6. Juliette
— ? —
Juliette
I’ve been cooking for six hours.
The lamb is resting under foil, the potatoes are crisped golden in duck fat the way Eleanor likes them, and I’ve made three separate desserts because I couldn’t decide which one said please love me loudest. The table is set with my grandmother’s china - the only thing of value I brought into this marriage - and I’ve arranged the flowers myself instead of letting a florist do it, because I wanted Eleanor to see my hands in this meal. I wanted her to know I tried.
Because in my head, this dinner is still a bridge.
I know how that sounds. I’ve read the email a hundred times.
I know what my husband thinks of me, what his mother has always thought of me.
But I also know that people change, that marriages survive worse things than cold feet, and if I can just get everyone around one table and show them what I’m capable of-
“Jules?” Zachary appears in the kitchen doorway, already dressed for dinner even though his parents won’t arrive for another hour. “It smells incredible in here.”
“Thank you.” I wipe my hands on my apron. “I made the lamb you like.”
“I can tell.” He crosses to me and kisses my forehead, and I let him, because I’m still trying, because hope is a disease I caught in a library seven years ago and I don’t know how to cure it. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to.”
“I know. And I appreciate it.” His hands land on my shoulders, steadying. “Listen, about my mother-”
“I can handle your mother.”
“I know you can. I just-” He pauses, choosing words. “She can be a lot. And I don’t want tonight to turn into a thing.”
“It won’t be a thing.” I meet his eyes, willing him to see me. “I’m hosting a dinner for your family. That’s all this is.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t look convinced, but he kisses my forehead again. “I’ll go check on the wine.”
He disappears toward the cellar, and I stand alone in my kitchen with my lamb and my potatoes and my three separate desserts.
Tonight will be different.
Tonight, I will finally belong.
They arrive in formation.
Eleanor first, sweeping through my front door in cream silk, her gaze cataloging every detail of my home with the efficiency of an appraiser. Edward follows, solid and silent, offering me a brief nod that might be warmth or might just be good breeding. And behind them-
Nicole.
She’s wearing green. Not the exact dress from the gala, but close enough that the message is clear. She takes my hand with both of hers, her smile warm and sympathetic in a way that makes me want to scream.
“Juliette. Thank you so much for including me. Eleanor said you wouldn’t mind.”
Eleanor said. Of course Eleanor said. Because nothing in this family happens without Eleanor’s orchestration.
“The more the merrier,” says the woman wearing my face.
“I brought wine.” Nicole holds up a bottle like a peace offering. “That Bordeaux you liked at the foundation dinner. I remembered.”
She remembered what wine I liked. She’s been paying attention to me the way a general pays attention to the terrain before a battle.
“How thoughtful.”
Zachary appears from the dining room, and Nicole’s face transforms. Lights up, softens, becomes something younger and more hopeful. “Zach. It’s been too long.”
“Nicole.” He kisses her cheek. The same spot he kisses mine. “Glad you could make it.”
They occupy each other’s space with an ease I’ve never once been offered, and I think: this is what settling looks like from the other side.
“The lamb is very… rustic.”
Eleanor says it with a smile, fork poised over her plate.
“Thank you,” I say, because acknowledging the insult gives it power. “I learned the recipe from my mother.”
“Did you.” Eleanor sips her wine. “I suppose growing up without household staff does develop certain practical skills.”
“It does.” I keep my voice pleasant. “My mother worked three jobs. I learned to cook young.”
“How admirable.” Eleanor’s smile sharpens. “Marie was always so industrious. Such a shame about the cancer. Though I suppose at least she didn’t have to worry about medical bills, with her circumstances.”
Her circumstances. As if my mother’s death was somehow made easier by not having money.
“She didn’t worry about much,” I say evenly. “She was too busy living.”
“The potatoes are excellent,” Edward says. “Crisp on the outside. Just how I like them.”
Eleanor’s mouth tightens. “Edward doesn’t have the most refined palate.”
“Neither do I,” I say. “Must be why we get along.”
Nicole sets down her fork with a delicate clink. “Juliette, I’ve been meaning to tell you - the work you did on the library benefit last year was wonderful. Really understated.”
Understated. The word lands soft and lethal.
“Thank you. I try not to make a fuss.”
“It shows.” Nicole’s smile is kind. That’s the worst part - she seems genuinely kind, genuinely concerned, genuinely unaware that every word out of her mouth is a knife. “I told Zach, we should get you more involved in the literacy initiative. You have such a gift for the background work.”
Background work. I have a master’s degree in library science and she’s complimenting me on my gift for staying invisible.
“Speaking of the literacy initiative,” Eleanor continues, “Nicole has agreed to co-chair the fall benefit. Zachary and I discussed it last week.”
I look at Zachary.
He doesn’t look back.
“You discussed it,” I repeat.
“It’s foundation business,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want to bother you with-”
“With what? With the fact that your ex-girlfriend is now officially involved in every aspect of your professional life?”
“Jules.” His voice holds a warning. “Don’t be so sensitive.”
The word lands like a slap.
Sensitive.
The email’s word. His word. The word I’ve been carrying around in my chest for weeks like a shard of glass.
I stand up.
I don’t plan to. My body just does it, rising from my chair with a steadiness I don’t feel.
“I’d like to make a toast,” I hear myself say.
“Jules, maybe you should-”
“To this family.” I lift my glass. “To six years of trying to earn a place at this table. To the dinners and the galas and the committees. To the charitable smiles and the careful silences. To every time I’ve been told I don’t quite fit, don’t quite understand, don’t quite belong.”
Eleanor sets down her fork. Her face has gone very still.
“And to honesty.” I turn to Zachary. “Since that seems to be what this family values most.”
“Juliette.” His voice is low, urgent. “Whatever you think you’re doing-”
“I’m quoting you.” My voice is calm. Conversational. “From an email you wrote your mother. Two months after our wedding.”
The color drains from his face.
“‘She’s not from our world.’” I recite it from memory, because I’ve read it so many times the words are etched into my brain. “‘She doesn’t understand how things work. She’s too sensitive, too emotional, takes everything personally.’”
Nicole’s hand has frozen halfway to her wine glass. Her eyes are wide, calculating, reassessing everything she thought she knew about this evening.
“‘The spark I had with Nicole, that ease, that understanding - I don’t have it with her.’” I watch Nicole flinch at her own name. “‘She’s comfortable. She’s kind. But I wonder sometimes if I settled.’”
Edward has set down his fork. His expression is unreadable, but his jaw is tight in a way that suggests he’s hearing something he suspected but hoped wasn’t true.
“‘I’m not totally in love,’” I continue. “‘I care about her. I want to be in love. But wanting isn’t the same thing, is it?’”
The silence is absolute.
Eleanor recovers first. Of course she does. “Juliette, I don’t know where you found that correspondence, but private family communications-”
“Are private?” I laugh, and the sound comes out wrong. “Is that what you’re going to say? That I violated your privacy by discovering my husband never loved me?”
“That email was written years ago,” Zachary says. His voice is rough. “Things have changed.”
“Have they?” I set down my glass. “Then why do you still call me sensitive every time I have a feeling you don’t want to deal with? Why does your mother still seat me at the wrong tables? Why is Nicole co-chairing your benefit while I coordinate volunteers?”
“Juliette.” Eleanor’s voice is sharp. “This is neither the time nor the place-”
“When is the time? When is the place?” I turn to face her fully.
“I have spent six years waiting for the right moment to matter to this family, and it never comes. The right moment is always later. The right moment is always after I’ve proven myself one more time, jumped through one more hoop, bent myself into one more shape that might finally be acceptable. ”
“You’re making a scene,” Eleanor says.
“Good.” I pick up my wine glass and drain it. “I’ve spent six years not making scenes. I’ve smiled through every insult, swallowed every slight, performed perfect grace while your family treated me like an interloper in my own marriage. I think I’ve earned one scene.”
Nicole stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “I should go. This is obviously a family matter.”
“Sit down, Nicole.” My voice is pleasant and deadly. “You’re part of this. You’ve been part of this since before I existed. Eleanor made sure of that.”
Nicole sits.
“I didn’t come here to make enemies,” she says quietly. “I never wanted-”
“What you wanted doesn’t matter.” I turn back to Zachary.
“What any of you wanted stopped mattering the moment I read that email. Because I finally understood: I was never going to be enough. Not because I’m not good enough, but because you decided I wasn’t before I ever had a chance to prove otherwise. ”
Zachary stands. “Jules. Can we please talk about this privately?”
“We’ve had six years of private. Six years of handling things quietly, keeping the peace, not making a fuss.” I shake my head. “I’m done being private.”
I serve dessert.