CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Juliet

On Wednesday, Kathy stopped by Juliet’s office, her gossip face on—eyes sliding from the left to the right, eyebrow raised (lucky . . . Juliet’s were still frozen). She came in and closed the door. “Guess who was just named project manager on the school Beyoncé is building in Houston?”

“What Beyoncé school?” This was the first Juliet had heard of it.

Kathy sat down, looking too pleased with herself. “Yeah. Her.”

“Arwen?”

“Who else?”

Anyone else, that’s who. Matt, who was nine years senior to Arwen. Elena, who was six. Brett and Christopher, four.

“Are you going to talk to Dave?” Kathy asked, running a hand through her bright red hair.

“Are you?”

“No. Of course not. It’s not like I could be PM, though I’m definitely hoping to be on the interior team. Maybe meet Queen Bey.”

Juliet was very sure Kathy was too old and white to be using that nickname. She glanced out the window, her stomach clenching with nerves. “Did you know we were pitching Beyoncé?”

“Arwen mentioned it. It’s really Beyoncé’s foundation. Her PR team asked us to keep it a secret till ground is broken.”

Beyoncé. Jesus. And Kathy knew, but hadn’t said a word till now.

“Well. I have work to do, Kathy.”

“I’m sure you do.”

What did that mean? She and Kathy used to be friends, but Kathy had always been the office gossip. Juliet felt she’d been immune to that.

Now it was hard to trust her, with that Arwen haircut and the way Kathy brayed laughter from Arwen’s office at least twice a day. Kathy was here to gather intel, that’s what she was doing. To plant seeds and make trouble.

It worked.

A few hours later, so it wouldn’t be so obvious, she went down the hall to Dave’s office with the excuse of showing him the plans on a house for a former senator. She liked doing residences once in a while—she’d done her own house, obviously, and occasionally offered to do one at work, though it was small potatoes for her. She’d volunteered to do this one because it was fun and had a limitless budget, which was always pleasant.

“Is he available?” she asked the side-eying Laurie (who may have been casting a spell on her).

Laurie shrugged and jerked her chin, indicating that it was okay for Juliet to go in. Her boss had his feet up on the desk and was gazing out the window. Hard to believe he’d been a force in architecture once, since he mostly napped and went out for lunch these days.

“Hey, Dave, I’ve got the elevations on that house in Maryland. Want to have a look?”

“Sure.” She sat down and watched as he gave them a glance. “Nice job, Juliet.”

“Thanks. It’s a beautiful site.”

“That it is.”

“So, Dave . . . I heard a rumor. You made Arwen the PM on a school for Beyoncé’s foundation?”

He avoided looking at her, studying the house plans as if he’d just realized they’d come down from Mount Sinai in the hands of Moses. “Mm,” he offered.

Be careful, a voice in her head warned her. But screw that. She’d earned her place here. “Since when does such a green architect get that kind of high-profile job? I thought the firm had a system. A ladder.” One that she’d climbed, step-by-step, never skipping a single rung.

Dave sighed. Still didn’t look up. “Arwen is very talented.”

“I’m aware of that, Dave. But she’s only thirty-one. She still needs supervision.”

“Or does she? She’s quite ambitious. People respond to her.”

“There are a lot of ambitious people here who outrank her. Matt. Elena. Brett.” She paused. “Me. I’m a little shocked that I wasn’t informed we were pitching this job, frankly. I’m the senior project manager at this firm.”

“Look, Juliet,” he said, finally looking at her. Her chin, to be exact. “You’ve done some remarkable work for us.”

“I am doing remarkable work for you, Dave.” Her voice was firm but she made sure not to be too angry, because God forbid her boss had to deal with an angry female. “I realize Arwen is the shiny new thing, but my record speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

“I’m a fan of yours, Juliet. Don’t get hostile.”

Oh, the fuckery. “I’m not being hostile. I’m pointing out facts.”

“Maybe if you smiled more, people would—”

“Dave. Do not finish that sentence.”

“I’m just saying, Arwen is a really positive person. She smiles all the time.”

“Are you giving her a promotion because she smiles?” she asked.

“There’s that hostility.” He smiled ruefully.

“It’s disbelief, not hostility.”

“Juliet, you’re very serious.”

“About my work, absolutely. You could say that’s a positive attribute in an architect.”

He put his hands behind his head. “Listen. You’re right. Arwen is new and exciting, and the world seems to love her.”

Time to be dead honest. “But her work isn’t particularly special, and you must know that.”

“Be careful, Juliet. You’re sounding very jealous and competitive.”

Hostile, serious, jealous and competitive. All code for bitch, or worse. If she were a man, it would be fiery, dedicated, strategic and ambitious.

But here she was, in a male-owned, male-run firm. So she lowered her voice to a tone Dave could tolerate. “I’ve always put the firm’s best interests first and foremost, Dave. I’m your senior architect. I’ve never let you down, have I?”

He tilted his head. “Nothing is coming to mind, no.”

“Because it’s never happened.”

“What’s your point, Juliet?” He glanced at his phone.

You could lose me. I might quit. I could sue you for ageism and discrimination.

Except Kathy was older and wasn’t saying boo. And it would be hard to prove discrimination on the basis of gender, given that Arwen was a woman, too. A gay woman, for that matter, something Juliet had only found out a few weeks ago when she and Saanvi had had drinks at the same bar where Arwen had been with a woman, and they’d kissed once or twice. Arwen hadn’t seen Juliet, and Juliet hadn’t gone over, not wanting to intrude.

Now Juliet glanced out the window, then back at her boss. “Just be thoughtful, Dave. A green architect on a high-profile client’s project could be risky.”

“Fortune favors the bold,” he said. “And you know how we like to think outside the box at DJK. Thanks for bringing me your concerns. I think we’ve cleared the air. And I’ll see you at your party this weekend, right?”

Dismissed. “Yes. Thanks for hearing me out.” She left his office, past the silent Laurie, the plans for the senator’s house clenched in her hands.

Today was one of the days she left early and worked from home. She grabbed her stuff, fake smiled at her colleagues and got out of there as soon as possible. In her car, she sat for a minute, gripping the steering wheel, stymied, frustrated and . . . scared.

She could leave the firm and start her own. The thought had crossed her mind from time to time, but DJK had always been the best of both worlds—creativity within an established, respected firm. Starting her own would be twice the workload, and the girls still needed her. She could put out some feelers at other firms, but the truth was, if she left now . . . well. It would look exactly like what it was. She was leaving because another architect was taking over.

Was it possible she had peaked? Were her best days behind her? She was forty-three, and she hadn’t recycled an idea yet. Maybe this was just a normal phase of a career, being established and therefore slightly less exciting.

But the thought of aging out struck a nerve. Arwen was so beautiful . . . That had to be a factor, even if it wasn’t ever going to be acknowledged. Juliet looked in the rearview mirror. She was still attractive. Of course she was! She had decades of youth in front of her! She was in her prime. Look at Meryl Streep! Look at . . . um . . . Sofía Vergara! And JLo! She’d just spent three grand on looking even younger, goddamnit.

She was too serious, was she? She should smile more? How dare her boss imply that she was . . . was stale and boring! She was absolutely not those things. Oliver still adored her. Even if they’d settled into a routine, it was a good routine.

Sort of like Mom and Dad.

Shit.

She flew up 95 to Stoningham. Oliver was working from home today with a slight cold and being an utter infant about it. He was about to have his mind blown. Time to be shiny, spontaneous and bold.

Oliver was in the laundry room, putting sheets in the dryer because Juliet still hadn’t hired a new cleaning lady, goddamnit.

“All right, love?” he said as she came in.

“I want you,” she said.

He side-eyed her. “Darling, I have a man-cold. I’m hovering at the precipice of death.” He coughed to prove it, a meaty, phlegmy sound.

“I don’t care. I’m so . . .” Shit. She should’ve paid more attention to the three pornos she’d seen in her entire lifetime. “I’m so . . . wet.” Ick. It sounded like she’d peed her pants.

“I wouldn’t wish this cold on my worst enemy, my darling girl.”

“I won’t kiss you on the mouth, then.”

She dropped to her knees and started to untie his sweatpants.

“It’s a lovely thought, darling,” Oliver said, putting his hand on her head. His voice was thick with the cold. “Perhaps a rain check.”

“No. I need you now. Here. Like this.”

“Darling. I feel wretched.”

He’d change his mind. She pulled down his pants. “It’s so, um, big.” Gah. It wasn’t, not at the moment. She screwed her eyes shut and gathered her courage.

He stopped her, thank God, and pulled his pants back up. “Juliet, what are you doing?”

“Trying to give you a BJ.” Men were supposed to love this shit.

“The girls will be home in five minutes.”

Right. “Then I’ll be quick.”

“I swear that I’m thrilled about this theoretically, but seriously, darling, can we reschedule?”

“No.”

“Juliet.” He pulled her to her feet. “What’s got into you?”

“I’m trying to be fun and spontaneous and . . . not so serious.”

“Darling, we’re married with two children. Spontaneous happens only when we put it on the calendar.”

Well. She just couldn’t fucking win, could she? Everything Oliver said was true, and he looked like vomit warmed over, but it didn’t do much for her battered ego.

At that moment, the door banged open. “Daddy! Mommy!” yelled Sloane. “Guess what? Brianna got her period!”

“I rest my case,” Oliver murmured.

“Shut up, Sloane! I hate you!” Brianna said.

Juliet opened the laundry room door as Brianna flew by, her eyes red.

“She’s a woman now,” Sloane said solemnly. “She could have a baby.”

“Sloanie-Pop, this is a personal matter,” Oliver said. “Let’s get you a snack while Mummy talks to your sister, right?”

Sure. Give the hard child to me, Juliet thought. But yes. This was a mother’s job.

She went to Brianna’s room and knocked once. There was no answer, so she went in. Brianna was lying on the bed, sobbing.

Juliet didn’t know what to say, so she just put her hand on her daughter’s hair. “Hello, baby,” she said.

“It was horrible! It was in math class, and I felt this stickiness, and then George Tanner said, ‘Don’t mess with Brianna, she’s on her period,’ and everyone laughed. The blood was on my jeans, Mom! You knew I had cramps last night! Why didn’t you tell me to wear a pad?”

Yes. Why hadn’t Juliet been more psychic? The fact that Brianna had been claiming to have cramps every time she wanted to get out of a chore for two solid years was probably not what she wanted to hear.

“I’m sorry, honey. If it’s any consolation, I’ve gotten blood on my pants, too. So has Sadie, and just about every female I know.” Except Arwen. It probably hadn’t happened to her.

Brianna gave her a sullen look. “I thought it would be different,” she said, tears still dripping down her face. “I thought it would be cool and I’d feel sophisticated and in some kind of older girls club, but it’s just gross and my stomach hurts and my legs do, too.”

“I’ll get you some Motrin,” Juliet said. “And a hot-water bottle. It’ll feel good against your tummy.”

She went into her own bathroom and got the necessary items. A pad, just in case, and a tampon, too. She’d bought Brianna her own supplies last year, as well as a book about periods, but nothing ever did prepare you, did it?

She went back into Brianna’s room and gave her the Motrin and a glass of water. Put the hot-water bottle against her daughter’s abdomen and nodded at the tampons and pads. “In case you need it.”

“I have my own,” Brianna muttered. She rolled away from Juliet. “You can go now, Mom. Thanks.”

Once again, dismissed. What would Barb, the perfect mother, do? “You’ll always be my little girl. No matter how old you get.”

“Thanks. Could you go? I just want to sleep.”

“Right. Sleep tight.”

By the time Juliet had made dinner and cleaned up, even though it was Oliver’s turn (but he was suffering greatly), and checked on Brianna and helped Sloane with her reading and took a shower and got into bed, Oliver was asleep. He rolled over and put his arm around her, then started gently snoring in her ear.

So much for being the spontaneous, sexy, positive lover.