2. Juliette #2
“Mr. Dean?” A voice interrupts us. One of the event coordinators, tablet in hand, face apologetic. “The photographer is ready for the family portrait.”
Zachary’s posture shifts. Public mode engaging. “Tell him we’ll be right there.”
“Of course, sir. Mrs. Dean, you’re welcome to-”
“Table nine is waiting for me.” I cut her off before she can finish the invitation I know isn’t coming. “I shouldn’t keep them.”
“Jules.” Zachary reaches for my hand. “Come take the picture.”
“Your mother has a seating chart for the portrait too. I’ve seen it. I’m not on it.”
“I don’t care about the chart.”
“But you’ll stand where she tells you to stand.” I pull my hand free. “Go take your picture, Zachary. I’ll be at table nine. With the auxiliary committee wives and the hospital administrators and everyone else who didn’t quite make the cut.”
I turn and walk away before he can respond.
I don’t look back, but it follows me anyway. The photographer’s assistant calling names, arranging bodies, the bustle of a Dean family moment being preserved for posterity. Eleanor’s voice, directing. Nicole’s laugh, musical and close.
Table nine welcomes me with warm smiles and fresh champagne. Patricia Prescott has saved my seat. The hospital administrator’s husband tells a story about his granddaughter that makes everyone laugh, and I laugh too, because the performance is the only part of me still working.
The auxiliary wives are lovely, which is its own kind of exile. Betsy walks me through her daughter’s gap year. Carol explains the difference between the harvest luncheon and the harvest gala, which took her committee a full meeting to formalize. Someone’s husband is doing something with boats.
“You know,” Betsy confides, leaning in, “we were all so curious about you, those first years. Eleanor talks about everyone, and she never talks about you. We used to wonder what that meant.”
“And what did you decide?”
“That you must be very interesting,” she says, patting my hand, “or very temporary.”
She means it kindly. That’s the wonder of table nine: everyone means everything kindly, and the kindness arrives with a blade in it anyway, because they’ve all learned the language from the head table.
The terrace is dark and cold and mercifully empty.
I needed air. That’s what I told myself when I slipped out of the ballroom, when I left my untouched dessert and the sympathetic glances of women who understood exactly why I was seated with them. I just needed a breath that didn’t taste like obligation.
I’m leaning against the railing, the city lights blurring through tears I refuse to let fall, when their voices come around the corner.
“ - can’t keep pretending this is working.” Eleanor, low and certain. “The foundation needs stability. The family needs continuity. And Nicole-”
“Mother.”
“Nicole would take you back tomorrow, darling. You know that. She’s never stopped-”
“That’s not-”
“Her family has been part of our circle for generations. She understands what it means to be a Dean. The obligations. The appearances. The…” A pause, weighted. “The standards.”
I press myself against the railing, grateful for the dark. My hands are shaking. I should leave. I should walk away and pretend I didn’t hear this, add it to the pile of things I don’t let myself examine too closely.
But I can’t move.
“Juliette is my wife.”
“Yes.” Eleanor’s tone doesn’t soften. “She is. And I’ve watched you become less yourself every year since you married her. She doesn’t fit this world, Zachary. She tries, I’ll grant her that, but trying isn’t the same as belonging. And you - you need someone who belongs.”
The silence that follows is loud. My own heartbeat is louder.
Say something. Tell her she’s wrong. Tell her I’m your choice, your partner, your fucking wife.
The silence stretches.
It stretches so long that it stops being a pause and becomes an answer.
“Mother, don’t.”
Two words.
That’s what I get. That’s what six years of marriage and seven years of loving him produces. Two words, neither of them my name, neither of them a defense, neither of them proof that I matter to him more than keeping the peace.
Mother, don’t.
Not I love my wife. Not Juliette is my choice. Not even this conversation is inappropriate. Just two words that could mean anything, that most likely mean can we please change the subject before this gets uncomfortable.
“I’m only thinking of your happiness, darling.” Eleanor’s voice is gentle now, the gentleness of someone who knows she’s won. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Footsteps. Moving away. I wait, frozen, for the door to close behind them.
When it does, I stay at the railing until my fingers are numb and my tears have dried into salt tracks I’ll have to fix before I go back inside.
Mother, don’t.
Two words.
I gave him six years, and his entire defense of them was two words, and neither one was my name.
I straighten my shoulders. Compose my face. Return to the ballroom like a woman who didn’t just hear her marriage being weighed and found wanting.
Table nine welcomes me back with fresh champagne and warm smiles. Patricia Prescott leans in as I sit.
“Feeling all right, dear? You were gone a while.”
“The terrace air did me good.”
“It usually does.” She refills my glass herself, unhurried. “Lovely view from out there. You can see everything.”
I hold her eyes for a beat too long, and her smile gives me nothing back.
The hospital administrator’s wife compliments my earrings. Someone makes a joke about the dessert course and I laugh in all the right places.
I am charming.
I am gracious.
I am everything a Dean wife is supposed to be.
And across the ballroom, my husband stands with his mother and his ex-girlfriend, and he doesn’t look for me once.