CHAPTER ELEVEN

Juliet

One Wednesday in late October, months before her father’s stroke, when the sky was deep, pure blue and the last of the spectacular foliage was still lighting up the Yale campus, Juliet sat at the Union League Cafe, waiting for Arwen to arrive for their mentorship lunch. She’d been warmly greeted by the maître d’ and put at a lovely table by the window, where she watched Yalies nearly get killed as they attempted the difficult task of crossing the street. They might be among the smartest in the world, but they lacked life skills, which Juliet could say, since she was a graduate.

She looked at her watch. Ten after one.

When she’d started the mentorship program at DJK Architects, Juliet thought a monthly lunch would be a relaxed, informal way to discuss issues, goals, the company structure, projects . . . whatever the youngling needed. All her other protégés had loved these lunches, and not to brag or anything, but Juliet had a damn good reputation for supporting and nurturing young talent, at Yale, in the Association for Women in Architecture and Design (AWA+D had given her an award for that just last year, thank you) and especially at DJK. Not a single new hire there hadn’t benefited from Juliet’s guidance or support, especially the women.

And not a single one of her mentees had ever been late to a mentorship lunch. It would be highly disrespectful.

Arwen was late.

Juliet wanted to bring it up somehow—the fact that while Arwen was talented and hardworking, there was a pecking order to be acknowledged. A ladder to be climbed, even if Juliet herself had given Arwen the chance to skip a few rungs. That, at thirty-one, Arwen still had a lot to learn, and Juliet would very much love to teach her, so she should be a little bit more respectful and drop the attitude. And . . . and yet . . .

Maybe the attitude was just confidence. Would a man be told to check in with his mentor more often if he was doing perfectly fine work? Would a boss tell a man to be less confident in his abilities? Did women do things differently because they were women? Was this more about Juliet’s ego than Arwen’s? Did Juliet just wish she’d been that confident, that—

Holy shit.

There was her father. Her father and a . . . woman. A . . . girlfriend.

Until that moment, she didn’t know he had a girlfriend.

She knew the woman was his girlfriend because he was kissing her.

Really kissing her. Right there on Chapel Street, making out like they were teenagers who’d just discovered tongues. People had to go around them, they were so locked in.

That couldn’t be her dad. Sure, he looked exactly like him, but maybe . . . nope. It was her father. They broke apart, gazed at each other, smiling, laughing.

Gross. Grotesque, that’s what it was.

The woman was tall, with dyed black hair and sharp, strong features. For a second, Juliet thought it might be a man and almost wished it was—Gay Dad would be so much better than Cheating Dad—but no, it was indeed a woman.

Dad had his hand on her ass now. God! Get a room, people! No, don’t, she quickly amended. Shit! This couldn’t be happening. Her father? Her mild father, whose exciting life consisted of reading John Grisham novels and doing the crossword puzzle, maybe taking a walk in the afternoon, followed by a nap? This couldn’t be happening.

They kissed again, deeply—Juliet shuddered—and then, finally, kept going, down Chapel toward the green.

It was as if the scene had been staged for her benefit. What were the odds that her father would decide to make out with a woman on Chapel Street? Three blocks from where she worked? Was it staged? Was it a prank? Who would think this was funny? Did he do this so Juliet would tell Mom?

What the actual fuck?

She realized she was half standing, watching them.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” said the server.

“Uh . . . uh . . . I’ll have a martini,” she said. Her heart was pounding. “Dry, three olives. Chopin, please.”

Her father was having an affair.

She sank back into her seat and pulled out her phone, thinking she’d call her mom right away. No. No, not Mom. Oliver. He was calm. He’d know what to do.

“All right, darling?” he said, which was his customary greeting.

“I . . . I just saw my father kissing another woman.”

There was a moment of silence. “You must be mistaken, love. John Frost, with a bit on the side? I rather doubt it.”

“Oliver. I just saw him outside the restaurant where I’m having lunch.”

There was a pause. “Was it a joke?”

“No!” she said, though she’d been thinking the same thing. “His tongue was down her throat! His hand was on her ass!” She glanced around apologetically, lowering her voice.

“That’s . . . astonishing,” he said.

“I know!”

“Deep breaths, my love,” he said. “Christ, if this is true, I’m gobsmacked.”

Arwen walked in the door, wearing a white dress that fit her perfectly, black stilettos, and a huge wonking single pearl on a gold strand. Bright red purse. Heads turned, as they always did for Arwen. “I have to go,” she said to Oliver.

“Love you, darling. Ring me later.”

“Juliet. So sorry I’m late.” Arwen bent down and kissed Juliet on either cheek. Weird, since they’d seen each other in the office two hours ago. Probably some body language domination trick.

“No worries. It’s fine. It’s fine.”

Arwen tipped her head. “You sure? You look upset.”

There was that tremor of fear. “I’m great,” Juliet said, adjusting her posture.

“Your martini, madam.” The server set it down. “And for you, miss?”

“Perrier, please. Unless you feel uncomfortable drinking alone, Juliet. Alcohol makes me sleepy, so I never drink at lunch.”

Fuck. Alcohol made Juliet sleepy, too. She’d already lost this pissing match. “No. I’m fine. I . . . ” I just saw my father snogging another woman. “I’m good. It’s nice to see you, especially since we had to miss last month’s lunch.”

“How long do they go on, these mentorship meetings?” Arwen asked. The implication was clear. She no longer needed or desired them.

“We never set a formal policy, but generally, three years,” Juliet said, making it up on the spot. The truth was, all her previous hires loved going out with her, viewing it as special time with the likely next partner of DJK. “How are you? How are things?”

“Excellent.” She took her nonalcoholic drink from the server and nodded thanks, looking both elegant and warm at the same time. Juliet could feel the sweat breaking out under her arms. Her face was still flushed. Arwen took a sip of water and tilted her head. “Pardon me for asking a personal question, Juliet, but are you having a hot flash?”

Fuck you. “No,” Juliet said, trying to laugh. “I’m forty-three. A little young for that.”

“My mom started when she was your age.” A sympathetic smile.

“Well, my mom had a baby at my age.”

“Really? Are you planning to have another?”

You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Me on maternity leave. “No, no. Two is just fine. Wonderful. The best.”

Her father was having an affair. Would her parents get a divorce? A sudden lump rose in her throat. She took a drink of the vodka, its burn welcome. “Tell me about the stadium project. Ian said there was some confusion on ADA compliance.”

“No. He was mistaken.” She smiled. “It’s going beautifully, and even a little bit ahead of schedule. Now. What shall we order?”

---

— —

When Juliet got home that night, she was exhausted and wired at the same time. Oliver had fed the girls already, and Sloane was in bed, Brianna doing homework (i.e., messaging her friends).

“I’ve got a lovely big martini ready when you are,” he said. “Salmon, couscous and brussels sprouts, with a fat slab of chocolate cake I picked up at Sweetie Pies just for you.”

“You’re amazing,” Juliet said. “I’ll go say good night to the girls and be right back.”

Sloane was already sleepy, her Patronus being an elderly cat who slept and liked to be petted. “How’s my girl?” Juliet asked, sitting on the edge of her bed, stroking Sloane’s silky hair.

“I’m good, Mommy. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” There was that lump again. What would the girls say if their grandparents divorced? Oliver’s mother lived in London, and while she was fabulous and descended with gifts once or twice a year, it wasn’t the same. Oliver’s dad had died when he was twelve.

Sloane and Brianna saw their Frost grandparents at least three times a week.

Shit.

“Do you want me to sing your good-night song?” she asked.

“No, Daddy already did. He makes up funny rhymes.” She smiled sweetly. Yes. Oliver did everything better than she did.

“Okay. Sleep tight, little one,” she said, kissing Sloane on the forehead, nose and lips. Soon, if she were like her sister, Sloane wouldn’t want kisses anymore and would say things like, “Did you brush your teeth today?” and slice away at Juliet’s heart, one translucent layer at a time.

But maternal love was required to be unconditional, so Jules went into Brianna’s room, knocking once.

“What?” her oldest said.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said.

“Why did you work so long today?”

“It’s Thursday. I always work till seven on Thursdays. You know that. That way I get to be home when you’re done with school on Monday, Tuesday and—”

“Okay. Fine. I remember. Sorry.” She widened her eyes as if Juliet had been screaming at her.

“How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Any quizzes or tests or fun things?”

“No. It was boring. Um, I’m kind of busy, if you don’t mind. Ackerly and I are doing math homework.”

Ackerly was the most poisonous of Brianna’s friends, and one of these days, she would take Brianna down. Juliet could see the handwriting on the wall. “What about Lena? She’s good in math, too.” Lena hadn’t been over lately, and Brianna had stopped talking about her as much as she used to. The two had been friends since preschool.

“Mom. Ackerly is also good in math. If it’s okay with you.”

Juliet opened her mouth to say, I don’t trust her or Watch yourself with that one or Lose the attitude, Bri, or you’re grounded. “Watch your tone,” she said, the best she could manage.

“Okay. Sorry. Good night.”

“Good night. Love you, baby. Lights out in half an hour.”

There was no response. Juliet closed the door and went down the stairs, pausing in front of a beautiful black-and-white photo of Brianna as a baby. Back when she loved her mother. God, those dimples! Her father’s huge, smiling eyes, and Juliet’s square chin, and those dimples.

When was the last time Brianna had smiled at her?

Juliet knew this was normal. Teenage girls were hormonal and beginning that process of pulling away from their mothers especially. Because how could you bear to leave if you didn’t hate your mother a little bit? Except Juliet never had. She’d cried and cried when Mom had dropped her off at Harvard, and had to pretend to love it for six weeks before it became true. It was only because Barb was so diligent in checking in, coming to visit, sending care packages, that Juliet made it through her freshman year. She was her mother’s favorite, she knew.

And Sloane was hers. Mothers shouldn’t have favorites. She loved both girls the same. But she liked Sloane a lot more these days. If Brianna could give her something to work with, it would be easier.

Please, God, she thought, don’t let Sloane ever get to this point.

Oliver was waiting, shaker in hand. He loved making cocktails to a fault, trying the Tom Cruise moves from that terrible movie.

“All right, darling? Must’ve been a terrible shock, seeing your dad today.”

“Yep.”

“Sloanie-Pop still awake?”

“Just barely.”

“And Brianna?”

“Doing homework.” She sat down on the stool. Remembered she hadn’t kissed him that day, and since she’d vowed never to be one of those wives who took her man for granted, got up and kissed him, then sat back down. “So.”

“Right. I’ve been thinking about the situation,” Oliver said, the ice clacking around in the shaker. “Thanksgiving is in three weeks. Perhaps wait till after to address all this muck? Your mum does love that holiday.” He rattled the shaker dramatically over one shoulder, then poured her drink. “And her turkey is the stuff of legend.”

Her second martini of the day. She’d had to drink hers at lunch, since Arwen had thrown down the gauntlet, and fought the afternoon sleepiness that it caused out of sheer will.

But if ever a day called for two martinis, it was today.

“Do you think she’ll leave him?” Juliet said, her voice low.

“I would leave you, darling. And you’d have me murdered and thrown in the ocean in tiny bits and pieces.”

“They’ve been married almost fifty years, Ollie.” Her throat was tight. “How can you cheat on someone after fifty years?”

“Oh, my darling, there, there.” He came around the counter and put his arms around her, and she clutched his shirt. “I’ve no idea. Your father’s a twat.”

“What do I do? Tell him I saw? Tell her? Order him to tell her or I will? Ignore it? I mean, it’s not like they have the best marriage in the world. God. Maybe they have an open relationship.”

“Well, darling, Barb has been incredibly busy this year, and—”

She jerked back. “And what? That gives my father permission to cheat on her?”

“No! Not at all. It’s just that perhaps things on the home front have . . . I’m going to stop talking now. This is awkward, isn’t it? Go on, love. What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. I have to let this sit a little while.”

“Good plan. Maybe talk to a friend? Saanvi?”

Saanvi was one of their summertime neighbors. She worked in New Haven, too, at the hospital, and sometimes she and Juliet had lunch or, more rarely, a glass of wine after work. She couldn’t see bringing up her parents’ marriage, though. Too personal.

The truth was, Barb was Juliet’s best friend. In any other circumstance, Barb was the one she’d go to.

Juliet wiped her eyes and let Oliver kiss her on the cheek. They ate dinner, and since it was late, went to bed, where they made love, tenderly and quietly, since Brianna had ears like a bat. “I love you, sweetheart,” he whispered just before he fell asleep.

“I love you, too,” she said, but the words almost made her cry.

Her father loved her mother, once. Now look.

Ten minutes later, Oliver sound asleep, Jules got out of bed, put on her bathrobe and went to her study. Googled “why do married men cheat?”

All the clichés were true. Boredom. Trying to reclaim lost youth. Not getting enough at home. The thrill of the chase. Lack of communication.

The hard fact was, if someone wanted to cheat, they could. If someone wanted a divorce, he or she could just end things. I don’t want to be married anymore. Well, not to you. And just like that, your carefully built life would crumble.

Juliet’s mother had built a life so carefully. She had always put the family first, and Dad had reaped those benefits. The beautiful home, the respect of the community, Juliet and Sadie themselves, and now, by extension, Oliver, Brianna and Sloane. She saw how hard her mother tried—she’d always seen it. Cooking lovely meals, the house always a haven, trying to make conversation with topics such as “tell me the happiest thing that happened to you today” at dinnertime. She remembered her parents taking ballroom dancing classes, going to Scotland, learning about wine.

So if Barb couldn’t pull it off, who could?

Oliver was perpetually happy, and not tremendously empathetic to people who weren’t, always a little confused as to why they didn’t just shrug off what they couldn’t control and focus on the positive.

Which made it hard to talk to him about difficult, complicated matters like her parents. Or Arwen, since he said things like, “Sounds like you picked a winner in that one!” or “That’s bloody fabulous for her!” missing the point entirely.

It was hard to talk about the fact that Brianna made her feel sad and tired these days, and not liking her own child made her feel small and mean. She couldn’t say out loud that she liked Sloane better, and she couldn’t discuss the fear that Brianna would be able to tell, the same way Sadie knew Juliet was the favorite, and this was karma getting Juliet back for being their mom’s favorite.

And now, it would be hard to talk about the creeping terror that if her father could somehow justify cheating on her mother, Oliver would see his point.