine, glad I’d brought the bottle with me. “Karen. Your girlfriend. WORK, as she was listed in your phone. Gotta say, I was surprised when I saw her. Then again, I don’t really know your type, except that I’m not it. She didn’t seem like the brightest bulb in the box, but I suppose IQ isn’t high up there on the list of things an old man looks for in a mistress.”

He was still scowling.

“Caro and I met her for coffee. I told her about your stroke and whatnot.”

His face changed, the scowl sliding down into old-man sadness.

I reached over and patted his hand. “I’d like to tell you she sent a card or stopped by or texted you, but she hasn’t. I’m sorry about that.”

Listen to me, apologizing that Karen didn’t give a good gosh darn about him. Must’ve been the wine.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

“We’re on the patio, Caro!” I said, letting go of John’s hand. “Grab a wineglass. The bottle’s out here.” I heard the cupboard open, and a second later, there she was, looking so stylish and pretty.

“You two look cozy,” she said, pouring herself some wine and taking a seat across from us.

“I’ve just been telling John about our meeting with Karen.”

“Oh, that slut.” She looked at John. “You do not deserve Barb, John. You hear me? You don’t deserve to clean her toilet.”

“Hush now,” I said. “He’s my husband. Not a great one, mind you, John, but my husband just the same.”

“You’re too good, Barb.”

“You betcha,” I said, and we laughed, Caro and I, and maybe, just maybe, John smiled a little bit, too. I closed my eyes, listening to the birds.

If this was my life now, I guess I’d have to take it. Aside from a cheating husband, I’d been real blessed. My girls, my friend, my home, this town . . .

“Go to bed, Barb,” Caro said. “You must be exhausted.”

“I’m pretty tired, I’ll give you that.”