Juliet knew this was normal. Teenage girls were hormonal and beginning that process of pulling away from their mothers especially. Because how could you bear to leave if you didn’t hate your mother a little bit? Except Juliet never had. She’d cried and cried when Mom had dropped her off at Harvard, and had to pretend to love it for six weeks before it became true. It was only because Barb was so diligent in checking in, coming to visit, sending care packages, that Juliet made it through her freshman year. She was her mother’s favorite, she knew.

And Sloane was hers. Mothers shouldn’t have favorites. She loved both girls the same. But she liked Sloane a lot more these days. If Brianna could give her something to work with, it would be easier.

Please, God, she thought, don’t let Sloane ever get to this point.

Oliver was waiting, shaker in hand. He loved making cocktails to a fault, trying the Tom Cruise moves from that terrible movie.

“All right, darling? Must’ve been a terrible shock, seeing your dad today.”

“Yep.”

“Sloanie-Pop still awake?”

“Just barely.”

“And Brianna?”

“Doing homework.” She sat down on the stool. Remembered she hadn’t kissed him that day, and since she’d vowed never to be one of those wives who took her man for granted, got up and kissed him, then sat back down. “So.”

“Right. I’ve been thinking about the situation,” Oliver said, the ice clacking around in the shaker. “Thanksgiving is in three weeks. Perhaps wait till after to address all this muck? Your mum does love that holiday.” He rattled the shaker dramatically over one shoulder, then poured her drink. “And her turkey is the stuff of legend.”

Her second martini of the day. She’d had to drink hers at lunch, since Arwen had thrown down the gauntlet, and fought the afternoon sleepiness that it caused out of sheer will.

But if ever a day called for two martinis, it was today.

“Do you think she’ll leave him?” Juliet said, her voice low.

“I would leave you, darling. And you’d have me murdered and thrown in the ocean in tiny bits and pieces.”

“They’ve been married almost fifty years, Ollie.” Her throat was tight. “How can you cheat on someone after fifty years?”

“Oh, my darling, there, there.” He came around the counter and put his arms around her, and she clutched his shirt. “I’ve no idea. Your father’s a twat.”

“What do I do? Tell him I saw? Tell her? Order him to tell her or I will? Ignore it? I mean, it’s not like they have the best marriage in the world. God. Maybe they have an open relationship.”

“Well, darling, Barb has been incredibly busy this year, and—”

She jerked back. “And what? That gives my father permission to cheat on her?”