The Fiancée

by Kate White

  Once the leaves were dried and crumbled, the poisonous tea could have been made and substituted for Claire’s daily iced tea, or possibly added to it. Thinking it through, the latter makes more sense to me, because the taste of the foxglove leaves would have been better disguised that way.

  The trickiest part of the plan would have been adding the poison tea to Claire’s jug without being observed because the kitchen here often resembles Grand Central Station at rush hour. Yet the room wasn’t bustling on Sunday morning, was it? Claire was at the farmers’ market, Ash was on a bike ride, and Bonnie was at church.

  There would have been one more matter to deal with: the jug. Someone washed it and placed it in the drainer after Claire drank the tea, and it probably wasn’t her, since she was beginning to feel unwell. But then the jug was removed later. Did the killer decide it was smarter to get rid of it altogether?

  I lean back against the couch pillows, bewildered. Though it’s easy to imagine how someone might have orchestrated the poisoning, when I take a few steps backward, the whole idea seems preposterous, including the notion of Hannah as a poisoner. She might be a liar and thief but that doesn’t make her a cold-blooded murderer. Right?

  I glance at my watch. It’s after noon. I want to check in on Gabe and Henry and I also need to find Ash, to see if he needs any help.

  Shaking away thoughts of dried leaves and toxic tea, I wind my way back through the house into the front hall, where standing in a circle are Ash, all four sons . . . and also, with her back to me, Hannah. Exactly the person I’m trying to avoid.

  She turns at the sound of my footsteps and to my surprise I discover it’s not Hannah, after all, but Ash’s executive assistant, who must have driven out here from the city this morning. Her hair is similarly dark and chin-length, and she’s Hannah’s height. Though her looks are striking, as well, she doesn’t dazzle quite the same way Hannah does. Even I have to admit that.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I say, beginning to retreat from the impromptu family conference that seems to be happening.

  “No problem, dear,” Ash says. “We’re talking over plans for the service tomorrow.”

  “I’ve already discussed a menu with Bonnie,” I say. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “That’s kind of you, Summer. We seem to have things under control otherwise. You remember Jillian Herrera, of course.”

  “Yes, hi,” I say, and she smiles in greeting. I’ve only met her a handful of times and know little about her beyond the fact she’s in her early forties, recently divorced, and is supposedly very, very good at her job.

  “Keira just took Henry down to the tennis court to hit a few balls,” Gabe says.

  “I’ll relieve her in a bit,” I tell him. “I want to head out to the patio and take care of one thing for the luncheon I promised Bonnie I’d do.”

  “Why don’t I go with you, Summer?” Jillian says. “I can review a few details with you about the service.”

  She follows me out to the patio, where we have the space to ourselves. I motion for her to have a seat at the table.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Summer,” she says. She touches my arm, a warmer gesture than I’m used to with her. “I know everyone must be devastated.”

  “Yes, it’s been brutal.”

  “I’m helping Ash coordinate as much as possible—writing the obit, alerting colleagues, inviting people to the service—but if there’s anything you can think of, please let me know.”

  Though Jillian’s title is executive assistant, her job is apparently broader than that. She not only ensures that Ash’s work life runs smoothly, but I’ve been told she has her eye on the business, too, making certain that none of the spinning plates is about to drop and shatter. During the times I’ve been in her presence, she’s been polite but no-nonsense, the kind of woman who seems to like everything just-so. I’m sure she keeps her panties rolled like little sausages in a paper-lined underwear drawer, but they’re probably sexy, empowering panties from brands like Agent Provocateur.

  “Nothing off the top of my head. How many people do you expect?”

  “It will be only family and several friends of Claire’s who Ash felt we needed to include. And she has a cousin who apparently wants to fly in from Pittsburgh. I’d tell Bonnie to plan on about twenty-five people, not including the musical quartet we’ve hired.”

  Thirty. I understand the desire to keep the service intimate, and yet it seems like such a paltry gathering to celebrate the kind of life Claire led.

  “And it’s set for eleven A.M.?”

  “That’s right. After a short welcome from Blake, Claire’s meditation teacher is going to do a reading, and then any friends or family members who wish to speak may do so.”

  “Um, okay.” I hadn’t even considered that there would be such an opportunity. I’m sure Gabe will want to say a few words. Should I do the same?

  Before I can really think about it, Jillian asks what Bonnie plans to serve at the luncheon.

  “Cold roast turkey?” she says with a wrinkle of her nose after I run through the menu.

  “Bonnie does a great aioli sauce on the side. It’s a really delicious combo.”

  Her expression is unchanged. “You know what might be lovely to add?” She taps her perfectly manicured nails on the wood table twice for emphasis. “Cold-poached salmon.”

  That seems like a pain for Bonnie, but Jillian works for Ash so I have to act reasonably receptive.

  “I’ll see if there’s time for Bonnie to order or prepare one.”

  “Good. As for the event tomorrow afternoon, there’s no need to make a fuss. But it might be nice to have coffee in the room.”

  “What’s tomorrow afternoon?”

  “When the lawyer reads the will. It needs to happen this week, and Ash prefers to have the reading done here at the house rather than making people troop into Manhattan and convene at the law office.”

  “Sure, we’ll put coffee out,” I say casually, though she’s actually thrown me for a loop. This is the first I’ve heard about a will being read. Doesn’t Claire’s half of the estate simply go to Ash?

  “Well, I think that’s it then,” Jillian says, all efficient again, and we rise in unison. “I should see what else Ash needs.”

  “Thanks for filling me in.”

  After she leaves, I survey the lawn per Bonnie’s request, and as I’m deciding on the best spot to put the tables tomorrow, Keira and Henry come trudging toward me along the patio, Henry dragging his tennis racket so that it scrapes loudly on the flagstone. His cheeks are red, suggesting Gabe’s forgotten to apply sunscreen. He looks a little sullen, too, as does Keira, making me wonder if he’s not been his usual winning self with her on the court. She confided in me once that she and Marcus aren’t planning to have kids, and she might not have had the patience to deal with Henry today.

  “Hi guys,” I call out. “Henry, please don’t let your racket drag like that. It’s not good for it.”

  “Where’s Dad?” he asks.

  “He’s talking to your uncles and grandfather. Why don’t you take a seat? Lunch should be out before long.” I turn to Keira. “Thanks so much for lending a hand.”

  “Happy to,” she says, staring over my shoulder. She’s got that worried look again, though it suddenly dissolves. I follow her gaze to see Marcus rounding the house from the side, followed by Gabe and Nick. I try to catch my husband’s eye, but he focuses all his attention on Henry.

  “You okay, buddy?” Gabe asks him.

  “I’m thirsty,” he whines, sounding ready to bawl. “And hungry.”

  “Well, let’s get you something to drink for starters.”

  People glumly begin serving themselves drinks from the sideboard, and moments later Bonnie and Jake emerge from the kitchen with a platter of sandwiches and wraps as well as bowls of pickles, olives, and fancy potato chips. When Bonnie’s hands are free, I take her aside and suggest setting the tables under the maple trees tomorrow, s
ince they’ll provide shade while people are eating. I also mention Jillian’s salmon idea. She nods, but looks understandably annoyed.

  We take turns grabbing food and are soon joined by Blake and Wendy. Bonnie lingers to make plates for Ash and Jillian, who plan to eat while working in the study, she reports. And Nick mentions that Hannah won’t be joining us. Apparently she’s on a long call with her agent that couldn’t be rescheduled.

  I feel relieved to have a meal without her, and yet I can’t help but wonder if the agent call is real. Maybe she’s actually in hiding, agitated with worry. Could my comment about foxgloves have alerted her to my suspicions?

  Stop, I chide myself once again. I have no proof whatsoever that Hannah’s done anything wrong.

  The group is smaller than usual and we make a stab at conversation—about how hot it is, about an article in the New York Times, about Claire’s cousin from Pittsburgh whom only Blake remembers. But beneath the desultory chatter, I sense tension, a tautness that practically hums. Nick, I realize, barely glances in my direction. Is he sorry he shared his concerns with me earlier? And there’s a chill coming off Gabe, as well. He could still be upset with Marcus about the vineyard news—and with Nick, too, as Nick himself suggested.

  But halfway through the meal, I begin to suspect that some of the chill is directed my way. Each time I attempt to make eye contact with Gabe, his gaze pings off a split second later. Is he annoyed that I disappeared earlier, feeling that I’m not helping him enough?

  Wendy excuses herself to call a client and for the first time it registers that this is Monday, a workday to the rest of the world. I haven’t checked texts or emails today, and I need to do that. I can’t afford to respond late if my agent has tried to book me for a voice-over job.

  “Excuse me, too,” I announce. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

  I’m halfway to the cottage when I hear footsteps from behind, and I turn to discover Gabe trying to catch up with me.

  “Where are you off to?” he asks, slightly out of breath and not very friendly. Maybe it’s grief that’s making him act sullen toward me.

  “I’m just grabbing my phone to check messages. I won’t be more than a minute.”

  He studies me, his brow wrinkled.

  “And then I’ll be glad to watch Henry as much as you need,” I add. “Tomorrow morning, too, during the service. And later, when the meeting happens.”

  “Meeting?”

  “Jillian said a lawyer is coming. To talk about the will.”

  “Oh, that. Right.”

  “There’s not some issue, is there? I was kind of surprised when she brought it up.”

  “There’s no issue,” he says, brusquely. “My parents have a will in which the person who dies first leaves his or her half of the estate in trust to the surviving spouse. It’s always been that way.”

  “Gabe, what’s the matter? You seem, I don’t know, slightly perturbed.”

  He folds his arms against his chest, briefly looks off, and then returns his gaze to me. This time he doesn’t let go.

  “Tell me honestly,” he says. “Did you really sneak into Nick and Hannah’s room this morning?”

  14

  Oh my god, Hannah tattled on me. What a bitch.

  “Yes, I did go into their room,” I tell him. “Well, not into it. I opened the door in order to set a vase of flowers on the floor . . . . Did she say something to you about it?”

  “Nick did. Hannah found it really disturbing, and so did he. I don’t get it, Summer.”

  “I was only trying to be nice, Gabe. No one answered my knock, and I decided to leave the vase in the room rather than lug it back downstairs.” I hate being untruthful with Gabe, but I don’t want to tell him why I was on a quest to find the missing foxgloves.

  “Why not leave them outside the room?”

  “I guess I didn’t see any harm in opening the door for two seconds. It wasn’t as if I expected to see bondage equipment in there, or bags of heroin.”

  I can tell from his expression that he doesn’t appreciate my attempt at humor. And this isn’t the time for it anyway.

  “Look, I see your point,” I say, switching gears. “I’ve never viewed your parents’ home as a place where we need to stand on ceremony, but Nick has someone new in his life, and I should have respected their privacy.”

  He studies me, obviously trying to assess how sincere I am.

  “Okay,” he says finally. “I’m glad you get it. You’d hardly want Hannah coming into our room uninvited, would you?”

  “Of course not. Please tell Nick I’m sorry.”

  He nods. “See you back at the table then.”

  Frustrated, I hurry the rest of the way to the cottage. In the bathroom mirror I discover that I look as agitated as I feel. My face has turned lumpy and red, like I have a bout of diaper rash on my cheeks and chin, and my T-shirt is streaked with dirt from lugging around the vases earlier. I change into a new one, and press a cold wet washcloth to my face for a minute, then dab on a concealer and foundation.

  Back downstairs I take a minute to peruse the small bookcase, loaded with volumes for weekend guests, and dig out a book of poetry by Mary Oliver. Thumbing through it quickly, I come upon “Why I Wake Early,” the poem the collection takes its title from. I’ve decided that if Gabe feels comfortable with me speaking tomorrow at the service, I’ll read this because Claire once told me it was a favorite of hers. It begins with the line, “Hello sun in my face,” and goes on to talk about tulips and morning glories and how the sun holds us in its hands of light. It perfectly reflects Claire’s love of nature.

  Before I return to the patio, I bookmark the page with a scrap of paper and grab my phone from the charger in the kitchen. There are a bunch of emails and text alerts, but I don’t start reading until I’m on the path. And that’s when things get even shittier. The first text is from Shawna.

  Hey, just a heads-up. They decided to re-record that story with another actor. Pls don’t take this personally. They wanted the voice to sound a little older. Talk soon.

  Oh, lovely. I couldn’t manage to nail a job reading a story about two women taking the world’s most boring road trip together—they don’t even meet a hot drifter who steals their money, let alone drive their car into the Grand Canyon. Is Shawna being honest when she says we’ll talk soon—meaning she’ll book me for another recording? It’s impossible to tell.

  To my dismay, there are no requests for voice-over auditions from my agent, and the only other professional message in my in-box is from a Columbia University grad student who’d had me read twice for a student film he’s directing. “Thank you for your time,” he writes. “Unfortunately, we’ve decided to go in another direction.” I’ve learned that “other direction” generally means they want someone younger, prettier, thinner, hotter, bigger boobed, shorter chinned (yup, I was told that once), or in their view, more talented. Or all the above.

  I shouldn’t let this stuff get to me, but it’s impossible not to. And right now, it’s piling on top of everything else—my sorrow over losing Claire, the mystery of the missing foxgloves and jug, to say nothing of the tension between me and Gabe.

  By the time I return to the table, most of the diners have left, but Gabe and Henry are listlessly working on a bowl of cherries, and Blake’s lost in thought. I imagine he might be struggling to make sense of his mother’s death, wondering if there could have been a way to save her. I pick at what remains from the inside of my wrap.

  When he comes out of his reverie, Blake looks at Gabe. “You up for smacking a tennis ball around?” I sense he’s looking for distraction more than exercise.

  “Man, I’d love that,” Gabe says.

  “But, Dad, I thought we were going to swim now,” Henry says despondently.

  “Um, you’re right, buddy. Blake, how ’bout later?”

  I flash back to the advice my mother offered earlier, about how important it is to sense what a loved one needs when they’re g
rieving. And I know Gabe’s been missing his regular get-togethers with Blake this past year.

  “Honey, play tennis,” I insist. “I’ll hang by the pool with Henry, and you can come by when you’re done.”

  “That would be great.” He sounds appreciative, and I hope he’s no longer miffed.

  I send Henry off to change into his trunks, and by the time he’s back, I’ve set up two lounge chairs with beach towels and grabbed us a couple of cans of sugar-free lemonade. For the next half hour, I watch him splash around in the pool and rate his handstands Olympic-style from one to ten. It’s about as exciting as waiting in line at the DMV, but it seems to lift Henry’s spirits.

  I only wish there was something that could lift mine. Everything seems off without Claire here, and I’ve experienced a sense of mounting dread since I woke up. Right now, it’s as hard to ignore as a toothache, and it’s coupled with the embarrassment I feel about being caught going into Nick and Hannah’s room. And the hot sun isn’t helping.

  As Henry performs what must be his fiftieth handstand, Wendy wanders onto the deck in a black one-piece bathing suit and flip-flops with the double Gucci G and settles into a lounge chair on the other side of the pool, iPad in hand. We wave at each other across the water. Watching her triggers a memory of the conversation we had earlier today about her dislike of Hannah. Maybe we can commiserate.

  I convince Henry to take a break so I can apply more sunscreen on him and he can jiggle the water out of his ears. He’s brought his own iPad from the cottage, and soon falls asleep on the lounge chair before he’s read more than a page or two.

  I round the pool to where Wendy’s sitting.

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?” I ask.

  “No, no, please sit,” she says, stuffing the iPad into her squishy leather tote. “And while you’re at it maybe you can tell me how to develop the endless patience you have as a mom. You’re brilliant at it.”