That couldn’t be her dad. Sure, he looked exactly like him, but maybe . . . nope. It was her father. They broke apart, gazed at each other, smiling, laughing.

Gross. Grotesque, that’s what it was.

The woman was tall, with dyed black hair and sharp, strong features. For a second, Juliet thought it might be a man and almost wished it was—Gay Dad would be so much better than Cheating Dad—but no, it was indeed a woman.

Dad had his hand on her ass now. God! Get a room, people! No, don’t, she quickly amended. Shit! This couldn’t be happening. Her father? Her mild father, whose exciting life consisted of reading John Grisham novels and doing the crossword puzzle, maybe taking a walk in the afternoon, followed by a nap? This couldn’t be happening.

They kissed again, deeply—Juliet shuddered—and then, finally, kept going, down Chapel toward the green.

It was as if the scene had been staged for her benefit. What were the odds that her father would decide to make out with a woman on Chapel Street? Three blocks from where she worked? Was it staged? Was it a prank? Who would think this was funny? Did he do this so Juliet would tell Mom?

What the actual fuck?

She realized she was half standing, watching them.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” said the server.

“Uh . . . uh . . . I’ll have a martini,” she said. Her heart was pounding. “Dry, three olives. Chopin, please.”

Her father was having an affair.

She sank back into her seat and pulled out her phone, thinking she’d call her mom right away. No. No, not Mom. Oliver. He was calm. He’d know what to do.

“All right, darling?” he said, which was his customary greeting.

“I . . . I just saw my father kissing another woman.”

There was a moment of silence. “You must be mistaken, love. John Frost, with a bit on the side? I rather doubt it.”

“Oliver. I just saw him outside the restaurant where I’m having lunch.”

There was a pause. “Was it a joke?”

“No!” she said, though she’d been thinking the same thing. “His tongue was down her throat! His hand was on her ass!” She glanced around apologetically, lowering her voice.

“That’s . . . astonishing,” he said.

“I know!”

“Deep breaths, my love,” he said. “Christ, if this is true, I’m gobsmacked.”

Arwen walked in the door, wearing a white dress that fit her perfectly, black stilettos, and a huge wonking single pearl on a gold strand. Bright red purse. Heads turned, as they always did for Arwen. “I have to go,” she said to Oliver.

“Love you, darling. Ring me later.”

“Juliet. So sorry I’m late.” Arwen bent down and kissed Juliet on either cheek. Weird, since they’d seen each other in the office two hours ago. Probably some body language domination trick.

“No worries. It’s fine. It’s fine.”