Always the Last to Know by Kristan Higgins Page 0,8

oiled the leather, polished the wood, and presented it to John when he came home that night. He’d been so pleased. So pleased. It was a vintage Morris chair, we learned, and John sat in it every night until he moved it to his study.

It was the best gift I’d ever given him.

I wondered when he moved it from the living room into the study.

The bag I’d forgotten I was holding gave a strange buzz. Right. John’s things were in there, those slippery, strange clothes that were thin as paper but somehow kept you warm. Honest to Pete. He was too old to be an athlete. I’d tell him that if he lived. He could take up fly-fishing or something. My fingers closed on his phone and pulled it out.

It was his work. John still did some consulting here and there. Shoot. I should tell them, shouldn’t I? He loved some of those folks. I typed in his code (0110, our anniversary), but it didn’t work. He must’ve changed it after being hacked or something, not that he said anything to me. I typed in his birthday. That didn’t work, either. Sadie’s birthday. There.

His screen was lit up with texts. I put on my reading glasses.

After a second, I took off my reading glasses and put the phone down. Held down the little button so it would turn off. My face felt hot, my hands like ice. My heart felt sick and slow, flopping like a dying bird.

I glanced around. Could anyone tell? Were they looking at me? Did they know?

No. Everyone else was worried about their own people. I should worry about John. His brain was bleeding. Juliet would be back in a minute.

Shame. That’s what I felt. Shame and humiliation, and fear that everyone would see on my face what I had just learned.

CHAPTER THREE

Juliet

On the day her father had his stroke, Juliet Elizabeth Frost was considering leaving her perfect life and becoming a smoke jumper in Montana—husband, children and job be damned.

The thing was, her life really was perfect. Excellent health, fabulous education, a career as an architect that earned her a ridiculous salary. She had a husband who loved her and was from London with a dead-sexy accent to boot. They had two healthy daughters and lived in a beautiful home overlooking Long Island Sound. Juliet drove a safe, fancy but not too pretentious German car. They brought their daughters on vacations to places like New Zealand and Provence. She spoke French and Italian. Her boobs had survived nursing two babies, and while they might not be perky anymore, they weren’t saggy, either.

She knew a lot of successful, intelligent women, though her mother was her true best friend. She tolerated her younger sister and was sometimes even fond of her. Her father, who had always been distracted where she was concerned, had recently morphed into a raging asshole . . . and Juliet was going to have to tell her mother about it. Soon.

None of this explained why she was currently sitting in her closet, having a panic attack, hoping she’d faint.

The girls were at school, thank God, and Oliver was at work, designing jet engines. It was lucky that Juliet was working from home today, because last week, when she had a panic attack at work, and the idea of her coworkers, her boss, and Arwen seeing her hyperventilating and crying and possibly fainting . . . no. She’d had to get down eight floors and rush into the Starbucks on Chapel Street, and thankfully, the restroom was free. The first time it hadn’t been, and she’d slid to the floor and had to pretend she was having a sugar crash in order to keep the barista from calling the ambulance.

Today, the panic attack had just sneaked up on her right during the conference call with her team at DJK Architects, one of the best firms in the U.S. Seemingly out of nowhere, it came . . . that creeping, prickling terror that started in her feet and slithered up her legs, making her knees ache, her heart rate accelerate. Keep your shit together, she ordered herself. Her boss, Dave, was drawing out the goodbyes with his usual jargon . . . “So I think we all have our action points” and “we’ve really drilled down on the issue,” all those stupid clichés. Would it kill him to just end the damn meeting?

Her heart was beating so hard, and she was trying not to blink