Always the Last to Know by Kristan Higgins Page 0,82

pictured her sitting on a panel, fielding questions from disgruntled residents. Now I knew she worked with the state government, figured out how any federal and state budget cuts would affect Stoningham, built partnerships with the business community, tried to woo the kind of industry to town that would be green, clean and employ locals . . . and yes, handled complaints from disgruntled residents.

I felt a little bad that Dad and I had made some jokes about her being the queen of Stoningham.

And now she was having a dinner party, to which I was invited. The first time I’d be my mother’s guest at something other than a family event. It felt kind of strange. Alexander was due in this afternoon . . . March was a busy time for him—all those rich folks getting itchy for summers on the Vineyard or Penobscot Bay or in San Diego. Many yachts to sell. We’d only seen each other three times since I moved back here—two quick runs back to the city for me, and once, dinner in New Haven. But he was coming tonight, staying all weekend, and I couldn’t wait.

To show how strange life had become, I found myself looking forward to going to Mom’s. It was the highlight of my social life since coming home.

Stoningham hadn’t exactly welcomed me back with open arms. I was a local who’d let it be known I couldn’t wait to leave my posh and pretty hometown behind, eager to be a New Yorker. Some of my classmates had never left, and I understood. It was a beautiful area. Others left to go to URI or UConn, came back and settled in, happy as clams. Mickey, Noah’s baby mama, had done that—she was the music teacher at the elementary school and taught piano and violin on the side. Some kids, like Juliet, left and came back wreathed in glory, the local success stories, living in the best neighborhoods.

And then there were the blue-collar folks of any place like this . . . those who worked for the submarine plant in Groton or for the wealthier residents through skilled or unskilled labor. The townies who had struggled to make their peace with a fishing village turned summer retreat for the wealthy. Noah was one of those; his dad remembered when most of Stoningham was dairy farms with a few gracious houses on the water.

And then there was me. I’d run into a few old classmates since coming home, and they seemed confused to see me. Wasn’t I in New York? Art, right? Still painting? Anything good? Oh. Private collections? (It sounded better than couch paintings.) What was I doing back? Was I staying? No kids? Oh. Still not married? This last one was always said with a little meanness, as if getting married would have proven my worth in a way that the other parts of my life could not.

I was a stranger in my hometown, in some respects. I knew the names of the people I’d grown up with—Mrs. Churchill from the library and her four grown sons, or Caroline DeAngelo, who taught me to double Dutch in sixth grade. There were the kids I used to babysit, now grown, and their parents, who still recognized me. There were the middle-aged women who used to babysit me.

So I knew people, but I didn’t have any friends here. Jules let me come over and hang with the girls, and Oliver smiled and smiled. My New York pals felt far away, and the truth was, I didn’t have a lot to say to them on the phone. My dad is still recovering. I’m painting a little. I, uh . . . got a dog. No, I can’t have guests just yet, it’s kind of tiny here, and the roof leaks . . .

There were nights when I was alone in my little house, wishing someone would text me or drop by, feeling a little afraid to reach out in case I’d be rejected. (You’d think a woman in her thirties wouldn’t have those feelings. You’d be wrong.) I worked on the house every morning, learning what wood rot was, finding mouse droppings in my insulation, realizing that one outlet downstairs was probably not enough. In the evenings, I painted for my interior decorators—they’d send me a swatch of fabric or take pictures of a throw pillow and instruct me on what the homeowner wanted—those “little dot paintings” (Seurat, I assumed) or “swirly” (Van Gogh) or