Always the Last to Know Page 8

  “Yes. This is my son. Marcus.” He looked down at the little black head and smoothed the unruly hair with undeniable tenderness. “Sixteen weeks old.”

  Jesus God in heaven.

  Now I was blinking too fast. Do not cry, Sadie. Don’t you dare cry. “Um, wow! A son! Wow! Congratulations. I didn’t . . . no one told me . . . Congratulations! Are you, uh, married?”

  He leaned against the railing of the footbridge, his face losing expression. “No. Michaela Watkins is the mom. We’re coparents.”

  “Mickey Watkins?”

  “Yeah.”

  I swallowed. Okay. Mickey Watkins had been our classmate from third or fourth grade on. And she was gay.

  “We both wanted to be parents, and nothing else seemed to be working out,” he said.

  I realized a response was required. “Wow. Um . . . congratulations.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” He stood stiffly, the wind ruffling his hair, and looked to the left of me. On the other hand, I couldn’t stop staring at him. The unshaven face that never could grow a proper beard. His long lashes and slight scowl. His big hands, one on the baby’s back, the other on his hip. He should’ve looked ridiculous—brooding hot dad with baby in carrier meets ex-lover.

  He didn’t look ridiculous at all.

  I became aware of the fact that I should speak. And maybe close my mouth. “Mickey. How is she? That’s . . . this is a big surprise.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, an edge in his voice. “Should I have consulted you? Asked if it was okay?”

  “No!” I scrambled to my feet. “I just . . . I mean, I knew you’d been engaged, but I, uh . . . I didn’t . . .”

  “That didn’t work out. Also, I thought you were never coming back to this godforsaken town, as you called it, and now I have a four-month-old and all of a sudden, you’re living here again. If I’d known you were coming back, maybe I wouldn’t have impregnated a lesbian.”

  “I’m here to take care of my father, Noah. Not have your babies.”

  “Oh, I know. Believe me, I know. Nothing else could’ve gotten you back here to this hellhole.”

  I was quite sure I’d never called Stoningham a hellhole. “Still bitter, are we?”

  “Yes.”

  His hair, which had been short a couple of years ago (thank you, Facebook), had grown longer and wild again, and I was glad.

  “Can I take a peek at your baby?” I said.

  He scowled properly, then undid two clips and lifted out his son. I went over to them.

  The baby was asleep, but I could tell he was Noah all over, tiny black eyebrows, the full cheeks, the perfect mouth. “Hey, little one,” I whispered, and touched his cheek. It was as soft and perfect as a puppy’s ear.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Noah said, repacking him. “Look. You’re here. I’m really sorry about your dad and I hope he gets better. But you left a mark, Sadie. We’re not gonna be friends. I can’t do that. I’m not your backup plan.”

  Oh, the ego. “Was I humping your leg just now, Noah? Or begging you to marry me? Because I must’ve missed that part.”

  “I’m just being clear. You’ll ruin me all over again, and I have a son to raise now. So if we run into each other, it’s not old home week. Okay?”

  I pursed my lips. “Got it. But before you go, I have to point out that you were as stubborn as I was, Noah. We could’ve been together if you’d been open to anything but your own life plan. So you ruined me, too.”

  “Yeah, right. Heard about your rich boyfriend.”

  “And I heard about your event planner. So neither of us has been sitting around nursing a broken heart. Good for us.”

  “You did exactly what you wanted to, Sadie.”

  “And so did you, Noah!” I dropped my voice, remembering the baby. Noah glared at me, somehow still looking as hot as Jon Snow, even with a baby carrier on. Maybe because of the baby carrier.

  “Hey! Sadie! How the hell are you, woman!”

  It was Mickey Watkins, dressed in running gear.

  “Hey,” I said, recalibrating fast. “I just met your son! Wow! Congratulations!”

  “Right? He’s the cutest baby in the entire world, isn’t he? Hi, Marcus! It’s Mommy! Who shouldn’t be running with two breasts full of milk!” She put her hands over her boobs, ever without a filter, just like I remembered, and I grinned. “God, this hurts! The second I see him, I’m leaking like a bad radiator. Look at this.” She moved her hands, and yep, there were two big wet spots. She went to Noah and kissed her son’s little head, and Noah smiled.

  “You two okay?” Mickey asked.

  “We were just yelling at each other,” I said.

  “We’re fine,” Noah said at the same time.

  “Sorry about your dad,” Mickey said.

  “Thanks. He’s doing okay.”

  “Glad to hear it. Hey, you should come by sometime. I’ll let you sniff Marcus’s head. It’s good for the soul.”

  “Mickey,” Noah muttered.

  “What? Am I supposed to hate her because you loved her once? Get over yourself, straight boy.” She looked at me and winked. “Well, I can’t run with these milk jug boobs. Noah, where’s your car? I have to nurse this little guy or I’ll explode. Sadie, great seeing you. I mean it about coming over. Noah and I share custody. Three nights with him, three with me. Have you ever seen a breast pump? Clearly invented by a man. It’s a fucking torture device. Anyway, take care, hon! See you soon!”

  Off they went, leaving me in a state of shock. After a minute or two, I started back toward home.

  Noah had a child. With Mickey Watkins, one of the best people in our year, a funny, boisterous girl—woman now—who was always full of life and laughter. Good. Her genes would balance out the Prince of Gloom’s over there.

  Noah was a father.

  It was a lot to take in.

  “Hey,” I said when I got to the house. Jules was there, eating lunch at the table with Mom. “Thanks for telling me Noah and Mickey Watkins had a baby together.”

  “So? You two have been done for ages,” Mom said.

  “Completely slipped my mind,” Jules said.

  I sighed. Reminded myself that I had a nice boyfriend and didn’t care what Noah did. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Asleep,” said Mom, taking a hostile bite of her sandwich.

  I went to check on him; we’d turned the dining room into his room until he could handle the stairs. I fixed his blanket and sat in the chair. He wasn’t sleeping, just staring ahead.

  “Remember my boyfriend, Dad? Noah? He’s a father,” I told him. “He made a baby with Mickey Watkins from our class. It’s a boy. Also, he’s still mad at me.”

  Dad said nothing. He could’ve had you, I imagined Dad saying. Inflexible, that one. Not a good quality in a spouse. I should know.

  For some reason, I had a lump in my throat. Even if I shouldn’t. The heart wants what the heart wants, and the heart can be a real idiot.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sadie

  Ever since I could remember, I’d wanted to leave Stoningham, because even though I loved it, I hated it. It was so smug. So content. So adorable. So assured of itself. In a way, it was like my sister, never questioning its value. Welcome to Stoningham. You’re lucky we let you in, the town seemed to say. If you play your cards right, we might let you stay.

  The fact that my mother viewed Stoningham as an achievement, rather than a place, definitely colored my views as a teenager, when I felt it was my duty to think the opposite of everything she did. When I was little, it was paradise, of course—a rocky shore with a couple of sand beaches, huge stretches of marsh, land reserves, the gentle Sound always murmuring, that one part of the shore where the Atlantic roared in, unfettered by Long Island. There was Birch Lake, still so pristine and quiet, surrounded by old-growth forest with gentle pat
hs for walking. We had the most beautiful skies, and they were my first paintings. Skyscapes in pastels or watercolors, those endless shades of blue, violently beautiful sunsets in the winter, summer skies smeared with colors.

  But it was a small town. A tiny town, and so stuffy it was hard to breathe sometimes, especially if you were Juliet’s not-as-smart-or-athletic sister, or the daughter of Barb Frost, Queen of Committees and Volunteerism, daughter of John Frost the lawyer, and yes, related to that Robert Frost.

  Being average was difficult.

  I had one talent, though, and I would use it to get away, distance myself from the smugness, the familiar, the “aren’t you Barb’s daughter?” of Stoningham.

  Looking back, it’s hard not to be a little embarrassed. Girl from tiny town in Connecticut goes to New York to become artist. Wears black and pierces nose. Fails to set the art world on fire. Becomes waitress, then teacher, then sells out. Eventually goes home to help ailing parent.

  The thing was, I’d been sincere. At eighteen, my heart was pure, my determination boundless. I was talented . . . I’d won first prize in the annual Stoningham art show since I was fourteen and even sold three paintings at Coastal Beauty Art Gallery in Mystic. I’d placed third in the Young Artists of Connecticut Competition, Acrylics.

  I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t draw or paint. I loved it so much—the smells, the textures, the way a single flicker of a brush could take you on a journey, how the slightest color variation could make all the difference. I loved mixing paints, the sweet perfection of a new brush, like the smallest baby animal, so soft and innocent and full of potential. I loved seeing something come from nothing. And not just something, but an experience. Not just a picture, but emotions, an entire story in a frame. There was nothing else I wanted to do.

  Of course I was going to New York to study art! What other city in America was there for art? (Aside from Austin, Denver, San Francisco, Chicago, etc., but I was young and ill-informed.) New York it would be.

  Dad was encouraging—“Of course! Follow your dream, sugarplum!” Mom was baffled.

  “An art major?” she cried, as if I’d said assassin for drug cartel. “What are you going to do with an art major? Your sister is an architect!” Just in case I’d forgotten what Perfection from Conception did for a living.

  Speaking of Juliet, who was also sitting in judgment, she laughed. “You’re adorable. Do you like living in cardboard boxes?”

  “Have you ever been to a museum?” I asked in my oh-so-sophisticated way.

  “I’ve designed museums, Sadie.”

  “Then you should remember that they’re just places to hold art. Have you ever bought a painting? Seen a movie?” I raised an eyebrow at my mother in response to her snort of disapproval. “People who think art is a waste of time should have to live in a world without color.”

  “Have you ever been poor?” Jules asked. “Ever eaten at a soup kitchen?”

  “This might come as a shock to you, Jules, but money and luxury aren’t everything.” She’d just built her house on the water, tearing down an old gray-shingled cottage to construct what was admittedly a fabulous home with views from every angle. “You’re all very narrow-minded,” I said. “Except you, Daddy.”

  “Well,” he said. “If you can’t follow your dreams now, baby, when can you?”

  “See?” I said, hugging him.

  “Oh, super, John,” Mom said. “She needs to have something to fall back on. Something practical.”

  “What if she’s the next Jackson Pollock?” Dad said.

  “Then she’ll kill herself in a car crash while drunk-driving,” said my sister.

  “Keith Haring, then,” Dad said.

  “AIDS.”

  “Vincent van—ah, shit. Georgia O’Keeffe, then.”

  “She lived to be ninety-eight,” I said. “Guess art isn’t always fatal. But I do appreciate the support.”

  My mother would not be convinced. She wore my dad down until he agreed that I should double major in studio art and art education. I had nothing against teaching. I pictured myself in a Tribeca studio, allowing worshipful artists in every Saturday for a master class. At least one of them would be named Lorenzo and be madly in love with me. So off to Pace University I went. (Columbia and the School of Visual Arts had rejected me, thanks to mediocre grades, I told myself.) But hey. It was still New York, and I was going.

  In doing so, I broke Noah Pelletier’s heart, and he broke mine.

  High school sweethearts. The only boyfriend I’d ever had. Wise beyond his years, stoic, hardworking, a fifth-generation townie and my first love. He was wrenchingly beautiful—eyes so dark they were nearly black, full lips that made him look a little grumpy unless he smiled, and wild, curly unkempt black hair that framed his face.

  We’d been friends since before I could remember. When we were small, we’d go over to each other’s houses to play once in a while, and as we grew older and play-dates stopped being a thing, he remained one of the nicer boys in school—quiet, good at sports, a mediocre student, like me. We sat next to each other in band during fourth and fifth grades, me on flute, him on clarinet, neither of us very good, though he practiced more. He always picked me to be on his team in gym class. Smiled at me during recess. Once, he got hit in the head with a baseball, and I walked him into the nurse’s office, holding his arm to make sure he didn’t fall. In junior high, we didn’t see each other much, since he was busy being a guy and playing soccer, and an art teacher had told me I had “a real gift.”

  Then high school started. Something had happened to Noah over the summer. His voice dropped an octave and his hands were suddenly big and strong. He’d grown a few inches, and when he smiled at me, it felt . . . profound. I could practically feel my heart changing—a lifetime of good-natured affection suddenly turning into a pounding, beautiful ache.

  In the front yard of my parents’ house was a beautiful Japanese maple tree, and in the fall, it grew so red it glowed. That was the color of my heart when Noah looked at me, and all freshman year, my paintings were filled with red and black, the black of his hair and eyes, the pure Noah-red of my love. Noah Sebastian Pelletier, he of French Canadian descent, a boy who looked as if he would’ve been at home in the Canadian Rockies on his own, sitting by a fire, watching the stars, the wolves surrounding him in recognition of his wild beauty and soul.

  Hey. I was a teenage girl. It was my job to think this way. I dared not draw him, afraid my mother would find the pictures and lecture me about sex. Or worse, tell me I could do better than a blue-collar boy—Mom was such a snob, and couldn’t resist telling people that my sister had married a man who was somehow related to British nobility. My mother might call his mother and tell her we were too young to be in love, and that would be worst of all . . . because Noah was not in love with me.

  Unfortunately. His gentle, “Hey, Sadie,” in the halls of Stoningham High, the occasional scraps of conversation about assignments or, once in a while, an amused smile when he caught my eye when our peers were goofing around . . . same as he was with everyone. There was nothing special between us, and it made my heart hurt in the most pleasurable way, pulsing with that pure, glorious crimson. Once, we sat together at the mandatory holiday pageant, watching Gina Deluca, who was two years ahead of us, do an interpretive dance of Mary giving birth to Jesus, and we laughed silently till tears ran down our faces, Noah’s hand covering his face as his shoulders shook, peeking at me through his fingers, both of us laughing harder in that wonderful, uncontrollable way. Oh, I relived that moment thousands of times. Thousands.

  The summer between sophomore and junior years, I was fifteen, being on the younger side of my class, since Mom had kicked me into kindergarten when I was four. One sunny, perfect afternoon when the gulls drifted on air currents and red-winged blackbirds called to each other, I took my sketchbook down to the tidal river. The school field
s were nearby, and I’d heard some sportsball type of yelling, but I was on another plane. When I was drawing or painting, I was adrift in the moment . . . It irritated my mom that she’d have to say my name over and over before I’d lift my head, but to me, it was the best, most beautiful way to be, alone in a world of my own making. I’d go for hours without eating or drinking. I could sit in the cafeteria at lunchtime and not hear a word . . . unless it was said by Noah.

  This day, I was sketching with a new set of graphite pencils, a gift from my father, focused on the sway of the reeds and the curve of the piping plover’s head as it darted along the muddy edge of the river. The sun was hot on my hair, the gentle gurgle of the tidal river was music, and the quick steps of the little bird were so cunning and sweet. All of it flowed from my pencil onto the paper, and I was in a state of utter bliss.

  Then a black-and-white ball bounced down the hill, and instinctively, I stopped it with my foot before it hit the river and was carried out to sea. It took me a second to put the pieces together: soccer ball. Intruder. Sports. Boys.

  Noah.

  He stood there, hands on his hips, his legs already a man’s legs, tan and muscled, appropriately hairy, which I suddenly found extremely attractive. Sweat dampened his T-shirt, and his cheeks were ruddy, his hair tangled and unruly and glorious.

  “Hey, Sadie,” he said with a half grin, and my stomach contracted with a strong, hot squeeze.

  “Hi,” I managed.

  “Thanks for saving the ball.”

  “Sure.”

  He glanced at my sketchbook. “Wow. That’s incredible.”

  The heat of pride (and lust) crept up from my chest, tickling my neck. “Thanks.”

  He sat down next to me, taking the ball under his arm, the smell of his sweat and grass from the soccer field enveloping me. “You having a good summer?”

  “Mm-hm.” My cheeks were hot, and I kept my eyes on the drawing to avoid melting into a puddle of lust. “Are you?”