Always the Last to Know(84)

“I’ll get this old bastard settled, and I’ll hardly kick him at all. How’s that, John?”

“Oh, Caro. You’re all talk. Don’t listen to her, John. She’ll take real good care of you.”

And I did go to bed, not even brushing my teeth first. My clothes felt as heavy as lead.

Would John live a long time? Would I be able to keep this up?

Thank God for Caro. I lay down, comforted by the sound of my best friend’s voice as she talked to my husband. I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT





Sadie


For the first time in years and years, Noah and I were in a car together.

It brought back a lot. Sure, we were driving down I-95 to Brooklyn, but memories of steamy windows, hands under shirts, lush kissing, panting breath, the way he knew exactly how I—

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes! Why? Jeesh.”

“You just squeaked.”

“Did I? I don’t think so. Must’ve been the truck.”

This was going to be a long ride.

Why were we going to New York together, you ask?

I was delivering a painting to Janice, the interior decorator. This one was a “huge painting with those big flowers that look like vaginas. It’s a lesbian couple, so don’t hold back.”

When I called her to ask about the delivery, Janice had been more frantic than her usual self. “Can you come down and hang it yourself? This whole job is going to shit. It’s a brownstone, and it needs custom work, and the guy who was supposed to make the window seat on the staircase landing just bailed, and I’m telling you, no one is available unless you book a year in advance these days, and they discontinued the wallpaper the owners loved and I’m pulling my hair out.”

“Sure, I’ll come,” I said. Janice had probably forgotten that I was here in Connecticut with my dad, but I could use a day in the city. I hadn’t spent any time there except to dump Alexander a few weeks ago, and I’d been in a state, obviously. It would be good for the soul, as it always was. There was nothing like a spring day in Brooklyn.

An idea popped into my head. “Hey, Janice, I might know someone who can make a window seat.”

“Really? Oh, Sadie. That would be miraculous.”

“I’ll call you back.” I hung up, then looked at my dog. “Don’t judge,” I said. “It’s only business.” She wagged kindly, her eyes suggesting I wasn’t fooling anyone.

Noah had put in the beam so my house was no longer in danger of falling in on itself. He’d also put in the picture windows, and it was amazing how it changed the look of the house, both from the outside and the inside. Sure, it was still a bit crooked, but Noah said if I put on a new roof, it could be fixed. The thing about house renovation, I was learning, was that the more you did, the more you wanted to do. The huge vagina flower painting (sorry, Georgia O’Keeffe) would put some money in the bank.

A big butcher block island with stools would let you eat while staring out at the salt marsh. Maybe Noah could put in a spiral staircase, like Juliet’s. Maybe he could make the entire northern wall a bookcase.

Maybe I just wanted to spend more time with Noah.

I was still recovering from Alexander’s cheating and lying, granted. I had loved him, or the him I thought he was. Then there were the feelings of stupidity and humiliation, of being less than, because he needed three girlfriends, not just me. I’d thought I found a man who loved me without that sense of . . . expectation Noah always had. Like, until I lived life the way Noah wanted me to—that was, move to Stoningham and start popping out babies—I was a disappointment.

Alexander had taken me exactly as I was. He’d been generous, fun, not unintelligent, easygoing. All he needed was two other women to make his life complete.

Oh, the fuckery of it all.

At any rate, I’d called Noah, told him two wealthy brownstone owners needed a window seat pronto, did he want a quick job in the city? Much to my surprise, he said yes.

When I arrived at his house this morning, he’d been passing off Marcus to Mickey in the front yard, daffodils blooming, sun shining on his hair.

“Girlfriend!” sang Mickey. “How you doing? Damn, you’re so stinkin’ cute. I could be gay for you.”

“You are gay, you tease. Hi, Marcus.” The baby smiled at me, and my ovaries spontaneously frothed over with eggs.

“Want to hold him?”

“We need to get on the road,” Noah said at the same moment I said, “God, yes.”

Mickey smiled and passed me her son. The warm, wriggly weight of him, his sturdy little legs kicking, and yes, people, the smell of his head . . . God. “Hello, gorgeous,” I said. His lashes were so long and silky, and his cheeks were fat and pink and delicious.

“Dwah!” he said, taking a fistful of my hair and tugging. “Baba!”

“He’s a genius!” I said to the parents.

Noah was smiling. Just a little, and probably at his son.

“Please, please, let’s get together,” Mickey said. “I want to see your goofy little house and drink wine.”

“Done,” said I.

“You’re nursing,” Noah said.

“Oh, am I, Noah? I forgot that my breasts are as big as watermelons and my nipples look like saucers and milk spurts out of me every time this baby smiles.” She rolled her eyes. “Mansplainer. Shame on you! I’ll pump that night and chuck it. Jeez. The nursing police here, Sadie.”