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“No,” Frankie says, shaking her head, “she confused one for the other. Called Hope by Faith’s name or vice versa—I can’t remember. But come on, Jo. Drunk is drunk. You’ve been saying it for a while, and old Judith has a real problem with the sauce, doesn’t she?”

“Yes!” Jo says with emphasis. “I really, really think it’s an issue. I tried to talk to Vance about it when she fell in the pool, and I could tell he worries about it too, but I don’t know what else I can do.”

“We could talk to her. Sit her down. Ask her if she realizes it’s a problem.”

“I don’t know…” Jo is hesitant to confront a woman who is, in her mind, fairly reserved and private. She doesn’t want to alienate Jude altogether. “But what if she’d driven to pick up the girls in that state?”

Frankie tut-tuts as she shakes her head. They pass by a house at the end of a street where a couple is sitting on a porch swing, rocking back and forth slowly as they sit there sipping drinks. Frankie and Jo wave at them, and the couple waves back.

“True,” Frankie says as they round the corner and are once again out of earshot of their neighbors. “That would kill me if anything happened to the girls and we didn’t speak up.”

“Let me think of how we can approach this,” Jo says, flicking the ash of her cigarette. She still can’t believe sometimes that she, Josephine Booker, smokes cigarettes as she walks around beneath the palm trees and the evening sky in balmy Florida. Two years ago, she never would have imagined the life she has now, but somehow it all feels right. Like a natural transition from the old Jo to the new one.

“Hey, what happened with the stories?” Frankie nudges Jo, pulling her attention back from thoughts of how things used to be. “You called me a couple of evenings ago in a tizzy because Bill had asked to read them.”

Jo is mildly embarrassed now to remember that she’d gone into the bedroom and dialed Frankie from there, whispering covertly as everyone washed up for dinner. “It just felt weird,” she says. “He’s never really shown any interest in reading my stories, and sometimes I feel like he’s just kind of amused at my little ten dollar checks. He seemed a little perplexed about the reading on the night of the accident, too. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think he’s proud of me, but I’m not sure he sees what all the fuss is about. He just doesn't seem to care.”

“The fuss is that you’ve become a published writer,” Frankie says loyally, her defensiveness creeping up as she stops walking. “He should be more than proud. He should be telling every person he meets that his wife is incredible.”

Jo laughs. “Let’s not get carried away,” she says, dropping her cigarette on the pavement and grinding it out with the toe of her shoe. “My real concern is that he’s going to be mad. There’s way too much in those stories that he’s going to think I’ve stolen from our lives, and Bill is not that kind of man. He’s very buttoned-up, and he’s serious.”

“Yes, I’ve gathered,” Frankie says wryly. “But don’t you think that maybe he’ll just see it as art imitating life? That some of your reality has crept into your work? That happens all the time with artists.”

“Maybe,” Jo muses. “We’ll see. He asked for the stories two days ago and I gave him a stack of magazines, and he hasn’t mentioned them since. So I have no idea what’s going on, and I’m a little afraid to ask.”

The women walk on in contemplative silence for a while, watching as cars drive by lazily on the streets, pulling into driveways, or disappearing around corners.

“So what are you writing now?” Frankie finally breaks the silence.

“I’m trying to write an installment that sticks to the main characters and their relationship, but I have to tell you, Frank, it’s been incredibly hard to leave out the things that have been really happening: Margaret’s death, and the explosion. Can you imagine how much a tragedy would ramp up the emotion of this story?” Jo reaches over and grabs the elbow of Frankie’s blouse as she talks. “But that would be too much—I can’t include either of those things.”

Frankie narrows her eyes, considering the dilemma. “Yeah, I’m with you there. But in the story, Winston’s first wife already died of cancer, so you couldn’t really have her die again, and putting in the Gemini disaster would be the fastest way to get pulled into NASA and reprimanded. I think they’re proud of you, but not looking for you to fictionalize their worst moments. Bill’s already got enough problems without getting called on the carpet for his wife misbehaving.” She wags a finger at Jo with a faux stern look on her face.

“You are so right,” Jo says, shaking her head. They’ve looped around the block and are back on her street. “I should probably head in here—I promised Kate I’d read her two chapters of her book tonight before bed if she helped her sister dust the living room while I was gone.”

“Bribery,” Frankie says with a wink. “I like it.”

The women hug lightly and part ways, but Jo can’t stop thinking about Frankie’s words: Bill does have a lot on his plate, but is his stress that obvious to everyone else? She hasn’t even mentioned seeing him and Jeanie Florence together the night of the disaster—in fact, shecan’tbring herself to talk about it, even with Frankie—and even without that little bit of drama, Bill is coming across as overburdened to Frankie.

This tickles the back of her mind as she tucks Kate in that night and readsCharlotte’s Webwith her youngest child. Usually, she’s the only one who can see when Bill is having a hard time, so if Frankie can pick up on it, then maybe they really are in trouble. Maybe he’s not doing as good of a job of keeping his ups and downs tucked away and reserved for quiet times as Jo thinks he is. Maybe he’s spiraling at work, and the other guys are seeing it and talking about it to their wives.

None of these thoughts comfort Jo, but as she turns out the lamp next to Kate’s bed and pauses in the doorway to watch her daughter’s sweet face in the light from the moon, she knows there’s really nothing she can do about it. She can keep an eye on him, but ultimately, Bill has to fix himself--no one else can do that for him.

CHAPTER9

Jude

“You can’t keep doing this,”Vance says, pacing the length of the carpet next to their bed. Jude is sitting at the foot of it, her head in her hands, elbows on her knees. “You cannot drink this much and function, Judith. It’s not acceptable, and it’s not right.”

Tears fill Jude’s eyes as she avoids her husband’s gaze. It’s Saturday morning, and it’s been a few days since Frankie brought the girls home from dance class. She’d said nothing to Jude when she did, other than the fact that it was “no problem,” and that she was “happy to do it anytime” before she turned and walked off their porch with a quick backward glance. But somehow she must have picked up on the fact that Jude had over-served herself in her own kitchen and reported back to Jo or one of the other wives. Jude can’t imagine how else Vance has gotten it in his head that she’s sitting around the house drinking.

“Do you know how much stress I have at work right now?” Vance asks her, his face incredulous. “Do you understand how much I need my wife to be here, be sober, and be raising our daughters without making a spectacle of us? Or, even worse, getting into an accident with the girls in the car after dance class?” He stops pacing and stares at her, his eyes searching her face as she turns her head to look up at him. “I’m counting on you, Jude. We’re partners here. I can’t parent three girls.”

This stings. Calling her a child is an unnecessary blow, though Jude can see the parallels he’s drawing, as she currently feels a lot like a teenager girl being lectured by her overbearing father.

“I have a cocktail sometimes while I make dinner,” Jude says, standing up. She’s decided the path she wants to take, and she’s sticking with it. “I’m never drunk during the day, Vance. I don’t sit around here with a drink in hand, ignoring my children. It isn’t like that.”

Vance watches her for a beat and his shoulders slump in defeat. “Judith,” he says hoarsely. “I need you to get yourself well. I have too much on my plate to do this alone.”