Always the Last to Know(88)
And the fourth story was what Brianna, then age four, had dubbed the sky room. One giant room on the entire floor. The view was so vast that on a clear day, you could see the very tip of Long Island. It was a gorgeous place to watch storms, the lightning crackling from sky to ocean, or the snow blowing against the windows, making you feel as safe and charmed as the heroine in a fairy tale. The pièce de résistance was a rooftop deck with cable railings and a retractable awning, couches and lounge chairs, a small bar and outdoor kitchen, and planters bursting with whatever annuals struck Juliet’s fancy that year.
It was clearly an architect’s house, meant both to impress visitors and shelter and nurture the family. This party was intended to remind people that the Frost-Smitherington family was here, that they cared about the neighborhood and community. That she was a Frost of the Stoningham Frosts. Barb’s daughter.
It should’ve been nice. It usually was, hostess nerves aside.
But this year, Juliet wasn’t feeling it. She stood in the sky room, feeling awkward and alone and hoping it didn’t show. Oliver was laughing with some of his work friends—one woman was standing awfully close and tossing her hair. Should she go over and make a claim, slide her arm around his waist and say, “Back off, bitch?” Was that how her father’s affair had started, with someone from work? Who was that practically drooling on Oliver? Had Juliet ever met her? Oh, now she was laying her hand on Oliver’s arm, and was he doing a damn thing about it? No.
“Juliet, what a lovely party, as always!” Saanvi Talwar, their neighbor and Juliet’s almost friend, smiled as she hugged her. “Now that Genevieve is gone, you’re taking over as Stoningham’s most beloved hostess.”
Shit, I hope not. “So glad to see you, Saanvi. How are things at the hospital?”
“Oh, God, the insurance companies are killing medicine as we know it, but we soldier on!”
“Well, I’m sure you’re doing great work. Did you try the dumplings? Make sure you do. I think you’ll love them.”
“Let’s get together sometime, just us two,” Saanvi said. “We should make a monthly wine date.”
“I would love that.” She would. But when? Was Saanvi just being her kind self? Would it be rude to whip out her phone and force her to commit?
“Oh, there’s Ellen. I haven’t see her in ages! Thank you again for having us, Juliet. This house is such a showplace.” Saanvi smiled and walked away, effortless in her social grace. Juliet had to fake it.
She should’ve become a doctor, like Saanvi and her husband. Doctors didn’t get upstaged by younglings, did they? They just got better and more esteemed.
Speaking of upstart younglings, here came Arwen. She drifted gracefully over to Juliet, almost floating as heads turned. “Thank you for inviting me, Juliet. What a lovely home you have!” The European air-kiss on each cheek.
“So glad you could make it. Hello, hello!” God.
Arwen wore a long white dress and simple sandals, looking like a Greek goddess with a badass haircut. Sandals, a toe ring, and a brown leather bracelet set with a single turquoise stone. One gold ring on her index finger, just above the second knuckle. She held a glass of rosé that seemed to complement her skin tone and outfit, her graceful fingers cupping the stemless glass.
Juliet felt immediately outclassed and overdressed. The formfitting black cocktail dress was meant to show that yes, she ran six miles on the treadmill every single day. No stockings, black kitten heels that had cost a fortune but suddenly felt a bit old-school.
“Oliver!” she called. “You remember Arwen!” She waved at her husband, who finally left the hair-tossing hand-layer and ambled over, drink in hand.
“Hello, Arwen. So nice to see you again. Did you bring a friend?”
“I did. Cecille, come meet our wonderful hosts.” Arwen waved to a very tall woman with a beautiful Afro. “Cecille, this is my colleague, Juliet Frost, and her husband, Oliver.”
Colleague? She was Arwen’s boss.
“So nice to meet you,” Cecille said. “What a gorgeous view. Did you guys build this house, Mrs. Frost?”
Mrs. Frost. Gah. “Call me Juliet. And yes, we did.” She described the tear-down in quick terms, glancing at Arwen’s face as she did so. Unimpressed. Bored, even.
“My wife is a genius,” Oliver said, putting his arm around Juliet. “Every detail was her idea.” He kissed her temple. “I’m so lucky to be married to an architect. I’d be living in a shoebox if not for her. No taste whatsoever. This is all her.”
Juliet smiled gratefully.
“Oh, are you an architect, too?” Cecille asked. “I thought you were . . . in administration?”
Juliet made sure not to look at Arwen and arranged her face in what she hoped was a pleasant expression. “I’m an architect, first and foremost, but I also manage projects.” Arwen hadn’t mentioned what she did? Who she was? She didn’t say, My boss is having a party and we have to go? “I’m Arwen’s boss,” she continued. “I oversee all her work, and the work of four other architects at DJK.” She smiled (hopefully) and tipped her head against Oliver’s shoulder. “Please enjoy yourselves, ladies. There’s a deck on the roof. That spiral staircase in the corner will take you right up, and the view is gorgeous.”