CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Sadie
Joy. That was the word my father had given me, pulled with such effort from the depths of his heart and mind. I knew it was his way of telling me I’d brought him joy, and yet, I’d been thinking it might have been more, too.
Maybe . . . maybe it was advice.
Ever since I left Stoningham at eighteen, I’d been looking for that moment when everything in my life came together the way I dreamed it would. It never had, though, had it? I liked teaching quite a bit, loved my little students, St. Catherine’s, loved New York with all its treasures, felt a bit of pride that my couch paintings paid the bills. I’d created a good-enough life in New York. A solid life, a happy life.
But joy was a different animal, wasn’t it?
Joy was a quiet night watching the sunset, stroking Pepper’s silky ears, laughing at her antics. Joy was painting those damn skies. Talking with my nieces. Taking care of my dad. Sending my mom and sister to Boston. Joy was that moment when the dolphin and her mama had swum around my legs before speeding out to sea. Joy was walking through the streets of New York looking up, always up, at the beautiful architecture, the sky, breathing in the smell of the city, listening to the constant song of traffic and languages and feeling that surge of life, all that life, swirling around me.
Joy was being with Noah, from the first time I’d seen him with that beautiful baby strapped to his chest, to irritating him as he fixed my furnace, to walking through a shower of cherry blossoms with him, to finally kissing him again.
But as much as I loved Noah Pelletier, the fact remained that I didn’t want the life he did. I didn’t really know what life I did want, even now. A little of everything, whereas Noah wanted a lot of one thing. He wanted home, a partner who was always there, more kids, and who could blame him? Those were nice, good things to want.
I was pretty sure I didn’t want those things. Oh, I loved my nieces, loved little Marcus even, loved hearing Mickey talk about the horrors and wonders of motherhood. But in my heart of hearts, I wasn’t sure it was for me. My mother had once called me a butterfly, flitting to whatever bright thing caught my attention, and she wasn’t wrong.
I just wasn’t sure how to make a life around being a butterfly. I mean, those things didn’t live real long, did they?
A few days after my meeting in New York, I went to the hardware store for some more plastic to patch up another hole in my roof. I turned down the aisle and there was Noah, studying a drill bit. He did a quick double take when he saw me.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi.” My insides flooded with heat, my heart pulsing with that beautiful scarlet red only he could incite.
“How was New York?”
“Oh . . . it was . . . it didn’t work out. My stuff wasn’t what he was looking for.”
“Then he’s an idiot.”
I snorted a little. “An idiot with a lot of influence.”
He just looked at me a minute. “I’m sorry, Sadie.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s nothing I haven’t heard a hundred times before. Two hundred. Five, maybe. Anyway. How are you?”
“Good.”
That seemed to be all. “Well,” I said. “Nice to see you. Love you.” Shit. “I do. I mean, you know that. Anyway. Have a good day.”
I left before I made things worse, and went to see my dad.
He hadn’t spoken again since that day. It was awfully hard, finally admitting he was the man in front of me, in a place I couldn’t reach or see. Maybe he’d have another breakthrough, but I had a feeling he was done.
Rose Hill had space for him in their new wing. It was only a half hour away. Still, the tears slid down my face. I’d visit a lot.
“I’m thinking about staying in Stoningham, Dad,” I said. His expression didn’t change. “Maybe I can get a teaching job up here. Keep doing my couch paintings, pop down to the city once in a while, keep the apartment on Airbnb. I don’t know. Maybe not Stoningham, since it would be hard to see Noah, you know? Maybe Mystic or Old Lyme.”
I sighed. Even talking to myself, I couldn’t make up my mind.
Hasan had told me what I’d always known. Those skyscapes weren’t all that special. Not to the New York art world. Any first-year art student could do them. They weren’t even that hard, technically speaking.
“I’m not that good as an artist, Dad,” I told him, and tears filled my eyes. He didn’t answer, but I wedged myself in the chair against him and put my head on his shoulder. His arm came around me, just like old times, but for once—for the first time since his stroke—I didn’t look for more. Sometimes an arm around you is all you need.
“Thanks, Daddy,” I whispered, and there it was again. Joy, soft and quiet this time. My father loved me. It was May. I had a good dog and options in front of me. Joy would be the key to my life. Be in the places that made my heart sing, do the things that made me feel whole and fulfilled, spend time with the people who did the same. No more phoning it in, no more good enough for now. I would find a way to make a life based on joy, because really. What if you fell off your bicycle one day and injured your brain?
“Thanks for the pep talk, Dad,” I said, and maybe it was my imagination, but I thought he held me a little closer.
On Memorial Day weekend, Stoningham celebrated its 350th birthday. I had to hand it to Gillian, my mother and the scores of volunteers. It was beautiful.
We started the day with a parade. I brought Pepper, since she loved people, and she wagged joyfully at every person she saw. At the last minute, I’d found myself one of the volunteers—the person in charge of the nursery school float had had a meltdown over the responsibility of it all, and my mom recommended me to step in. It was right up my alley, after all. Kids. Art. Last-minute accomplishments.
There’s something so tender about a small-town parade. The handful of Stoningham veterans, some of them so old, so noble, riding in a convertible, waving with a gnarled hand as the townspeople cheered and teared up. The National Guard volunteers, somber in their uniforms. My mom, looking beautiful in a blue pantsuit with a red scarf, and the other two selectmen. The town clergy—Rabbi Fierstein, whose daughter had been my bus buddy in grammar school; Reverend Bateman, who used to read The Giving Tree on Easter Sunday; the handsome Catholic priest.
Then came the kids. The 4-H club, the sailing club, the school music bands (including Brianna on trumpet). The Brownies, Sloane looking so stinking cute in her uniform, saying, “Hi, Auntie!” like she hadn’t just seen me that morning.
Then came my float, bright as a garden, decorated in hundreds and hundreds of crepe paper flowers (not the vaginal kind), all the little kids wearing (or taking off) the beaks and wings I’d made out of papier-mâché. Damn cute. Fly, Little Birds, Fly! I’d written across the banner, making the letters out of their handprints. As I said, it was my groove.
I saw Noah, Mickey and Marcus across the street. Mickey waved, nudged Noah, and he waved, too.
We hadn’t spoken since the hardware store run-in. I understood. His son needed stability. Noah needed stability, and I wasn’t exactly that. Love was not all you needed. You needed to match, to fit, to want the same things. I had never wanted five kids. I wasn’t sure I wanted any. I’d never really known what I wanted, except to be a painter.
But my heart hurt just the same, looking at him. I loved him, and I didn’t make him happy, and that was an awful ache I didn’t know how to fix. I petted Pepper to remind myself I wasn’t alone in the world.
After the parade, the shops and businesses of Water Street hosted a sidewalk stroll, serving snacks and drinks, putting bowls of water out for doggies. Sheerwater, that splendid house the town now owned, was open all day, the garden club giving tours and hosting a high tea. There was a small regatta (we were Connecticut, after all). In the evening, there’d be the auction to raise money for scholarships.
I hung out with my nieces, letting Oliver and Jules go to the high tea so my brother-in-law could get his Brit fix. When the girls got hot and tired, we went to my parents’ house for a little rest, and I parked them in my old room and put cool cloths on their heads, like my mom used to do for me when I was little.
“Rest, little ones,” I said, and they both smiled, even though they were pretty big. Dad was asleep downstairs, back from his overnight at Rose Hill, Pepper curled up next to him, good pup that she was.
My father had never been a great husband. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that. These past few weeks, I’d seen some looks exchanged between Mom and Jules, and overheard a few whispers.
It was dawning on me that my father may have had an affair. Honestly, I didn’t want to know. It was a moot point now. He was still our dad. He’d released my mom from her duties, something she would never have done for herself.
I looked at him now, the old man who needed his eyebrows trimmed. “You’re a good guy, Daddy,” I said. Maybe not the perfect man I’d once thought, but good enough. I could still love him, and he deserved that love.
Then I got the scissors and took care of those eyebrows.
That evening, Brianna, Sloane and I walked to the green for the auction, which was the crowning event of the weekend. Gillian was there, zipping around like a gerbil on speed, flitting to my mom every thirty seconds. I chatted with some of the women I’d met at Juliet’s party—Emma London, Beth, Jamilah Finlay with the cute little boys. There were Jules and Oliver, holding hands. They had such a good thing going, those two. I was glad for my sister. Ollie got on my nerves from time to time, but honestly, if his greatest flaw was smiling too much, then he was pretty damn great. The girls cantered over to them.
“Hang out with us,” Jules said.
“Nah. I’m feeling melancholy and want to brood,” I said.
“You’re so weird,” Brianna said.
“Takes one to know one,” I said, and she grinned. “See you guys later.”
I found a spot under a tree where I could watch the auction. Some of the big-ticket items were grotesque, thanks to Stoningham’s summer people trying to outdo each other. It was a good cause—college scholarships for low-income families—so God bless, but even so. A week at our ten-bedroom house in Jackson Hole, butler included! Starting bid $2,500. Dinner with Lin-Manuel Miranda after a Hamilton show! Starting bid $5,000. (I would totally bid on that one, had I any money to spare, but I really wanted a new roof.) Design for an addition on your house, courtesy of Frost/Alexander Architecture, starting bid $7,500.
I hadn’t been asked to donate anything. The truth was, it would be embarrassing to offer up a painting that my sister would pity-buy.
“Hey, Sadie! Do you teach painting?” came a voice. It was Emma London.
“I do,” I said. “You interested?”
“Oh, God, no. I mean, I’ve been kicked out of those paint and drink nights, you know? Stick figures is the best I can do.” She smiled. “I was thinking of lessons for a little friend of mine. She’s four and a little wild.”
“Sure. I could do that. I used to teach elementary school art.”
“Cool! Thanks, Sadie. Hey, there’s my guy. The father of your potential student, Miller Finlay. Do you know him?”
Of course I did. Miller owned Finlay Construction, and Noah had done an internship with him in high school. We did the two degrees of separation Stoningham thrived on, and then they wandered off. Nice couple.
Bidding was pretty hot and heavy. Dinner with Lin-Manuel went for sixteen grand. Jeez.
Then I saw Noah. He was carrying a painting.
My painting.
The clouds I’d given him for Valentine’s Day so long ago.
He set it on an easel and stepped back, and my chest felt sliced open.
The auctioneer looked at his notes. “Next up, folks, something that’s not listed in your program. A Sadie Frost original oil painting. Very pretty. Sadie’s the daughter of our first selectman, I believe. She works as a . . . a teacher, is that right? An art teacher! Great. Let’s start the bidding at . . . a hundred dollars? A hundred dollars, can I have a hundred dollars, thank you, sir. A hundred and fifty, fifty, can I see a hundred and fifty, thank you, ma’am, two hundred, two hundred.”
Noah was selling my painting. No. He was giving it away. He was tossing it. He was . . . shit, he was ditching it, because what was that phrase? It didn’t spark joy.
He’d kept it all these years. He’d broken up with his fiancée over it, and now he was essentially throwing it in the junk pile, for a couple of hundred dollars, no less.
I got up to leave, tears blurring my vision. Jesus. Why not just burn down my house or stab me in the throat? At least that would’ve been a little less public.
“Three hundred, three hundred, thank you, can I have four? Four, please?”
“Where are you going?” Mom asked, suddenly at my side.
“I’m . . . gonna see Dad.”
“That’s your painting, honey!”
“I know.”
“You have to stay. Don’t be silly, flouncing off.” She took my hand, anchoring me to the spot.
“Four fifty, four hundred and fifty, thank you, ma’am.”
Noah was still standing at the front, just off to the side of my painting, staring right at me.
Something was happening. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what, but that red flare was burning in my heart, and his dark eyes didn’t leave me.
“One thousand, please, one thousand,” the auctioneer said. “Thank you, sir, very nice, can I have fifteen hundred?”
“I wish I could bid on it, sweetheart. It’s so pretty,” Mom said.
“That’s okay, Mom,” I said. But it was a nice thought. Maybe the first time she’d sincerely praised my work without telling me how impractical it was.
“Two thousand, two thousand to the gentleman in the blue shirt. Do I hear three, three thousand, three, thank you, going to four now . . .”
People—strangers, even—were bidding on my painting. Bidding quite a lot. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. That was Noah’s painting. Noah’s.
“This is so cool!” Juliet had come over to Mom and me. “Can you believe it, Sadie?”
“Ten thousand dollars, thank you, sir, can I have eleven, eleven thousand for a Sadie Frost original oil, thank you, ma’am, do I hear twelve?”
Holy crap. That was double my most expensive couch painting.
Something was happening, all right.
Noah left the stage and came walking through the crowd, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Fifteen thousand, fifteen, thank you, sir, can I get seventeen, seventeen thousand . . .”
He was here, right in front of me. “You’re giving away my painting,” I whispered.
He nodded. “I wanted you to see how beautiful it is. That guy in New York doesn’t know anything.”
“But it’s yours.” My lips trembled a little.
“So you’ll make me another.” He slipped behind me and whispered in my ear. “Look at this, Sadie. Look at that painting and how many people want it. It’s beautiful. It makes people happy. You do that, Special.”
“It’s for a good cause,” I murmured, hypnotized by the auction.
“Eh,” Juliet said. “Dinner with Lin-Manuel went for less than that.”
“Gosh, this is exciting,” Mom said. “Oh, the Stanleys just bid twenty grand, Sadie! Honey! I’m so proud of you!”
I started to cry.
“Maybe we should subtly drift away, Mom,” Juliet said.
“Why? Do you . . . Oh, okay. Not too far, though. You okay, hon?” she asked me.
I nodded, wiping my eyes.
“Going once for twenty-two thousand . . . going twice . . . last chance to bid on this magnificent Sadie Frost original . . . sold to the man in the blue shirt!”
The crowd burst into applause.
Noah turned me around and kept his hands on my shoulders. His big, warm, manly hands. “Sadie, I’ve looked at that painting every day since you gave it to me. It’s part of me.”
“Then why’d you put it up for sale?”
“Because I wanted to show what you do. How beautiful your paintings are. I’m not the only one who sees it.”
“But you won’t have it anymore.” A little sob popped out, and I covered my mouth.
“That’s okay. That was the old us. That painting has tortured me for years now, reminding me that I’ve only ever loved you.”
“Well, you’re quite a masochist then, hanging it in your house. You could’ve just burned it.”
“Absolutely not. Being mad at you was better than not having you at all. It was a way to see you every day. But, Special, I can’t do that anymore. I can’t keep you, and I can’t let go of you again. I love you. I love that you’re a painter. What you do is important and beautiful and . . . and magic. You just saw that. If you need to be in New York, I understand. We can make it work. I want to make it work. I’ve been in love with you since I was fifteen. I’m not gonna wreck that again.”
I seemed to be crying. Nope. Definitely crying. My mother and sister watched, smiling.
“I don’t want five children,” I said. “I don’t know if I want any.”
“I already have the world’s greatest kid, and he has the world’s greatest mother.”
“I live in a crooked house that hasn’t passed inspection.”
“I can fix that. Or you can marry me and live in my house.”
“I have a place in New York.” I dashed a hand across my eyes.
“You can spend as much time there as you want. I’ll even come visit when you want.”
“Did you . . . did you just propose?”
“Yes. For the third time, I might add.”
He was smiling.
“Are you sure, Noah?” I whispered.
He dropped down on one knee, and the folks around us cooed. A few people whipped out their phones. “Home is where you are, Sadie. I shouldn’t have tried to make everything fit how I wanted it. Marry me. Be my son’s stepmother. Be my wife. Go to New York if you need to, but come home to me, Sadie Frost. I love you with everything I have.”
I looked down into his dark, dark eyes. They were full of love and happiness and . . . certainty.
“Third time’s the charm, then,” I said. “Yes, Noah Pelletier, I will marry you.”
I kissed him then, threading my fingers through his curly hair, feeling so much love, so much joy. My father’s word to me was the key to everything.
Home had never been a place. Noah, my wild boy, was my home, my heart, my joy. Part of me had always known it, and now I would stake my claim and build from here.