The Fiancée

by Kate White

  “Please, don’t take this the wrong way,” she continues. “I was very fond of Claire, we all were, but let’s face it, you were her favorite, and I think it was hard for you to see how judgmental she could be at times. And, well, how premeditated she was when it came to her sons.”

  Maybe Claire and I had a strong connection, but that hardly means I was oblivious to who she was. Yes, she apparently had certain expectations of the boys when they were younger, but as they grew older, she let them become their own men. Regardless, this isn’t about Claire being Claire. It’s about how dangerous Hannah is.

  “Okay, maybe Claire didn’t love the idea of Nick getting married,” I say, “but I think there was something else at play. And we have to keep looking.”

  Wendy’s face is hard to read in the twilight, but I can hear the sigh that escapes her lips and the swish of her dress as she shifts position in the chair.

  “Summer, I know you’ve got the best intentions,” she says, “but I think we need to leave this alone now. If Hannah’s not right for Nick, he’ll find out soon enough.”

  “But—”

  “And to be perfectly honest, I’m uncomfortable with the idea of doing any more snooping. By the time I got off the phone today, I felt like I’d been dumpster diving.”

  Since I’m the one who promoted the so-called dumpster diving, her comment triggers a ripple of resentment through me. I open my mouth in protest, but quickly bite my tongue. It’s pretty obvious she just doesn’t get it—and if I keep desperately trying to make the case, Wendy might think I’m suffering from a bad case of Hannah envy, the way Gabe does.

  “Sure, I understand,” I say steadily. “And I appreciate your looking into it. It’s reassuring to know the basic facts line up.”

  “I should go back,” she says, smacking another mosquito. “Blake’s waiting, and I know he’s as knackered as I am. You must be, too.”

  Yeah, but I say tired, not knackered, I’m tempted to tell her, because I didn’t live in the UK for fifteen minutes a million years ago.

  I know I shouldn’t be annoyed with Wendy. Since I haven’t told her about the fight, or the foxgloves, I can hardly fault her lack of urgency. And yet I was counting on her, and I hate this sudden goody-two-shoes moralizing from someone who sells multimillion-dollar paintings of nothing but polka dots. Plus, it means I’m totally on my own again.

  Blake’s waiting on the patio as promised, brandy snifter in hand, and Gabe and Henry are there, too, brownie crumbs scattered on the table in front of them. As Blake and Wendy head off to the carriage house, Gabe hoists a sleepy Henry in his arms, and we trudge to the cottage. The night air is filled now with the insistent, rhythmic mating calls of countless katydids and crickets, a sound I usually find soothing, but tonight it grates against my nerves, making me even edgier.

  While Gabe puts Henry to bed, I not only turn the lock on the front door but fasten the brass chain we never use. By the time he returns downstairs, I’ve turned on all the lights in the sitting room and poured us each a glass of rioja from a bottle I found on the butler’s table.

  “I thought you might like this,” I say, offering him the goblet.

  “Yeah, thanks. I had my share at dinner but one more won’t kill me.”

  “He asleep?”

  “Out like a light. He seems pretty exhausted from everything.”

  “I know. He even took a nap at the pool. I’m sure the memorial service will be sad for him, but I’m glad he’s staying for it.”

  He takes a long sip of wine, and as he lowers the glass, his eyes meet mine.

  “What were you and Wendy talking about out in the yard?”

  “The memorial,” I say. Which is partly true. “She’d heard I’m reading a poem, but she’s decided not to speak. She’s afraid of getting too emotional.”

  I settle on the sofa, wineglass in hand, and Gabe follows suit, but just far enough away from me that our bodies don’t touch. Is that by chance, or by choice on his part?

  “Have you worked out what you’re going to say tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I decided to read a letter my mother wrote me at summer camp when I was Henry’s age, one with a few good life lessons that have stuck with me. I made a digital copy of it once, and so I’ve got access.”

  “What a wonderful idea,” I say. “I can’t wait to hear what she wrote.”

  From there we drift into what feels like an awkward silence. Or maybe Gabe is simply grief-stricken and I’m reading it wrong. Finally, he drains his wineglass in a single gulp and announces he’s going to bed.

  “I’ll be up in a minute,” I say. I cock my chin to the poetry book on the coffee table. “I want to read over the poem a few more times tonight.”

  When I slip into bed ten minutes later, Gabe’s already asleep, and snoring heavily. It sounds like there’s a woodland animal rooting around in his chest, snorting, snuffling, emitting a low, troubled growl. I drag the pillow over my head, but it doesn’t help.

  That’s not the only thing that’s keeping me from a good night’s sleep. There’s also a huge ugly knot in my stomach. I’m nervous, I realize, over the idea of reading the poem at the service tomorrow. Sure, I’ve performed onstage countless times, but it’s never an anxiety-free experience, and these are especially difficult circumstances. I’m also worried about Gabe and me. There’s been this odd clunkiness between us since he found out about my snooping. Or really, ever since I first told him about Hannah’s lie.

  But mostly it’s a knot of fear. I keep thinking of Hannah’s wicked little smile tonight, when she’d clearly realized I’d found the foxglove blossom. She seems completely unafraid of tipping her hand to me. She must have concluded by now that if I accuse her of murder in front of the Keatons, everyone will think I’m crazy.

  But she’s the one who’s crazy—and dangerous. The blossom was a threat, but would she go so far as to hurt me? She snuck into the cottage once before, and she could do it again.

  The patio door, I suddenly think, bolting up in bed. I never checked whether it was locked. I nearly fly down the stairs and, holding my breath, tug back the muslin curtains. The lock is in place. And there’s nothing beyond the window but a wall of darkness.

  Before returning to our bedroom, I check in on Henry. The bedding is twisted crazily around his torso, and I take a minute to untangle the top sheet before laying it over him again and returning to the other bedroom.

  Though I eventually drift off to sleep, I’m awake again at around one thirty, once more after three, and again near six, this time without even the hint of grogginess that promises a possible return to slumber. I struggle out of bed, dress as quietly as possible, and tiptoe downstairs.

  Pale morning light greets me on the ground floor, seeping in from around the edges of the curtains, and when I peek through the window, I see the sky is smeared with pink. For a brief moment, my fears from the night before seem overwrought, even ridiculous. But they’re not, I tell myself. Red sky in morning, sailor’s warning.

  Though it’s only six o’clock now, there’s a slight chance Bonnie’s already in the kitchen, prepping for the luncheon. I decide to head over there and see if she needs any help. Coming down the path, I can see the side door of the house is closed, and probably still locked, but when I round the corner, I find the interior kitchen door open and the scent of fresh coffee wafting from inside. I ease open the screen door, and there’s Marcus sitting at the table with a mug in front of him, staring off into the middle distance.

  “Hi,” he says when he notices me.

  “Good morning. You couldn’t sleep, either?”

  “Not really. I kept hearing some animal prowling around again last night. I’m not sure if it was only a raccoon or that damn coywolf. You want coffee? Bonnie apparently isn’t coming until seven, so I went ahead and made a pot.”

  “Coffee sounds great, thanks.”

  I fill a mug and join Marcus at the table. The two of us, I realize, have had practically no one-on-
one time this week.

  “Are you and I the only ones up?” I ask.

  “Looks that way, though the study door’s shut, meaning my father might be in there.” He lets his gaze sweep the room. “I thought it would be nice to sit in the kitchen for a while. I don’t think I’ve done that since I was a kid.”

  “You must have been, what, three or four, when your parents bought this place, right?”

  “Yup. Though of course it wasn’t scaled up then like it is now. In those days you could have a Fudgsicle in the kitchen on a summer afternoon, and not worry if it dripped all over everything.”

  “Are you ready for this morning?” I ask.

  “I guess as ready as I’ll ever be. Gabe says you’re speaking. That’s nice, Summer.”

  “I’m just reading a short poem I know your mom liked.”

  “Keira decided not to say anything. Talking in public kind of terrifies her.”

  “Understood. I guess I’m the only in-law speaking then.”

  “Unless you count Hannah,” he says, with a hard edge to his voice.

  I almost spit out my coffee. “Hannah? What could she possibly have to say? She knew your mother for two days.”

  And probably murdered her, I think.

  “You’ll have to ask her. Or Nick.”

  It’s clearly a ploy on Hannah’s part to cement the image of herself as the grieving future daughter-in-law.

  “What’s your take on her, anyway?” I ask, feeling like he’s given me an opening.

  He shrugs, his expression blank. “I don’t really have one. I guess you know I dated her briefly, but I haven’t said more than two words to her the entire time she’s been here.”

  Should I tell him his pants are about to explode into flames?

  Before I can craft the right response in my head, I hear the far-off sound of tires on gravel.

  “Who could that be?” Marcus says, pushing back his chair. “Maybe it’s the truck with the rental tables and chairs.”

  I trail him through the house to the living room and join him at one of the windows that faces the drive.

  A cobalt blue BMW has pulled in, and Ash is already striding toward it, both dogs bounding along beside him. He must have been in the study, after all. I squint, curious about who’s here so early, and see Jillian unfold herself from the driver’s side, dressed in a sleeveless black dress and strappy sandals.

  Ash closes the distance to the car, and as Marcus and I stand there watching silently, he takes Jillian into his arms and embraces her.

  16

  Tell me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing,” Marcus says under his breath.

  “I—”

  But I’m at a loss for words. It’s like I’m watching a play in which all the actors have strayed disastrously away from the script.

  When Ash and Jillian break apart and turn in the direction of the house, Marcus grabs my wrist.

  “Let’s go,” he hisses. “We can’t let them see us.”

  We hurry back through the house to the kitchen, making sure the swinging door closes behind us. Marcus’s cheeks have reddened from shock, and probably anger, too.

  “Marcus,” I say, my voice low. “It might not be what it seems.”

  “Oh yeah? You mean my father and his assistant weren’t really clinging to each other in the fucking driveway?”

  “No. But maybe it was nothing more than a comforting hug.”

  Do I actually mean that? I don’t have any idea. All I know is that I feel sick to my stomach.

  “Bosses and employees hugging to comfort each other?” he says, his tone still brimming with sarcasm. “I didn’t think that was supposed to happen even before the Me Too era.”

  “I’m not saying it’s common, but a director I once worked with bear-hugged everybody, and I doubt it was ever sexual. Your dad’s a paternal kind of guy and Jillian’s been with him for at least five or six years, right?”

  From far off comes the dull thud of the front door closing, and we both straighten, but no audible footsteps follow. Chances are Ash and Jillian have retreated to the study, where they spent so much of yesterday, something that didn’t raise a red flag then but perhaps should have.

  Marcus expels a long, rough sigh and sinks into a chair at the table. “Maybe. But . . .” His voice trails off and he kneads his temples with his fingertips.

  “But what?”

  “Lately, I had this weird sense that . . . there was a distance between my parents. They didn’t seem to talk a lot to each other, or even make eye contact as much as usual.”

  “But your dad made that beautiful toast at dinner the night we arrived. He—” As I flash back to that moment, however, other memories nudge it out of place. Claire eating breakfast alone in the kitchen. Claire eating lunch alone. Ash going on a bike ride alone when in the past they generally went out together on Sundays. The fact that I rarely saw them interact over the weekend. I’d been so preoccupied, I hadn’t let those details snag my attention.

  “Maybe it had to do with them being superbusy. They had nine houseguests, after all. Or they were just going through a little rough patch.”

  He shrugs, unconvinced, and drops his gaze to the table. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Not sure.” His eyes cut quickly to mine. “But listen, don’t say anything to Gabe, okay?”

  I throw up a hand. “Whoa, Marcus, you can’t make me promise that. I think Gabe would feel he has a right to know.”

  What I don’t add is that my husband’s probably still smarting from the Spanish vineyard kerfuffle, and Marcus keeping another secret from him would go over really poorly.

  “Okay, okay. But can you hold off a little while? I . . . I’ll talk to my father, ask him about Jillian. Maybe it’s what you said—a comforting hug.”

  “All right,” I respond, without enthusiasm. He’s suggesting that he leave Gabe in the dark again until he supposedly gathers more information—but this time I’m in on the deception. As I hurry toward the cottage a few minutes later, I realize that I wouldn’t tell Gabe right now anyway. I don’t want to knock the wind out of his sails before the memorial service.

  Gabe’s not on the first floor of the cottage when I arrive, but I can hear him clomping around upstairs. I quickly start the coffee machine and grab bread, and butter and yogurt from the fridge.

  By the time he enters the kitchen, the coffee’s already dripping into the carafe.

  “Hey, morning,” he says.

  “Morning, honey. Henry still sleeping?”

  “Yeah, he’s so wiped, I’m going to wait to wake him. You been out already?”

  “Yeah, I was going to check if Bonnie needed anything, but she’s not coming till seven. I’ll have a cup of coffee with you and then go back over there.”

  He doesn’t ask if anyone else was up already, which thankfully means I don’t have to dance around the truth with him.

  I pour us each a cup, and Gabe slices off a piece of bread from the loaf. As I watch him drop it into the toaster, with his shoulders uncharacteristically slumped, I realize how much I want to be there for him right now, and yet I’m not sure exactly how. Does he want to talk about his grief, try to shape it into words, or would he prefer to seek comfort in silence? I once again conjure up the advice my mom offered me on the phone: Follow his lead.

  Rather than talk, Gabe sits at the table and scans his phone, pressing his index finger against his lip. In the awkward quiet, I end up fixing a piece of toast for myself, something I haven’t done in ages, not since I made a full-bore commitment to trying to be cast as the female lead and not her carb-loving, wiseass best friend. It tastes incredible, making me realize how much I’m in need of comfort food.

  But the dread that hounded me last night soon rears its head again. I feel disconnected from my husband, when I should be helping him. Ash might be having an affair with his assistant. And there’s probably a murderer on the property, one who knows I’m wise to her.
>
  “It’s almost seven,” I tell Gabe. “I think I’ll scoot over to the house again and check in with Bonnie. I’ll be back to help get Henry dressed.”

  “Thanks,” he says distractedly, eyes still glued to his phone.

  “Let me know if there’s anything else, will you?” I kiss the top of his head good-bye.

  “By the way,” he calls out as I approach the door. “Dad worked out the order for the service. Blake will welcome everyone. Then there’ll be some kind of spiritual reading. Two of Mom’s friends will speak next, followed by Hannah, you, and us four guys at the end.”

  “Got it. Are you sure you don’t want to see the poem I picked? It’s called ‘Why I Wake Early.’”

  “No, like I said, I trust your judgment. And I want to be surprised.”

  I’m touched by this. Maybe once the service is over, things will feel less stiff between us.

  Bonnie’s in the kitchen when I arrive, along with Jake and two additional helpers, both twentysomething women. They’re all in black pants and white collared shirts beneath their aprons, though Jake’s shirt looks like it might have been recently balled up in a hamper.

  “You guys look nice,” I say.

  Bonnie blows a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Yeah, well, Jake is going to tend bar so he needs to iron his shirt, but there are a few items ahead of it on the list,” she says.

  “You want any help?” I ask.

  “I think we have everything under control. Oh, actually, there is something you can do.” She steps closer, dropping her voice. “You can do your best to keep Jillian off my case.”

  “Has she been a problem?” I ask, my heart skipping. That worrisome scene from the driveway keeps replaying in my mind.

  “She’s been up in my business since yesterday. Making sure I’d bought the salmon, telling me what we should wear today as if I didn’t know, even asking me what’s in the damn salads.”

  And then as if on cue, the door from the dining room swings open, and Jillian steps into the room. I quickly set my facial expression to neutral, but Bonnie’s is frozen in annoyance.

  “Morning, Summer,” Jillian says and then shifts her attention to Bonnie without uttering her name. “Everything for lunch on schedule?”