Book Review: Always the Last to Know

Synopsis:

Barb and John Frost are testy, and bored with each other and their marriage.

They have two grown daughters. Juliet, a forty-two-year-old successful architect, has an adoring husband, Oliver, and two beautiful daughters. Her life appears to be idyllic and she’s always been Barb’s favorite, her darling girl. John’s favorite has always been the younger Sadie, who is struggling to be a successful artist in New York City, but teaching art at a Catholic school in order to pay the bills. Although the girls couldn’t be more different, they have always gotten along . . . more or less.

On the even of their fiftieth wedding anniversary, Barb plans to make a stunning announcement. But her plan is thwarted when John, a retired lawyer aged seventy-five, who has recently been training for a triathlon, suffers a stroke.

Sadie rushes home to Connecticut to care for her beloved father and in the little town where they grew up together, she encounters the love of her old life.

Meanwhile, Juliet faces a career crisis and wonders if people will notice that, despite her perfect life, she’s spending increasing periods of time in her closet having panic attacks.

At long last, Barb and John must finally confront what’s been going on in their marriage for years.

Sometimes you have to break a family to fix it.

Review:

About publishing her twentieth novel in the midst of a global pandemic and social upheaval, bestselling author Kristan Higgins says the “book release feels very insignificant in this moment.” Yet she acknowledges that she has heard from a number of readers that her “books have been their key to sanity” and she knows “exactly what they mean.” Authors provide readers with all sorts of stories of “people in trouble, of people scarred with loss and grief and fear, who rose up and took a stand. Whether it was a quiet, personal journey or a confrontation of a bigger issue, their characters walked the walk. They stood by their beliefs and got to a better place, a place where love and safety and happiness thrive.” Higgins observes that good books are a vital form of “self care, a resting place for my heartsick, worried soul, an example of what we can achieve when we believe.”

Always the Last to Know is the story of the evolution of a family. The family has arrived at a crossroads, a turning point. The status quo can no longer be maintained. As the story opens, John has just sustained a catastrophic injury. He suffered a stroke while riding his bicycle, struck his head when he fell, lost consciousness, and some time elapsed before he was discovered by a passerby. If not for that fact, his prognosis might be better. But at first, the physicians are not sure John will even survive. His family gathers around him, awaiting the outcome and pondering how it will impact their own lives.

Higgins employs both first and third-person narratives to reveal her characters’ histories and emotions. Now 70 years old, Barb stays busy as the first selectman of Stoningham, Connecticut, a picturesque little town. Barb was a thrifty, stalwart Norwegian girl from Minnesota when she married into the wealthy, influential Frost family. She shares her perspective on her marriage to John, including their fertility struggles, the joy of finally having Juliet, and how she managed their home so that John could enjoy a successful career as a lawyer. Now she’s bitter and resentful. She describes how she felt minimized, invisible, and unappreciated as she poured herself into raising the daughter they finally welcomed. She unabashedly acknowledges that Juliet has always been her favorite child, and the two of them remain extremely close, especially with Sadie off in New York, still toiling to forge a career as an artist. After so many years, so many disappointments, and much consideration, Barb had decided to tell John, on their fiftieth wedding anniversary, that she planned to divorce him. They stopped doing things as a couple long ago and, Barb observes, John “didn’t seem to care. We stopped talking almost completely. It was better than forcing a meaningless conversation.” Now she finds herself at his bedside, shocked by the depth of her own grief, and struck for the first time by the fact that he has “old man hands,” yet on his finger remains “the ring I’d put on it fifty years ago.” Barb doesn’t know how long John’s hands have looked old because she can’t “remember the last time I’d noticed. We weren’t the hand-holding type of couple.” As she grips the bag she was handed containing John’s belongings, including his telephone, a series of texts reveal the secret John has been keeping from her.

Juliet’s story is presented in the third person. She has been experiencing panic attacks in recent weeks, brought on largely because of Arwen, the young architect she hired who is now attempting to usurp both her authority and acclaim. Juliet had never questioned her life choices, but now she’s no longer sure she’s on the right path and has an overwhelming urge to run away. Her knowledge of her parents’ strained relationship adds to her consternation.

Sadie has been dating Alexander, a yacht salesman, for a couple of years and at the age of thirty-two is ready to take what seems to be the next logical step to formalize their relationship. Alexander is not as enthusiastic. Sadie has been supplementing her teaching income by creating couch paintings commissioned by an interior designer to complement the furnishing selections. Sadie knows that the paintings do not reflect her passion for art and are not representative of her true style, but they will generate income while Sadie puts her life on hold to return to Stoningham and care for the man who “had been my idol growing up — always encouraging, upbeat and fun . . . not to mention the parent who actually liked me.” Sadie has always known that her mother viewed her as “the lesser child in just about every measurable aspect except artistic ability . . .” While Juliet was her mother’s child, Sadie has always been her dad’s. And she is determined to help him recover, even when the doctors declare that various therapies have yielded as much improvement as can reasonably be anticipated. Her father can perform some activities of daily living, with assistance, but he does not speak. Higgins includes glimpses into John’s inner dialogue in his compromised condition — his confusion, dismay, and urgent need to communicate important information to his family members are palpable and heart-breakingly effective.

Barb receives support and encouragement from her neighbor and true friend, Caro, a woman who has been “privy to just about all the issues and troubles and joys” Barb has ever experienced. Sadie’s return to Stoningham means an inevitable reunion with Noah, the one great love of her life. But they never wanted the same things — Sadie needed to leave home and seek to establish herself as an artist, while Noah was happy remaining in Stoningham, working as a carpenter. Sadie loved Noah, but she knew that he needed stability and predictability that she could not provide. He adored her. But they both knew that “love was not all you needed. You needed to match, to fit, to want the same things.” Still, she is not prepared for the myriad emotions she experiences not just at seeing Noah again, but learning that he has an adorable infant son that he co-parents with Mickey Watkins, their lesbian former classmate. Sadie knows only that she loves Noah and wants to be with him, but “I didn’t make him happy, and that was an awful ache I didn’t know how to fix.”

Joy would be the key to my life. Be in the place that made my heart sing, do the things that made me feel whole and fulfilled, spend time with the people who did the same. No more phoning it in, no more good enough for now. I would find a way to make a life based on joy, because really. What if you fell off your bicycle one day and injured your brain?

Higgins charts the developments in the Frost family as the months pass, with each of them striving to find equilibrium and balance both in their own life, as well as within their deeply dysfunctional family unit. With Caro’s unwavering support, Barb reconciles the past with her current circumstances, and boldly, unsparingly confronts the secret John was keeping from her. Juliet strives to understand her own self-worth and strength, and Sadie is confronted with choices that will determine the course of her future. At long last, she must assess her values and desires, and determine what matters most to her, even as she has no choice but to accept John’s circumstances. In order to move forward, both Sadie and Juliet must establish themselves as independent, empowered women who are comfortable in their own skin. And Barb must forgive herself, as well as John.

Higgins deftly and believably conveys her characters’ circumstances and struggles. Each is flawed, all are relatable, and readers will no doubt glimpse themselves and their own family dynamics in their emotionally-charged interactions. Higgins’ dialogue is snappy, authentic, and sometimes hilarious, especially where Barb’s Minnesota upbringing informs her viewpoint and values, and as Sadie attempts to establish her own home in Stoningham rather than continue living in her childhood home.

Always the Last to Know is an unflinching examination of one family’s challenges in their relationships with each other, and dissatisfaction with the state of their individual lives. Higgins’ convincingly demonstrates that families sometimes fall apart, especially in the aftermath of a serious injury or illness that forces them to recalibrate each members’ role and responsibilities. But families can be resilient, and with enough love, empathy, and forgiveness, can withstand unbelievably difficult times, emerging stronger and with the members more devoted to each other than ever before. Always the Last to Know is ultimately an uplifting exploration of that process — a story fueled by hope, revelations, forgiveness, empowerment . . . and joy: the discovery of true joy and an appreciation of its importance in one’s life.

Excerpt from Always the Last to Know

Author’s Note: This excerpt is from Sadie’s point of view. She’s the younger sister…the flighty one, compared with Perfect Juliet. Sadie’s been trying to make a life in New York City for the past ten years, and here she is, taking the reins and popping the question to her seemingly perfect boyfriend, Alexander.

CHAPTER ONE

Sadie

You’re engaged? Oh! Uh . . . huzzah!”

Yes. I had just said huzzah.

You know what? I couldn’t blame myself. Another engagement among the teachers of St. Catherine’s Catholic Elementary School in the Bronx. The fifth this year, and yes, I was counting.

I couldn’t look away from the diamond blinding me from the finger of Bridget Ennis. The stone was the size of a bumblebee, and my hypnotized eyes followed her hand as she waved it in excitement, telling the rest of us teachers-six women, one man-about how romantic, how unexpected, how thrilling it had been.

I had nothing against Bridget. I even liked her. I’d mentored her, because this was her first year teaching. She was twenty-three as of last week; I was ancient at thirty-two (or so it felt in teacher years). It had been raining diamond rings, and despite my having had bubbly hopes on my own last birthday, the fourth finger of my left hand remained buck naked.

Bridget was talking about save-the-date magnets and paper quality and color schemes and flower arrangements and the seventy-nine dresses she was already torn between. Another woman falling victim to wedding insanity. Bridget was an only child from wealthy parents. This did not bode well for me, her sort-of friend. Was it too late to distance myself? Please don’t ask me to be a bridesmaid. Please. Please. I am way too old for this shit.

“My daddy said whatever I want, and I want it to be perfect, you know?” Bridget looked at me, and I felt the cold trickle of dread. “Sadie, obviously I want you as a bridesmaid.” Her pure green eyes filled with happy tears.

Oh, the fuckery of it all.

“Of course!” I said. “Thank you! What an honor!” My cheek began to twitch as I smiled.

“And you, Nina! And you, Vanessa! And of course, Jay’s three sisters and my gals from Kappa Kappa Gamma. And my cousin, because she’s like a sister to me. Do you like violet? Or cornflower? Off the shoulder, I was thinking, but I think my dress might be off the shoulder and . . .” I stopped listening as she began speaking in tongues intelligible only to those addicted to Say Yes to the Dress.

This was not my first time around the bridesmaid block. Bridget’s would be my sixth stint, and I knew what was coming. Engagement party. Bridal shower. Dress shopping for Bridget. Dress shopping for me and the other eleventeen bridesmaids. A lingerie shower. A household goods shower. Meeting(s) of the families. Bachelorette weekend in some city that caters to large groups of drunken people-New Orleans or Vegas or Savannah, which meant a flight and hotel. Rehearsal dinner. The wedding itself. Brunch the next day. All with or without Alexander Mitchum, my boyfriend, who had not yet proposed, despite his references to a future together, his onetime question about if I’d think about changing my last name from Frost to Mitchum-“hypothetically,” he’d added-and the deliberate slowing of my footsteps whenever we passed Cartier on Fifth Avenue.

“You don’t have to say yes, idiot,” came a low voice next to me. Carter Demming, my best friend at St. Catherine’s.

“She’s sweet,” I murmured back.

“Oh, please. Let her sorority sisters be her bridesmaids. Show some dignity for your age.”

“I’m thirty-two.”

“Your most fertile years are behind you.”

“Thanks, Carter.”

“Miss Frost? I need you for a second,” Carter said loudly. “Mazel tov, sweetheart,” he added as Bridget brushed away more glittering tears.

We left Bridget’s cheery classroom and went to the now-empty teachers’ lounge, where we teachers discussed which kids we hated most and how to ruin their young lives (not really). Carter posted the occasional Legalize Marijuana sticker somewhere, just to torment our principal, the venerable and terrifying Sister Mary.

I was the art teacher here. No, I could not support myself on a teacher’s salary at a Catholic school in New York City, but more on that later. I loved teaching, though it hadn’t exactly been my dream. Just about every kid loved art. If I didn’t have the same stature as the “regular” teachers, I made up for it by being adored.

“So you’re thinking about marriage and why you’re still single,” said Carter, pulling out a chair and straddling it.

“Yep.” I sat down, too, the normal way, like a human and not a cowboy.

“So propose already.”

“What?”

“Propose marriage to your perfect boyfriend.”

“Meh.”

“Why should men have to do all the work? Do you know how hard it is to buy the perfect ring, pick the perfect moment and place, say the perfect words and still have it be a fucking surprise? It’s very hard.”

“You would know.” Carter had been married several times, twice to women, once to a man.

“Listen to your uncle Carter.”

“You’re not my uncle, unfortunately.”

“Some men need a shove toward the altar, honey. Shove him. Do you really want to go out into the Tinder world again?”

“Jesus, no.”

“Don’t become a statistic. Kids are getting married younger and younger these days. Your window is closing. Match and eHarmony worked fifteen years ago, but now they’re filled with criminals. As you well know.”

“He was a minor felon, and it wasn’t exactly listed in his profile. But yes, I see your point.”

Alexander (not a felon) and I had been dating for a couple of years. Ours had been the classic rom-com meet-cute. I turned around on a wine night with my friends and sloshed my cabernet onto his crisp white shirt. He laughed, asked for my number, and called a few days later. We’d been together ever since.

We had a marriage-worthy relationship by any measure. Maybe it was the distance factor-he was a traveling yacht salesman (someone had to do it)-so we weren’t bothered by the slings and arrows of daily life together. He was constant-we saw each other almost every weekend. He brought me presents from his travels-a silk scarf printed with palmetto leaves from the Florida Keys, or honey from Savannah. He’d met my parents, charmed my mother (not an easy task), chatted with my father and wasn’t in awe of my older sister, which was definitely a point in his favor. Alex had great stories about his clients, some of them celebrities, others just fabulously wealthy. He was, er . . . tidy, a quality that shouldn’t be undersold.

Alexander lived on the Upper East Side, which I tried not to hold against him. His apartment was impressive but soulless. Every time I stayed over, I felt like I was staying in a model home-a place that was interesting and tasteful, but not exactly homey. He’d bought it furnished. Some of his art came from HomeGoods, and since I’d been-correction, was still-an artist, that did make me wince.

Sex was great. He was good-looking-his hair a shade I called boarding school blond, which would get nearly white in the summer. His eyes were blue and already had the attractive crow’s-feet you’d expect for a guy who sold boats. In a nutshell, he looked like he’d stepped out of a J. Crew catalog, and why he was dating me, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure. “You have no idea how hard it is to find a nice girl,” he said once, so I guess it was that.

But I wasn’t really a girl anymore, not like Bridget. Already past my prime fertility years, according to Uncle Carter, who did tend to know everything.

“Hello?” he said, scratching his wrist. “Sadie. You’re in vapor lock. Make a move.”

Another fair point. I’d been at St. Cath’s for eight years, painting on the side, living in a nine-hundred-square-foot apartment in Times Square, the armpit of Manhattan. “Yeah,” I said. “Sure. I could do it. We’re seeing each other tonight.”

“See? Written in the stars.” He winked at me. “Now, I have to go wash the grime from these little motherfuckers off me because I have a date. A sex date, I want you to know.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Josh Foreman,” he said, referring to the security guard who worked at St. Cath’s.

“Please stop.”

“His hands are so soft. That smile. Plus, he screams like a wildcat in bed.”

“And . . . scene.” I brought my hands together, indicating cut. Carter grinned and left the teachers’ lounge.

More evidence of Alexander’s plans to marry me someday flashed through my head. Once he’d said, “Margaret’s a nice name for a girl, don’t you think? I wouldn’t mind a daughter named Margaret.” Another: “We should look at property on the Maine coast for a summer place. It’s so beautiful up there. And Portland has a great art scene.”

Maybe it was time for me to take action. Juliet, my sister, older by almost twelve years, enjoyed lecturing me on how I floated through life, in contrast to her color-coded, laminated lists for How to Be Perfect and Have Everything. (I jest, but not by much.)

It was just that when I pictured being married, it was never to Alexander.

The vision of a black-haired, dark-eyed boy standing in the gusty breeze came to mind. My own version of Jon Snow, clad in Carhartt instead of wolfskin.

But Noah and I had tried. Tried and failed, more than once, and that was a long time ago.

Carter was right. Why wait? Alexander and I had been together long enough, we had a good thing going, we both wanted kids (sort of, maybe). We weren’t getting any younger. I loved him, he loved me, we got along so well it was almost spooky.

Bridget’s bumblebee ring flashed in my mind. Call me shallow, but I wanted a big diamond, too. My materialism ended there. (Or not . . . Was it too soon to picture buying a brownstone in the Village? Alexander was loaded, after all. As for a wedding, we could elope. No color schemes or Pinterest boards necessary.)

He was due in around four, depending on traffic. Where was a romantic place in New York in January? It was freakishly mild today-thanks, global warming!-so maybe down on the Hudson as the sun set? The High Line was pretty, and I could go to Chelsea Market and buy some nice cheese and wine. We could watch the sunset and I’d just say it: “I love you. Marry me and make me the happiest woman on earth.” And the tourists and hipsters who frequented the High Line would applaud and take pictures and we’d probably go viral.

I imagined calling my dad tonight. He’d be so happy. Maybe we wouldn’t elope, because I wanted my father to walk me down the aisle. Fine. A small wedding, then. I’d wear a white dress that Carter could help me pick out. Brianna and Sloane could be my flower girls, even if they were a little old for that. I was their only aunt, so may as well. Plus, it would make my prickly mom happy.

Yes. I’d propose tonight, and enter the next phase of my life, where I was sure Alexander and I would be very, very content.

As luck would have it, the temperature took a plunge, as weather in the Northeast is cruel and fickle. What had been sixty-two was the low forties by the time Alexander met me in front of the Standard, an odd-looking hotel that straddled the High Line. ÒGod, itÕs freezing,Ó he said as the wind blew through us. ÒI found a parking spot on Tenth, but I didnÕt know it would be this cold.Ó

“Oh, it’s not so bad!” I said. I had a plan, and I was sticking to it. “Just brisk! The sunset will be gorgeous.” Or it wouldn’t. There was only one other couple who seemed to be sightseeing, everyone else hunched against the weather and hurrying to wherever New Yorkers hurry.

“Christ. I didn’t dress for this.” Alexander wore a brown leather jacket over a blue oxford shirt and bulky sweater, khakis and expensive leather shoes. I’d dressed to be beautiful-pretty black knit dress, hair in a ponytail (now being undone by the wind), the necklace he’d given me for Christmas and a cute red leather jacket that did nothing to keep me warm. Should’ve worn pants. And a parka.

“Well, come on,” I said. “We don’t have to stay too long. It’ll be fun.”

He followed me down the sidewalk, past clumps of grass and dead flower bushes. Come spring, this most elegant of New York’s parks would be filled with color and life, but as it was, it was a little, uh, barren.

Shit. Well, I’d make it quick. “Sunset’s in ten minutes,” I said.

“I’ll be dead by then.”

“I’ll revive your cold, hard corpse. Or at least give it a really strong attempt, then go into the Standard and drown my sorrows at the bar.”

He laughed, and my heart swelled a bit. He really was a good, kind person. Great husband material. Never too demanding, always cheerful . . . the opposite of Noah, which was probably no coincidence, and I shouldn’t be thinking of Noah, I reminded myself. I glanced at the other couple. Would they film us when I got down on one knee? Also, should I get down on one knee? These were my only black tights.

“I cannot believe you’re saying this!” Ah. They were fighting. Not a great sign.

I really wanted the light of the sunset to spill onto us, which it would in about six minutes. Being a painter who had once loved skyscapes, I was an expert on natural light. “How was your day, hon?” I asked, trying to kill time.

“Oh, fine,” he said, putting his arm around me. “Pretty sure I nailed down a sale to a hedge fund guy. He wants it made from scratch, of course.” He detailed the many requirements this guy had for his boat-private master deck, helipad, indoor garden, sauna, steam room and gym.

“So just a little wooden boat to paddle around in, then,” I said.

He smiled. “It’s a living. Are we about done, babe? I’m starving.”

“I bought cheese.” I pulled the block out of my bag. Shit. We’d have to bite right into it, since I didn’t have a knife.

“Hon. It’s forty degrees out here. Maybe thirty-five. It’s supposed to snow tonight.”

“It’s not so bad. See? That other couple’s brave. Plus, we’re Yankees. This is practically summer.”

He glanced at the other couple. “They have winter coats on.”

They did, both dressed in those down coats with patches that announced them as explorers of Antarctica. The woman crossed her puffy arms. “Are you shitting me, Dallas?” she practically yelled.

“I never said I wanted to be exclusive! That was all in your head!” the unfortunately named Dallas answered.

“How many women have you been seeing, you cheating bastard? Belinda? Are you seeing that whore again?”

“She’s not a whore!”

“So that’s a yes! Jesus! We’re done, asshole. If I have an STD, I will slit your throat and burn your apartment to the ground.”

She stomped past us, cutting us a look.

The cheater skulked past us, arms folded, head down against the wind.

“Okay, so that was fun,” Alexander said. “They do have the right idea about leaving, though. What do you say, babe? Shall we go? Grab a drink somewhere with heat?”

Do or die. “Right. Okay.” Shit. We were sitting. I scrambled to my feet. “Um, can you stand up for a second?”

“About time. Do you want to go out for dinner?” The cold wind whipped his blond hair, and his ears were bright red.

“Just one thing first.” I looked into his eyes, which were watering a little from the wind. Just then, the sun slipped behind a bank of clouds that had come out of nowhere. So much for fiery skies burnishing the moment.

It didn’t matter. I loved him. He was rock solid, this guy, and we . . . we had such a good thing going. Before I changed my mind, I knelt down. Felt my tights catch on the rough surface of the walkway.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Alexander Mitchum, will you marry me and make me the happiest man—shit, I mean woman—alive?” The wind gusted again, blowing my hair into my face.

“Uh . . . what are you doing, Sadie?” His face was incredulous.

“I . . . I’m proposing.” My heart felt like the sun, abruptly swallowed in clouds. Do not make me go back on those dating websites, Alexander Mitchum.

“I’m the one who’s supposed to propose.”

“Okay! Sure. Go for it.” Thank God.

He laughed a little. “Well, babe . . . I’m not ready. There are things I need to have in place. A ring, for one.”

“We can get one later. Cartier is open till seven. Probably. Not that I checked.”

He laughed. “Well, I’d like to surprise you. When the time comes.”

“I’m down on one knee here, Alexander.”

“Get up, then! This is crazy.” He pulled me to my feet. I felt my tights tear. “You nut. It’s the man’s job to propose.”

Sexist, really. “It seemed like a good idea. I mean, we’ve been together two years. We’re the right age.” I forced a smile.

“What is the right age, really? Is there an age that’s wrong?” he asked, but he kissed my forehead. “I’ll do it when the time is right. Okay?”

Well, didn’t I feel stupid. “Okay.”

“I want the moment to be when we’re not freezing our asses off in the dark. Don’t worry. It’ll be perfect.”

My heart felt weird. Happy weird, or disappointed weird? “I mean, now that we’re talking about it . . . you could just . . . ask.”

“No. I want it to be really romantic. Not on a night so cold my balls are retracting.”

“Got it.”

In case there was any doubt that my plan sucked, those dark gray clouds opened and a cold rain started to fall.

“I’m gonna pass out if I don’t eat soon. Want to grab something, then go back to my place and fool around so we can salvage this night?”

“Sure.”

Feeling like a dolt, I followed him to the stairs that led to street level.

Alexander’s phone chimed. He studied it, then looked up. “Shit, babe,” he said. “I have to go up to Boston. That idiot Patriots player is pitching a fit over a painting of himself that was supposed to be hung on the ceiling over his bed, and the designer put it on the wall instead. What time is it? Damn. I’ll have to drive up tonight.” He looked at me. “Want to come? We could grab some fast food on the road and stay overnight. A suite at the Mandarin with some spa time tomorrow, maybe?”

That was the thing about Alexander. He was so thoughtful. But my feeling of ineptitude lingered.

“I think I’ll just go home. I have a painting due Sunday.”

“Gotcha.” We stood there awkwardly. “Want me to drive you home?

“Subway’s faster,” I said.

“Okay.”

“Well. Drive safely.”

“I will. Talk to you, babe.” He kissed me quickly and strode off.

It really was cold. I started walking toward Eighth Avenue to catch the subway. Soon, I’d be home. Maybe I’d take a shower to warm up. Order Thai food and work on that blue-and-white “like Van Gogh except not as a swirly” painting I’d been commissioned to do. Bitter sigh, followed by the reminder to be grateful that I had these gigs at all and wasn’t living in a paper bag.

Just then, my phone rang. My sister, Juliet, who almost never called me. “Hi!” I said. “How are you?”

“Listen, Sadie,” she said, her voice strange, and instinctively, I stopped walking, my free hand covering my ear so I could hear her better. “Dad had a stroke. He’s in surgery at UConn, and it’s pretty bad. Get here as soon as you can.”