The Fiancée

by Kate White

  Keira is thirty-three like me, supersmart, and as of a few weeks ago, a relationship manager for an organization that guides philanthropists on where to donate. She’s attractive, with long brown hair, brown eyes, and flawless light brown skin, and though she dresses nicely enough, it’s a classic, fairly conservative style that suggests fashion didn’t make the cut on her list of major priorities. Mostly she’s friendly and thoughtful, though less self-assured than Wendy. Sometimes she can even be a little awkward in social situations, maybe due to anxiety. She’ll walk into a room and for no obvious reason will be wearing this worried frown that makes you wonder if she knows something you don’t about an approaching swarm of killer bees or a massive asteroid headed straight toward the earth.

  “I hate to be a party pooper, but I have to excuse myself,” Wendy says. “I need to check in quickly with a client.”

  “No problem,” I tell her. “We’ll have plenty of time together this week.”

  She sets down a half-empty glass of ice water and as she turns to go, I notice a tiny swell at the waist of her sundress. Could this mean she’s finally pregnant? I know from Gabe that she and Blake have been trying on and off for ages, and we’d all be thrilled if they’re expecting.

  I turn back to Keira. “Were you able to get the whole week off?” I ask her.

  “No, I’m going to take the bus back to the city early Tuesday morning, and then come out again on Friday.”

  “Oh, that’s a bummer.”

  “I know, but I really need to get up to speed in the new position,” she says, not looking all that sad about it.

  I can’t help but wonder if work is the true reason she’ll be here only part of the time. She’s an only child, whose parents—a Black father and Caucasian mother—divorced when she was three. Though Keira says they were both loving and did a good job of coparenting, neither remarried or had other children, and perhaps as a result, she sometimes seems uncomfortable in a big family group, especially one that can get as loud and rowdy as the Keatons.

  “Of course, maybe I should be sticking around,” she adds. “You heard about Nick’s mystery guest, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. But don’t worry, I promise to text you regular updates if you want.”

  “It’s not that.” The tiny fissure between her eyes deepens. “She used to date Marcus.”

  “You’re kidding,” I say, taken aback. “When?”

  “Around two years ago, right before he met me.”

  I can’t imagine having one of Gabe’s exes show up during our family vacation. “Ugh, I’m sorry. Will this be weird for you guys?”

  “Marcus swears not, at least on his end. They apparently only went out a few times before he broke it off. Says she wasn’t his type. So I guess I shouldn’t be bothered, either.”

  “Of course not,” I assure her. “How did Nick end up meeting her, anyway?”

  “Through the same friend Marcus did. Someone they know in the city.”

  “Well, I feel confident you have nothing to worry about,” I tell her, and I do. She and Marcus clearly have a strong bond.

  The sun has now sunk low enough in the sky that it’s cast a shadow across most of the water in the pool, and though Gabe and Henry are still happily splashing around, I take it as my cue to freshen up before dinner. I tell Keira I’ll see her shortly and walk around to the western side of the house, then make my way down a long path to the stone guest cottage, which sits nestled against the edge of a wooded area.

  Because Gabe and I often come out here on weekends, Claire offered us first dibs on the refurbished carriage house, but the little cottage will always be my first choice. In our early days of dating, it gave me a needed sense of privacy, as comfortable as I felt with Gabe’s parents right from the start.

  The cottage is actually an old springhouse, dating back at least a hundred years. It’s where food used to be stored before refrigeration because the spring below cooled the building. The lower level features a cozy sitting room with a fireplace and a small kitchen; upstairs are two bedrooms and a bath.

  After unpacking my duffel bag—and discovering that Gabe, in his typical thoughtful way, has already hung my dresses—I brew myself a cup of tea, then carry it out to the small patio in the rear. It’s rimmed by a gorgeous border garden bursting with reds, blues, and purples. After settling at the table, I sweep my gaze over the Monet-like setting.

  I wish I could really savor the scene, but my anxiety about the morning’s recording session has somehow crept back in. I have to do better at not letting stuff like that eat at me. Besides, I shouldn’t let a setback in this arena bug me. Though I enjoy voice-over work and appreciate how well it pays, the jobs are only a means to an end. If I had to spend my life recording prompts like “Please listen carefully because our menu options have changed” while people I knew were acting in movies and series or scoring lead roles off Broadway, I’d shoot myself.

  What I ultimately want, and have wanted ever since my mother took me to see a touring company perform The Fantasticks when I was twelve, is to engage fully in theater and film, both as an actor and writer. This fall, a short play I wrote is going to be staged as part of a small theater festival just north of the city, and I’m hoping that will help me make more inroads in the theater world at least. Plus, playwriting and possibly screenwriting, too, will be a way to stay involved in my career when Gabe and I have a baby—which we hope to do next year.

  As I finish my tea, I discover to my shock that it’s closing in on six thirty. I run upstairs and quickly wash my face, dab on fresh makeup, and grab a cotton sweater. I’m halfway up the path to the house when Henry comes tearing toward me, dressed now in khaki pants and a white polo shirt.

  “I’m on a mission to find you,” he calls out as he approaches.

  “Mission accomplished. And my, don’t you look smashing,” I say, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

  “Gee bought the shirt for me,” he says, wrinkling his nose.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “The little polo player looks stupid.”

  “Well, wear it just tonight,” I say as we resume walking. “It’ll make your grandmother happy.”

  “Yeah, okay. Guess what?” He flashes his dimpled smile, and his blue eyes twinkle.

  “What?”

  “The mystery date is here!”

  This kid doesn’t miss a thing. “Ah, so what do you think? Does she meet with your approval?”

  “The jury’s still out.”

  I laugh out loud at his choice of words. “I’m sure she’s perfectly nice.”

  “And guess what else?”

  “What?”

  “She’s an actress, too.”

  Oh fabulous. I have plenty of friends from my college acting program and years in the business, but meeting other actors is rarely fun—because an ugly compare-a-thon is almost always unavoidable. As Billy Dean, a pal from college, says, “Two actors at a dinner table is, at the very least, one actor too many.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “She told us it’s Hannah, but do you think that’s her real name?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, your name isn’t really Summer. My mom said it’s Sara.”

  Bless your heart, Amanda. I wonder how she’d feel if I told Henry everything I knew about her—like the fact that her “outgrowing the marriage” coincided with a fling with a coworker. Not that I’d ever do that, of course.

  “Some actors have to change their names—because there’s a more famous actor with the same name.” What I don’t add is that in my case I was mostly going for something more memorable than Sara.

  Henry grabs my hand, urging me to speed up, and as we round the house to the back patio, I see that everyone else is there, talking and sipping cocktails against a soft, early evening sky. As Henry darts away to romp with the dogs, I spot Gabe in a circle with Blake and his aunt and uncle, who have driven over from New Jersey for dinner along with their recently divo
rced daughter. Gabe cocks his chin up in greeting and I signal to him that I’ll be over in a sec.

  I step toward the drinks trolley and pour a glass of sparkling water, knowing there’ll be plenty of wine later. Spinning back around, I finally spot the mystery guest, dressed in a summery red dress with a deep-V neckline and lips painted to match. Nick’s arm is locked around her waist, and they’re chatting with Ash, who’s wearing a grin the size of a cruise ship.

  And I realize at that moment that I’ve met her before. Three—no, two—years ago. We were both performing in a theater showcase involving an evening of very short plays, each one by a different aspiring playwright. She was in the last one of the night, so I not only mingled with her backstage but also had the chance to watch her performance after I was done.

  It’s no surprise I remember her. She’s about five eight, a little taller than me, with brown eyes and wavy, dark brown hair worn just below the ear—so different from the long hair that I and everyone else our age seem to favor. Probably around twenty-seven. Not a bad actress, if I recall correctly, but if she was in a showcase only two years ago, she’s probably still struggling like I am.

  As I rake my memory for her name, which I can’t recall at the moment, Nick spots me, flashes his trademark half-cocked grin, and beckons me over to the trio, his light blue eyes sparkling.

  “Summer,” he says, enveloping me in a hug when I reach him. “It’s been wayyyy too long.”

  “I know, I know. Is your dad working you to the bone?”

  “Only twenty-four, six—he actually lets up a tiny bit on Sundays,” he jokes, glancing at his father. Then, looking back at me, he says, “Summer, this is Hannah Kane. Hannah, this is my amazing sister-in-law Summer Redding.”

  Hannah Kane. Funny how I remembered her stunning looks but not her name.

  “Lovely to meet you,” she says, as a blend of patchouli and vanilla wafts from her creamy white skin. “Nick’s absolutely gushed about you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I reply, realizing she has no recollection of me. Good to know I leave such a lasting impression.

  “Summer,” Ash says with mischief in his tone, “can you assure Hannah that she’s under no pressure whatsoever, but that we desperately need her for the badminton tournament this week? Keira’s had to bow out.”

  Before I can respond, Hannah does. “Oh, absolutely count me in.”

  “Fabulous,” Ash exclaims. A split second later I see Claire signal for his assistance from the other end of the patio, and he excuses himself and hurries off.

  Nick shakes his head good-naturedly. “I’d promised Hannah she wouldn’t have to engage in a single group activity the entire time she’s here, and now she’s just been railroaded into a badminton tournament that will probably go on for days.”

  “I’d actually love to do it,” she tells him.

  “Seriously?” he asks.

  “Absolutely.” She eyes him flirtatiously. “I’m actually pretty good with a shuttlecock.”

  Oh please, I think. Get a room. But before I can duck away from this exchange, Nick redirects his attention to me.

  “I’ve been so eager for you guys to meet. You’re both in the same field and I’m sure you’ve got a ton to talk about.”

  He starts to elaborate, but then Henry pops over, begging Nick to pull a quarter out of his ear, and suddenly Hannah and I are left alone, like we’re two characters in a movie scene in which everyone else is frozen.

  “What a fabulous place this is,” Hannah says, sweeping her gaze around the grounds. “You must love coming out here from the city.”

  “I do, very much. And I’m glad you could join us. How long have you and Nick been dating?”

  “About two months,” she says. “It would have been great to have met Nick’s family sooner, but with work, this was my first chance.”

  “Actually, you and I have met before.”

  “Really?”

  “We were both in the same playwriting showcase. Two Octobers ago.”

  She tips her head in confusion. “Showcase?”

  “Yes. One with six or seven ten-minute plays. Down in the West Village.”

  “Hmm, I’m afraid you must have me mixed up with someone else,” she says. “I’ve never done a showcase in the Village.”

  This is totally bizarre. I have no idea why, but I’m sure that she’s just told me a big, fat lie.

  2

  Okay, wait, maybe I’m wrong, I think, feeling a twinge of embarrassment.

  But a beat later, I reconsider again. Hannah’s too distinctive looking, especially with her mile-long lashes and lips full enough to be used as a flotation device. I know it was her.

  “It’s possible I’m remembering the location wrong,” I tell her. “But you were a cat that a scientist turns into a woman, and then falls in love with. I played a failing country western singer in one of the other plays.”

  I expect her to raise her eyes briefly upward and to the left—that’s where people look when they’re trying to remember—but instead she holds my gaze, her expression blank.

  “Nope, I’m sorry,” she says. There’s a base note of relish in her words, as if she likes proving me wrong. “I’ve worked in theater, but never a role like that. Though it sounds like an intriguing concept.”

  I guess I am hopelessly confused, because why would she be reluctant to admit it? Tons of actors do showcases. And one of the biggest freaking musicals of all time has an entire cast of people pretending to be cats. I concede. “Well, you’ve got a doppelgänger then.”

  “Good to know,” she says slyly. “In case I’m ever wrongly accused of murder. Though not so great for an actor, is it—someone going after the same roles?”

  I force a chuckle. “Are you based full-time in New York?”

  She nods. “I stayed in L.A. for a little while after I graduated from USC. You know, University of Southern California?”

  Of course I know. It’s one of the best drama programs in the country.

  “But I really prefer New York,” she continues. “There are so many movies and TV shows shooting in the city right now, and though I do love theater, I’m mostly concentrating on film work these days.”

  “Oh, like what?” I ask, barely getting the words out.

  “I just finished a pilot for a Netflix series, and—fingers crossed—we’ll be green-lighted this month.”

  It takes everything I’ve got to paste a smile on my face. Am I the only actor on the fucking planet not currently shooting a Netflix pilot?

  “That’s terrific,” I say.

  “What about you?”

  Hmm, what should I tell her? That my main role in the past six months was an “under five” on Law and Order: SVU, where I played a secretary, and that two of my five lines were, “He’s on a call right now so it might be a while,” and “Wait, you can’t go in there”?

  “I do a mix of things—TV, theater, voice-over work,” I say instead, trying to sound confident. “My main project right now is a short play I wrote. It’s going to be part of a festival this fall.”

  “Oh, how fun,” she says.

  Fun? She makes it sound like I’ve informed her we’re having s’mores for dessert tonight.

  I’m saved from further conversation by Ash’s announcement that dinner is served at the other end of the long patio. Nick reappears and takes Hannah’s hand. At the same moment, Gabe heads in my direction, carrying a half glass of wine. People meld together and we make our way to dinner, the dogs practically glued to our sides.

  “Shoot,” Gabe says, “I never let Amanda know we arrived.” He whips out his phone and quickly texts her.

  “Do you think she ever misses any of this?” I ask when he’s completed the task.

  He shakes his head. “I doubt it. For some reason, she never took to it like you have, babe.”

  I think I know why the festive and celebratory atmosphere the Keatons create means so much to me. My own parents couldn’t be nicer or kinder, but t
wo years before I was born, they lost my brother, Leo, to meningitis, and a faint sadness always seemed to permeate our home, especially in the evenings.

  We reach the end of the patio, where there’s unified murmur of appreciation for the dinner setup. A long wooden farm table sits under the vine-laced pergola, and it’s been strewn with twinkling votive candles and tiny vases bursting with lavender and other fresh herbs. Along the outer wall of the house is a rustic wooden sideboard laid with platters of antipasto—roasted vegetables, cheeses, olives, salami, and prosciutto.

  “This looks fabulous,” I say to Bonnie, the fiftysomething Energizer Bunny–like housekeeper who’s standing by to help with serving. She’s been with the Keatons for over two decades and is a total gem.

  “Thanks, Summer,” she says, cocking her head toward Claire, “but of course you know who the real maestro is.”

  After helping Henry pick and choose from the buffet, I return to the line and load up my own plate. I end up sitting between Gabe’s uncle and Blake, whom I’ve yet to connect with today. His short, prematurely gray hair, which matches his trimmed beard and mustache, is still slightly damp from his swim, and he’s dressed in slacks and a long-sleeve white linen shirt. A little formal for outdoor dining, but that’s Blake for you.

  “Dr. Keaton,” I say, giving him a peck on the cheek. “At long last.”

  “I know, I know, sorry about that. Wendy’s been crushed, traveling a lot for work, and I’ve been busier than I ever imagined.”

  Blake’s a dermatologist, an anomaly in a family of entrepreneurs. He’s forty-one and a bit square compared to his younger brothers—I could make him blush simply by saying the words ass crack or lady parts—but he’s also genial and inquisitive, with a big heart. I always enjoy his company.

  Before we can chat anymore, Bonnie and a young, pink-haired female helper, whom I vaguely recall from another event, approach with bottles of red and white Italian wines, compliments of Gabe and Marcus’s company. When they’ve finished filling our glasses, my father-in-law rises and raises his glass in a toast.