Knowing that her father had had an affair had shaken her to the roots. That her father—her father, that steadiest of men, married for fifty years—could have an affair made her feel that every second Oliver was not in view, he, too, could be screwing some other woman, or thinking about it, or flirting or looking or . . . or smelling some other woman.

Perhaps she should lay off the wine.

Which wouldn’t calm her fears. Oliver had never once indicated anything but happiness in their marriage, but it happened. Half of marriages ended in divorce! Half! Why were she and Ollie any better than anyone else? She’d spent half her workday Googling “why do men have affairs?” It happens even in the best marriages, the literature said darkly.

So it could happen to them. Had she and Oliver fought? Of course. About stupid things, like . . . well, like the time she had to leave vacation early because of a work crisis a few years ago. The time he broke her favorite mug, because even though she told him it was fragile and special to her, he handled dishes as if he didn’t have opposable thumbs. The way he let Brianna get away with things when Juliet tried to lay down the law. But they’d never spoken about unhappiness or a lack of love. Never. They’d never raised their voices to each other. Never.

Mom and Dad had never fought, either.

So reminding Oliver that she was a desirable woman who loved sex and was spontaneous and adventuresome, especially after she hadn’t been able to kiss him for the past three days, thanks to those stupid injections . . . that was on her list. As was coming to this party, because Mom was utterly heroic, doing all this, trying to get people around Dad. (God. If she only knew.)

Juliet had dressed up for this evening, which Mom always appreciated, and wore a stretchy white dress that required a serious bra, which currently seemed to be intent on embedding itself in her rib cage. Three-inch red suede heels she hadn’t worn in years. A thong for the planned seduction. A thong that may or may not have worked itself into her lower intestine.

Sparkly. Sparkly. She had to be sparkly. She’d talked to everyone here tonight—the event planner Mom thought so highly of, Noah, Mickey Watkins, Ted, Caro, Sadie’s friend from the city, who was very nice. She’d held little Marcus. Endured Sadie’s predictions of a full recovery for their father. If only Sadie knew. God. That would kill her, knowing their dad had had an affair. The two of them had always been so close. Dad had never paid too much interest in Juliet. Not that she resented it. Much. Anymore.