Chapter 9
Even though I know with all certainty that Juliette will not arrive early, still, I can’t take my eyes off the door.
“Mr. Mercer, another?” the waiter offers, lifting my empty demitasse from the table. I nod, and slide my readers back up the bridge of my nose, refocusing on the paperwork spread between my hands.
Only, it’s just a few minutes past eleven, and she’s not coming until one.
Still, every few minutes my focus lifts from my papers and hovers on the door, on the tiny golden bell tied on the outside, swinging with each gust of fall breeze.
The waiter returns a moment later with another espresso, not that I need more caffeine for the day. I’ve already had two. But it’s too early to switch to booze, despite the way my nerves beg for something to take the edge off.
I’ve been around Juliette countless times.
Truly, countless. But today, I don’t know.
Something about her calling me for advice, seeking me out, coming to me–it feels different.
Sure, she’s asking for help but it doesn’t feel the way it does when Kat or Cade ask me for help.
Her taciturn tone on the call, and her even asking for help… that in itself feels different.
As long as I’ve known Juliette Wilson, be it in a backpack or as a grown woman, she’s been independent. The type of woman you have to trick into letting you help because she’s so used to doing–and acccomplishing–things on her own.
She called me. She asked me for advice. And my brain seems to be making something where there’s maybe nothing. I don’t know.
“Hey,” Kat beams, standing above me, the tip of her nose pink, her dark hair tucked into a royal blue scarf looping her neck.
I blink up at her, surprised. “I didn’t hear the door or see you come in,” I admit, shocked, because I’ve been watching that door.
“Clearly,” she laughs, tugging the center of the scarf until an end whips free.
She slips into the chair across from me, and takes a sip of my espresso.
“Lost in thought, huh? Thinking about making moolah?” she says, stacking her black leather purse onto her thighs.
I was lost in thought. About Juliette. And even though there is no reason for me to not admit that, I don’t. Because deep down, I know I’m thinking of her in ways I shouldn't.
I clear my throat. “You know it. Money on my mind,” I say, smiling, closing the manila folder splayed out, tucking it into the stack opposite side of me. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this pop in?”
She holds up one gloved finger, green eyes glowing.
I see Katherine in her, her light and effervescence, and smile at my daughter, wishing she knew just how much she looks like the woman I loved with all my heart.
Cade is fine discussing Katherine, as he was older, and has a better memory.
Kat, on the other hand, always becomes twisted up in emotion when I bring up her mother, and I don’t want to put that on her right now.
Still, I catalogue her beauty and likeness as she curses like a sailor, searching for something in her oversized bag.
“Aha!” she beams, producing a small shopping bag folded over on the end.
“That’s the tie I want you to wear at the wedding,” she says, placing the paperbag on the table, tapping it.
“And I know you’re getting fitted for your tux soon, so take this and have the guy like, I don’t know, work around this. ”
I blink at my daughter who is wealthy and successful and knows so much about high-end real estate. “It’s not like matching a living room around a sofa, Kat.”
She points a finger into her chest. “Hello? I like women. I don’t know anything about getting fitted for a tux.”
The waiter returns. “Anything for you, ma’am?”
Kat scrunches her nose, her dark eyeliner making her look far more ominous than she is. Pretty sure she likes it that way. “Na,” she says, wrapping her hand around my espresso, dragging it back to herself. “I’m good.”
Taking the bag, I open it and peer in at the silk tie folded inside. I look up at my daughter, surprised. “Seriously?”
She rolls her eyes, sipping the last of my espresso. “Zennie doesn’t want an all-black wedding, if you could believe it.”
I feign shock. “Really?”
She nods. “And I told her about your and Mom’s wedding. She thought it would be a good way to honor Mom.” Her eyes stay on her chipped navy blue nail polish as she pretends it's more interesting than the fact she chose her mother’s favorite color to accent her biggest day.
I rest my hand on top of hers and give it a squeeze. “Thank you, Kat.”
She pretends to push at her lashes, but I see the tear that she wipes away. “Cade’s tie is going to match, too.” I let her off the hook, and don’t hold her to the emotion she’s clearly trying not to get lost in.
“Cade’s in the wedding party?” I ask with surprise, not because my kids aren't close. They are. Despite being polar opposites, Kat and Cade have always been close, and I love that for them. Same as me and Geo.
She grins, exposing thousands of dollars of successful orthodonture and retainers–retainers I had to nag her to wear. “He’s second best man.”
I can’t help but laugh at that because if I know my son, he hates being second. “Oh, how’d that news go? Telling him he’s second best man.”
Kat digs a stick of gum from her purse, and strips it, tossing the metallic wrapper into the empty espresso cup. “Like a fart in church but,” she shrugs, “he knows that Juliette is my Maid of Honor, you know, the real best man.”
Just the mention of her name stirs something up inside me a little, and that’s… interesting. I scratch at the side of my jaw, and nod. “Of course.”
She sits up straight, as an impending thought hits her. “Did she come by and take the photo yet?”
It takes me a moment to realize that Juliette told Kat about our conversation.
It’s good that Kat knows. I have no business having secret conversations with a woman half my age who is my daughter’s best friend.
Yet still, hearing that it wasn’t a private call between the two of us, disappoints me a bit, and I have to work to keep my shoulders back and my chin up, just for the moment.
I shake my head. “Not yet. She’s coming at one.” Lifting my hand, I get the waiter’s attention. “You talked to her this morning?” I’m not used to having to be discreetly interested in anything.
The waiter sidles up, and despite Kat’s best efforts, I order her favorite meal, since the menu at all Nineteen20 locations are the same. Once he leaves, she faces me.
“She came by this morning. Total mini crisis mode,” she says, waving her hand through the air as if to say anyway. But I don’t want any detail about Juliette–especially a broken and sad Juliette–to be anywayed.
“What was up? Is she okay?” I try very hard to keep my tone interested but somewhat disengaged. Sweat peppers my spine beneath my dress shirt, and I sip the table Pellegrino to cool down.
“I don’t want to talk about my best friend behind her back, even her man, so I’ll just say–I’m very ready for Juliette to get a proverbial haircut.”
The waiter brings a basket of fresh rolls, buttered and dipped in herbs. They smell amazing, and Kat digs in. “A haircut?” I repeat, confused.
Around a mouth of bread Kat says, “I’m the witty one in this family. I forget you and Cade can hardly keep up.” She swallows what appears to be a large bite, wincing uncomfortably. I taught her table manners, I did. I don’t know what happened. “Her shitty boyfriend–Harry.”
She waits for the joke to register. “Haircut, go hairless, get rid of Harry.” She shakes her head. “Is it old age?” she teases.
I sip my water. “I guess I didn’t remember his name was Harry.”
My daughter loves that response, laughing around another hearty bite of bread. “Burn. I love it. I can see how you wouldn’t remember him. He’s… a jerk.”
My spine straightens, and my jaw grows tight and inflexible.
Anger crawls through every inch of me. Juliette is sweet and kind, and through years of growing up together, even Kat has never had an argument or tiff with her.
Someone being a jerk to Juliette is like kicking a puppy or slapping a baby. It makes no fucking sense.
“He’s a jerk in general,” I ask, wanting clarification before I find this little scum bag and ring his neck. “Or he’s a jerk to her, specifically?”
She shrugs. “In general,” she says, but the last few letters lift, like she’s still working it out in her mind. “Or maybe both? I don’t know. Either way, Zen and I just sat her down and counseled her this morning to dump his ass.”
The waiter brings Kat her favorite–a bowl of lobster bisque.
“I was just stopping by to drop off the tie,” she announces, draping the linen napkin over her thighs. “But damn. I’m glad you ordered me this.” She tastes it, her eyes rolling back as a delighted hum lifts from her lips. “So good.”
I watch her take another few bites, and can’t help myself. “So is she going to?”
Kat’s spoon clinks against the umber porcelain bowl. “Is who what?”
“Juliette,” I reply, tucking the bag with the necktie into my suit jacket draped over the back of my chair. “Going to dump Harry?”
“Oh,” Kat replies, shaking her head. “Sorry, wedding brain, duh. Um. I hope so. He’s just one of those people that never dreams, you know? He can’t see the value in art and creative careers, so he just tries to bully her into becoming like him.”
“And what does he do?” I can’t see Juliette being bullied into anything, much less a new career.
She slurps from her spoon. “He’s… some investment something. I don’t know and that’s not what I meant. I just mean, he wants her to chase some corporate photography and be the woman behind all the brochures no one cares about, he can’t see that she’s meant to create art for galleries, you know?”
“I do,” I tell her, passing her the salt right as she’s going to reach.