by Kate White
“Yup. Though we have to get breakfast out of the way first.”
“Understood. But wouldn’t it make sense to at least start setting up the dining room?”
Bonnie looks startled by the suggestion. “But we’re not using the dining room. We’re serving lunch outside.”
“Outside?” Jillian says. “I don’t think we want the reception to feel like a Fourth of July picnic, do we?”
Bonnie’s shoulders sag, as if she’s decided she’s no match for Jillian, and angry indignation stirs inside me. Regardless of what may or may not be going on with Ash, Jillian is his assistant, not the lady of the house. At least not yet. I shift my body to square my shoulders with hers.
“Actually, Jillian, I think outdoors is exactly what Claire would have wanted,” I say. “She loved entertaining guests al fresco.”
“If that’s what you’d like,” she says crisply. “I’m simply trying to make sure things go smoothly for Ash’s sake.”
“Of course. But Bonnie has this covered. She was Claire’s right hand in the kitchen for years.”
I may be out of line here, but I don’t care.
Jillian doesn’t slink off. That’s not her style. Instead, she gives us a tight smile and turns on her heel.
“Thank you,” Bonnie says as soon as she’s gone. “That’s one less thing to worry about now.”
It seems like the right moment to take my leave, too, and I head outside through the back door. Clacking sounds fill the air, and as I round the corner of the house, I see that Blake is supervising as two groundskeepers set up the rented white folding chairs in rows on the lawn. If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone was getting married here today.
And what a beautiful day the lucky couple would have. For the first time I take note of the bright blue sky. So much for red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning.
The next several hours go by in a blur. Back at the cottage I find Henry awake and Gabe urging him into the shower. I rummage through Henry’s duffel and dig out khaki pants and the one collared shirt he’s brought, then press them on the kitchen table with an iron from under the sink. When Gabe and Henry depart in search of another round of breakfast, I shower quickly, blow-dry my hair, and apply foundation, blush, eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick. Once downstairs again, I reach for the Mary Oliver book, which is still lying on the coffee table, and open it to “Why I Wake Early.”
By now I have the poem memorized, but I plan to hold the book when I’m speaking and glance down a few times so that it looks as if I’m reading, not reciting, which I’ve decided will seem more natural and appropriate for the occasion. I say it aloud a few more times, to make certain I have the beats and emphases right, and I practice making eye contact, using the sitting room furniture as stand-ins for people. I’ve only been in one or two plays where the actors “broke the fourth wall,” that is, acknowledged the presence of the audience, and I need to be comfortable doing it today. Done practicing, I tuck the book into my purse.
By ten fifteen, Henry and Gabe have returned, and the three of us are ready, as spruced up as we can be, considering we obviously hadn’t packed anything for a funeral. I’m wearing a flowy black dress dotted with small pink flowers, and Gabe’s in navy slacks and a blue-and-white-striped dress shirt. The deep circles under my husband’s eyes betray how tough this morning is for him.
Though there’s still forty-five minutes to go until the service, a few people are already mingling on the lawn when we show up there. Some of them turn out to be the members of the string quartet, and I also spot Denton Healy, Claire’s friend and former business partner, who retired a year or two before she did. He’s with his husband, who’s helping him set up several gorgeous floral arrangements he’s designed and brought for the occasion. Blake’s here, too, I notice, now sporting a navy blazer. As far as I know, he’s never left home without one.
Wendy arrives a few minutes later, followed by Keira and Marcus, and my stomach churns as I wait for Hannah’s grand entrance. And then suddenly she’s there, holding hands with Nick and dressed in dark pants and a bright pink blouse. Her choice of outfit surprises me, since she’s worn a dress for dinner every night so far. But I realize that her sundresses tend to reveal a fair amount of cleavage, so perhaps she’s decided that this is not the moment to be treating us all to the sight of her breasts.
As Henry scampers through the grass with Bella and Ginger—and the quartet begins to play a soft classical music piece—Gabe and his brothers merge into a loose conversational group, along with us, their partners. There’s no effort from Hannah to make any eye contact with me this time, which I take as a small blessing. Maybe she’s busy mentally prepping for a reading she’s hoping to wow the crowd with. What could she possibly say about Claire that could be meaningful to anyone here?
Soon, Claire’s long-lost cousin arrives, and shortly after that I spot her college friend, Ellen, emerging from the side of the house. She’s tall, probably six feet, with superstraight posture, which enhances how stunning she looks in the black summer suit she’s chosen for today. While Blake and Gabe greet their mother’s cousin, I make my way toward Ellen and pull her into a hug.
After we separate, she pushes her sunglasses up into her silver hair, to reveal eyes that are bloodshot and puffy.
“Oh, Ellen,” I say, “I’m so sorry. You knew Claire longer than any of us.”
She manages a smile. “Goodness, this is so dreadful. I’ve been on a crying jag for two days.”
I nod. “It’s completely understandable. We’re all so unbearably sad.”
“This isn’t the moment, but can I call you later this week to hear more about what happened to Claire? Ash told me a little, but this seemed to come out of nowhere.”
“I’d be glad to fill you in, though I don’t know much.” Would I ever dare share my theory with her? Ellen seems like a shrewd judge of character. Not at this juncture, I decide.
“Good, I’d appreciate that.” She scans the small crowd and absentmindedly touches the Hermès scarf tied loosely around her neck. “Who’s the beauty in hot pink with Nick? Is that his latest squeeze? I’ve been up in Maine since late June, with miserable Wi-Fi, so Claire and I weren’t emailing as much as usual.”
Sounds like she hasn’t heard about the engagement. And since she’s been out of the loop, it also means she might not have heard if any trouble had been brewing in Claire’s marriage.
“Yep, his latest.” I can’t bring myself to spit out the word fiancée.
“Well, well . . . . I should speak to Ash and the boys. But before I do, let me offer my condolences to you, Summer. You know of course that Claire adored you.”
“Thank you. I don’t know if adore is the right word, but I always felt such affection from her. We all did. Claire was such a giving person.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “You must know, Summer, that the connection you had with Claire was unique. Claire was not only a tiger mom, but she could also be very judgmental, a tough critic. But never about you.”
Judgmental. That’s the same word Wendy used last night.
“But if she was judgmental, why would she think well of me?” I ask. “When I met her, I didn’t exactly have it together. I was waiting tables and performing in tiny black box theaters.”
“But look at what you did for Gabe. Amanda had pulled the rug out from under him, and at first he struggled not only with being betrayed, but with coparenting a toddler. Once you entered his life, you opened your heart to Henry as much as Gabe and made a wonderful home for both of them. That meant so much to Claire. You could have been a pole dancer and she probably wouldn’t have cared.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m not so sure about that, but I appreciate it, Ellen.”
After she hurries off, I glance around and see that there are about fifteen or so outside guests here, meaning that everyone has probably arrived. Ash is saying hello to people now, looking tired but stoic, summoning charm the way politicians do when they h
ave to concede defeat at a podium. And Jillian is here, of course, though she seems to be keeping her distance from Ash. Is she purposely doing that to throw off suspicion?
And then suddenly the music stops, signaling it’s time for people to take their seats. I find Gabe and the two of us head to the front row with Henry, positioning him in a chair between us. As I give Henry’s hand an affectionate squeeze, he leans his head against my arm, almost breaking my heart. Dear Claire, I think, you didn’t have to be grateful to me. Henry’s been so easy to love.
A hush falls over the crowd as Blake walks to the front of the seating area. Behind him, lush cumulous clouds chase one another across the sky. He welcomes everyone, his voice breaking once or twice as he speaks, and introduces Claire’s friend and meditation instructor, who will start things off with a spiritual reading. The reading is nice, a little woo-woo probably for Claire’s taste, but overall it sets the right tone. Next, Denton speaks about his long, wonderful partnership with Claire and quotes from emails former clients have sent, gushing about her talent. Another friend of Claire’s, one I don’t know, shares a story of Claire nursing her through a serious illness.
And then finally it’s time for Hannah, who’s sitting with Nick across the aisle from us. As she rises, I see that she’s holding an index card in one of her perfectly manicured hands, with nails painted to match her top. She strides the short distance to the front, her butt swaying a little as she walks but her expression sober. The sight of her forces the taste of bile into my throat. How does she have the fucking nerve?
“Good morning, I’m Hannah Kane, Nick’s fiancée, and I so appreciate the chance to speak today,” she says with a restrained but confident smile. “Sadly, I knew Claire for only a very short while, but the hours we spent together were some of the most wonderful ones in my life. I felt an instant connection to her, especially on our tour of her magnificent gardens.”
I have to fight off the urge to dry heave.
“I realize,” Hannah continues, “that it would be silly of me to share impressions of Claire with people who knew her so much better than me, so I decided instead to read a poem that I know was one of her favorites.
“It’s called ‘Why I Wake Early’ by Mary Oliver.”
17
You’ve GOT to be kidding me. I sit there, stunned, as the words spill from her lips, the poem I was going to read. It can’t be a fluke. No, no, she’s very clearly done this on purpose.
My fury is quickly overtaken by panic. What the hell am I supposed to do? We hardly covered this kind of situation in the year’s worth of improv workshops I did.
Think, think. The poem’s short and she’s almost finished. I sense Gabe eyeing me, and when I turn to him, I see surprise on his face. But it’s not indignant surprise. He flips over both hands, palms up, as if to say, Yikes, what a lousy coincidence. What are you going to do?
My hands are trembling in my lap, and I raise a finger as discreetly as I can to indicate I’ve got this. I sure as hell don’t have it, but somehow I’m going to have to. I’m a damn actress, right?
Hannah has finished and bows her head slightly in thanks. She lingers at the front for a moment, as if expecting a round of applause, before striding back to her seat.
As I rise from my own, my mind grasps desperately for memories. Claire and Gabe. Claire and me. Claire and her gardens. Impromptu can work, I tell myself, as long as it’s sincere.
Reaching the front, I turn, face forward, and pause. Though there are fewer than thirty or so people, it feels like an ocean of faces. I take a breath from as deep in my diaphragm as I can manage and slowly exhale.
“Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to speak today,” I say, still rooting around for words. “I was so lucky to have Claire as my mother-in-law for the past four years, and knowing her was one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. She not only was a terrific mother to my husband, Gabe, and a fantastic grandmother to my stepson, Henry . . . but she also brought such joy into my own life. She taught me how to grow basil all winter long on my kitchen counter, and to set the kind of table people love to linger at . . . and, um, how to make a divine pasta sauce when all you have are lemons and cream.”
The faces in the group are kind and receptive, but I have no freaking idea where I’m going next, and the back of my dress is all sweaty now, as if Henry’s doused me with his Super Soaker. Suddenly, though, a memory snags in my mind.
“And most of all,” I continue, “Claire taught me the importance of cherishing every day, rather than always fantasizing about the future. She came to see me once in a short Chekhov play off-off-Broadway, one called The Bear. She took me to dinner after, and as we were discussing that incredible playwright who knew so much about human nature, I mentioned a quote from him I’d read: ‘The life of a man is like a flower, blooming so gaily in a field. Then, along comes a goat, he eats it and the flower is gone.’
“‘That line—it always crushes me,’ I told Claire. ‘To think it’s all over in an instant.’ And . . . and do you know what she said? She said, ‘But oh, to be that gaily blooming flower, if only for a little while.’
“Oh, Claire, what a flower you were. Thank you with all my heart for letting me—letting all of us—be witness to it.”
My god, I think as soon as I stop, I’ve made it sound as if Claire’s been devoured by a goat. But people are nodding, their expressions approving. Some are sniffling, and Ellen is dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
Then there’s Hannah. She’s staring straight ahead, her gaze fastened to some distant point on the horizon. I wish I could gloat, because she didn’t derail me as she’d planned, but I’m too shaken to do anything other than smile weakly and return to my chair. As soon as I’m seated, Gabe reaches across Henry, grasps my arm, and smiles appreciatively.
As the service continues, I try to focus on the remarks from Nick and Marcus, but the blood’s pounding in my head, and all I can think of is Hannah, and what she’s done. How had she figured out what poem I was planning to read? Had Gabe told Nick, who then told her? But I didn’t even mention the exact name of the poem to Gabe until a couple of hours ago.
Wait, I know how she figured it out. When she snuck into the cottage yesterday to leave her ominous calling card, she probably snooped around and spotted the book of poems on the coffee table with “Why I Wake Early” bookmarked. By then she’d heard I was reading a poem, and now she knew which one.
When Gabe rises from his seat, I finally manage to focus again on the service. He briefly gives the context for the letter he’s chosen, then proceeds to read his mother’s wonderful advice: “Study the night sky and spot at least one shooting star; ask three kids to tell you the thing they like best about their hometowns; run so fast you break a flip-flop and have to use your backup pair,” and so on. It’s a list, Gabe says, that not only kept him happy at camp, but has served as a guide for life in general. It’s a simple but lovely tribute, beautifully delivered, and I feel a swell of pride.
Blake finishes up the service with a short eulogy of his own and then Ash makes his way to the front, thanking everyone for coming to celebrate the life of his amazing Claire, whose death has broken his heart.
“Is it over?” Henry whispers to me as Ash retreats from the front.
“Yes, except for the lunch.”
“But do they bury Gee now? Right here in the yard?”
“No, not here, sweetie. Down by the woods. Later this week.”
“Can I have the list Gee wrote for Dad? And do all the stuff on it?”
“Of course. That’s a great idea.”
People are on their feet now, starting to mingle again. Henry spots the dogs and galumphs dispiritedly in their direction, but once they raise their heads in anticipation, he breaks into a run.
“Summer, how on earth did you pull that off?” Gabe says, closing the gap between us. He’s radiating concern, and for a moment I feel in sync with him again.
“I have no clue,” I
say. “It was like I was having an out-of-body experience, and . . . and I just started racing through my memories of your mom.” I don’t add that the exchange I quoted might not have been word-for-word correct. But it was true in essence and essence was as good as I could come up with today.
“I can’t believe Hannah picked the same poem to read as you did,” he says. “Though I guess it makes sense when you consider—”
“Gabe,” I interrupt, scanning the crowd to see if Hannah’s looking at me. “Let’s talk about it a little later, okay?”
“Sure,” he replies, his expression wary. He senses trouble. And though he may not like it, I’m going to have to tell him everything. Because who knows what Hannah will try next?
We merge with the crowd, and the first person I see is Ash, who hugs me and thanks me for my words about Claire. Soon, like a school of fish, we all move in unison toward the patio, where we load up our plates and then retreat back to the white, round wooden tables the groundskeepers have set up in the shade of the maple trees.
Gabe, Henry, and I end up at a table with Keira and Marcus, as well as Gabe’s aunt, uncle, and cousin. Keira looks even more watchful than usual, and beyond complimenting my tribute, she says very little. I wonder if she’s regretting not speaking. Is she grieving in her own way? Or is she still deliberating whether a marriage can survive if one of the partners is still hung up on his former lover?
While the others make polite but strained small talk, my eyes roam the yard in search of Hannah, who’s seated with Wendy and Blake, among others. Because she’s got her back to me, there’s no way for me to see her expression, but I’m dying to know if she’s pissed because I wasn’t undone by her nasty little ploy.
Wendy’s to her left, her profile to me, and I watch as she touches Hannah’s arm and smiles. Seeing her make nice to the woman she yesterday tagged as an interloper tells me I should never have confided in Wendy about my concerns.