by Kate White
When people start to wander back to the patio for slices of carrot cake, I use the moment to pop into the kitchen and check on Bonnie.
“Wow, what a fantastic lunch,” I say, though I barely ate a bite.
“Thanks, Summer. And what a perfect day to eat outside.”
I lower my voice. “Did Jillian give you any more trouble?”
“Thanks to you, no. The only time I saw her was a few minutes ago when she came in to thank me.”
“Good. Did you have the sense she’s planning to hang around today?”
“Don’t think so. She and Blake went into the dining room for a minute, and when he came back into the kitchen, he said she was leaving, going back to the city.”
That’s a relief. And it might be a sign that there’s really nothing going on, but I think Marcus still needs to talk to Ash about what we saw.
I check my watch as I head back outside. The meeting with the lawyer is only a couple of hours away, and I could use a break. Gabe and I decide that I’ll take Henry back to the cottage and he’ll meet us there as soon as the last guests have left. Once Henry and I are ensconced in the sitting room, and he’s scribbled down everything he remembers from Gabe’s summer camp list, I somehow manage to convince him to take a reading break in his room with a glass of Coke. If Amanda finds out, she’ll report me to the national dental authorities, but she’s the least of my concerns right now. When Gabe returns, I have to tell him everything I know about Hannah, and I need to convince him that this isn’t a matter of me being envious or snoopy. Hannah could be a murderer. And she’s a potential threat to all of us.
In my college acting program, I learned that to come across as authentic and credible as a character, one of the keys is to not sound fanatical. Most great theatrical characters are plagued by doubts at times—well, maybe not Antigone—and I need to indicate that I’ve weighed all sides of the situation. I’m still thinking this through when Gabe pushes open the door.
“Everybody get off okay?” I ask.
“Just about,” he says. “Where’s Hen?”
“Upstairs reading, though he may have conked out by now. I loved what you had to say today, Gabe, and so did Henry. He’s been busy writing down all the items on the list.”
“Thanks—but I didn’t have to miraculously make it up on the spot. You have to tell me how you did it.”
“Let me ask you something first,” I say, closing the door to the stairwell so Henry won’t overhear. “Did Nick know exactly what I was planning to read today?”
“Nick? No. He just asked if you were speaking and I told him you were reading a poem. I didn’t tell him the name because I didn’t know it myself at the time. I’m sure it was all just a rotten coincidence.”
I take a deep breath. “I wish. But there was no coincidence, Gabe. Hannah figured out the poem I’d chosen, and she decided to read it herself, knowing that I’d be left high and dry.”
“What?” he says, looking incredulous. “How can you think that?”
“I don’t think it, I’m sure of it.”
“Summer, she’s not a mind reader. How could she have known? And why would she do something like that anyway? You two might not have hit it off, but that would be a pretty aggressive move on her part.”
“Well, she is aggressive.” I point to the volume of poetry on the coffee table. “She figured out which one it was because she snuck into the cottage and saw the bookmark on the page.”
Gabe’s gawking at me but he doesn’t say a word.
“Look, I know it seems hard to believe,” I say, “but I need to share something difficult with you, okay? It’s something that at first I thought couldn’t possibly be true, prayed wasn’t true, but despite my initial doubts, I’ve come to see it probably is true . . . . I think Hannah might have murdered your mother.”
He straightens in shock, then steps a few feet backward, finally collapsing on the sofa, his eyes on the ground. But he still doesn’t say a word.
It all spills out of me then: how his mother lied to him about who she’d confronted on the patio that night; my strange conversation with her the day she died; the missing foxgloves; my fruitless search for the flowers; the disappearing jug; Hannah pretending she didn’t know about the dangers of foxgloves; the blossom tucked diabolically in my drawer. Finally, I present a minute-and-a-half course on digitalis, how it’s especially dangerous for anyone on a diuretic and why it can lead to cardiac arrest.
I give Gabe a chance to respond, but he remains silent, staring now at something in the middle distance. After what feels like an hour, he looks in my direction and pushes himself up off the couch. Okay, I think, he’s going to take me in his arms and say that it all makes sense, and that he’s horrified I’ve had to deal with this solo.
But he doesn’t. He simply says, “Show me the place in the garden where the flowers are missing.”
“Of course,” I respond, feeling an iota of relief. I hurry across the room, part the drapes, and tug open the doors to the patio, beckoning him to follow. A cloud has passed across the sun, dulling the garden colors, but the air is ripe with the sweet scent of the artemisias.
“There,” I say, pointing to the spot but training my eyes on Gabe. Instantly I see the surprise on his face. He gets it. He finally does.
But when I drop my eyes to the garden a second later, I see there’s no gap anymore. It’s now filled entirely with stalks of purple foxgloves.
18
For a second I freeze, my feet bolted to the ground. But then I bend my knees for a closer inspection and I discover right away what’s happened. The soil around a handful of the foxgloves is rough and knobby, making it clear that someone has dug there in the last day or two, and the flowers themselves are a little limp.
“Okay, there’s no gap now, but it’s pretty obvious why not,” I say, hearing the desperate edge to my voice. “She clearly found these foxgloves in another one of the gardens, dug them up, and planted them to replace the ones she clipped.”
But when? Probably after I’d stupidly mentioned foxgloves to Hannah, telegraphing my suspicions.
Gabe doesn’t move. He’s next to me, his eyes on the border garden.
“Summer,” he says, finally pivoting to me. His tone is plaintive, the way guys get when they’re about to tell you they slept with a girl they met on a business trip to Dayton or have come to realize they never really loved you after all.
“Wait,” I say, squinting as the sun sneaks from behind a cloud. “I took a picture. I can show you.”
He trails me back into the sitting room where I grab my phone, click on the photo I took Sunday night, and thrust it toward him. “Here, see,” I say.
He sighs and lowers his gaze. A second later, using his thumb, he swipes a few frames forward and then backward, obviously searching for additional photos.
“Is this the only one you have? Because there’s really nothing here.”
I snatch the phone back and as I glance at the photo, my heart sinks. It was even darker out than I realized when I took it, and the flash never went off. Though I know exactly where the gaping hole is, to anyone else looking at the photo, it might appear to be simply a mush of dark plants and shadows.
“Gabe,” I plead. “You have to believe me. There was a hole there. Someone dug up the foxgloves the day your mother died.”
“I believe you, Summer.”
I tear up. Maybe I am getting somewhere. “So what do you think we should do?”
Gabe shakes his head forlornly. “Nothing.”
“But why not?” I feel my stomach twisting. “If you believe me.”
“I do believe you saw a gap. I understand that the jug isn’t in the cupboard anymore. I’m sure there was one of those foxglove buds or blossoms or whatever you call it in your drawer. But I also think you’re looking at everything from the wrong angle. Or maybe it’s been refracted somehow, like when Henry makes a pencil look bent in a glass of water.”
“Refracted? Gabe, I saw t
he hole. It was there.”
“Let’s sit, okay?” he says, gesturing toward the couch, and I oblige because I only have a chance of convincing him if I seem as level-headed as possible.
“What I mean,” Gabe says when we’ve settled onto opposite ends of the couch, “is that it might have seemed like a gap when you saw it, but the wind or the heat had probably parted the flowers a certain way at the time. Plus, it was clearly dark then—so maybe it looked like a bigger gap than it was.”
I grit my teeth. “What about the jug then?” I say. “And the flower in my drawer?”
“The jug—I’m sure it’s in the house somewhere, or maybe that new guy Bonnie’s using broke it, swept up the pieces, and threw it away . . . . As for the flower in your drawer, you said you were carrying vases around yesterday. The blossom part probably snagged onto whatever you were wearing and then ended up in the drawer.”
“And your mom saying that thing about my hair being lighter?”
“It is lighter. You’ve been in the sun a lot this summer.”
Frustration nearly overwhelms me, but I force calm into my voice. “So what you’re saying is that after your mother basically threatened to expose Hannah, Hannah simply let it roll off her back. And all these other things are pure coincidence?”
“There’s no evidence whatsoever that my mother was talking to Hannah that night.”
“But then who was she fighting with?”
“I don’t know,” he says, throwing up his hands. “One of my brothers? My father?”
“Your father?” Does Gabe suspect an issue in his parents’ marriage?
“That was only a suggestion. My point is that we don’t know. She might not have even been all that upset. We have only a sleepy little boy’s transcript of what she said.”
“And the poem today?”
“I’m sure my mother also told Hannah she loved it. She probably told every woman who’s come out here that it was her favorite.”
Somewhere in there is a dig, but I ignore it. I clasp my arms against my chest, wondering how things have gone so horribly wrong. Gabe doesn’t get it at all.
“Summer,” he says with eerie calm, like a cop trying to talk a potential jumper off a ledge, “what I’m asking is that you take a long deep breath and try to see this all from another perspective.”
Obviously, he hasn’t noticed that I’ve been breathing so deeply I’ve nearly sucked all the air from the room.
“Gabe, please . . . .” I look at him, imploring. “Can’t you try to see it from another perspective? You seem so . . . so quick to come to Hannah’s defense.”
“I’m not,” he snaps. “There’s simply no evidence she’s done anything wrong.”
As I search desperately for a response, I notice that his eyes are now glistening with tears. In the moment, I’ve lost sight of the fact that Gabe is distraught and grief-stricken, and this conversation is only making him feel worse.
“Gabe, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you today. But I had to tell you all this. How could I forgive myself if I didn’t?”
“Fine, and thank you. You’ve told me. But now you have to let it go, okay? My mother’s dead, dead from a massive heart attack, and supporting my dad and Henry is what I need to focus on.”
“Of course,” I say, chastened. “And I want to be there for you, and your dad, and Henry.”
“Great, so let’s move on. Seriously, Summer, I can’t have another crazy conversation like this. You have to figure out a way to stop obsessing about Hannah.”
So that’s it, isn’t it? That’s what he thinks this is all about. Me crazily fixated on Hannah and her success. Jealous and unable to stop trash-talking. I feel an urge to hurl something at the wall, but instead I smother my anger. More talk or flying objects won’t open his eyes, and I need to stop exacerbating his distress over his mother’s death.
“I hear you,” I say, probably a little too brightly. “I do. And you’re right, let’s move on.”
He eyes me quizzically, his tan brow wrinkled, as if he’s not sure if I’m sincere or giving a Drama-Desk-Award-caliber performance. But I sense a resignation beneath the surface, that he’s going to take me at my word.
“I should check on Henry,” he says, rising and raking both hands through his hair.
“I’ll watch him during the meeting with the lawyer, of course,” I volunteer. “Maybe fix him an early dinner.”
“But you’re supposed to be at the meeting, too.”
“I am? I thought only you and your brothers were invited.”
“Well, wives, too. Dad’s expecting you.”
“Sure, I’m happy to be included. It’s just a formality, right?”
“That’s what I hear.” He’s moving toward the stairwell, his face still tense.
“Okay, why don’t I go over to the house and see if Henry can hang in the kitchen with Bonnie during the meeting, then?”
Gabe’s lips part, as if he’s about to suggest Hannah could always watch him, but in the end he just nods.
I don’t head directly to the house, though. Instead I wander halfway down the path, veer off toward the cloud boxwood grove, and slip into the glade. This was another one of Claire’s sanctuaries, and it’s not hard to understand why. The space is so serene and Zen-like, a spot where the rest of the world can feel completely removed.
But it doesn’t today. As I lower myself onto one of the two weathered benches, my problems seem to bulldoze their way through the boxwoods. Hannah’s out there someplace, a potential danger to me and to others. And my conversation with Gabe has only intensified the big, fat wedge between us.
Something else is churning in me, too, something besides frustration and anguish. I feel . . . pissed, I realize. I didn’t expect Gabe to leap from his seat like Dr. Watson and shout, My god, you’re right, why didn’t I see it? But I expected him to at least listen carefully, consider my points, and accept that though all I had was circumstantial evidence, it warranted investigation.
Instead, he completely dismissed my theory. And chalked it all up to a personal issue. But I’m not obsessed with Hannah’s career. Yes, I want what she has, have always wanted it, but I’m opening other doors for myself. No, this is simply about the truth and trying to convince Gabe to see it, too.
What I need is an ally, I decide. Not Wendy, obviously, since she now seems to be cozying up to Hannah. No, it has to be someone else, someone receptive.
Marcus. There’s a chance he’s still lusting for Hannah, of course, but based on how he looked at her right here in this spot, I think that he’s feeling anger, too. And perhaps, as I once considered, he might be privy to details about her that make him want to prevent a marriage between her and Nick. I can also probably count on Marcus to be discreet, since the two of us are sharing another secret.
With my mind made up, I leave the grove and hurry to the house. The tables and chairs have been carted off, and the sole reminders of the service that took place are the indentations in the grass. As I round the house toward the pool, I can hear a Rihanna song playing faintly from the kitchen. Claire’s not even buried yet and her “only classical music in the kitchen” policy has already bitten the dust.
Marcus isn’t at the pool, nor is anyone else, hardly a surprise. Chances are he’s in the guest suite, resting or steeling himself for the next gathering. I make my way to the eastern end of the house, knowing that the door to the screened-in porch is always unlocked. There’s a back stairway in this section of the house that will take me right to the guest suite.
Several large fir trees shade the porch, keeping the light in there dim, and it isn’t until I’m a few feet into the space that I notice someone lying faceup on the wicker couch. Wendy. Like me, she’s still in the clothes she wore to the service, and her hand is pressed against her forehead. I’m shocked to see a goblet of what might be chardonnay parked on the coffee table beside her.
“Oh, hi,” she mutters, scooting up a little. Her face is as white as candle w
ax.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes, I—Oh, you’re looking at my drink. Don’t worry, it’s water. I grabbed the closest glass I could find.”
“Wendy, are you sure you’re feeling okay?” I perch on the rocker across from her so I can see her better in the dimness. “Want me to find Blake?”
“I’m fine, really.” She scooches up even more so she’s almost in a seated position, but her legs are still stretched out in front of her. “Well, maybe not so fine. To be perfectly honest—and you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone—I was feeling crampy a little while ago, and it freaked me out. I thought I might be miscarrying.”
My breath quickens. “You have to let me get Blake. He’ll know what to do.”
“No, please. I don’t want to scare him if nothing’s wrong. And besides, if I am having a miscarriage, there’s no way he can help.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, though I know practically nothing on the subject.
“Trust me, after years of trying, I’m practically an expert on everything related to pregnancy,” she says, a shadow passing over her face.
“It’s good you’re resting, at least.”
She snickers. “You know, doctors used to advise bed rest for a possible miscarriage, but it’s apparently useless. I’m just lying down for my own sanity. I can’t bear the idea of possibly losing this baby.”
“Oh, Wendy, I can only imagine. The cramps—they’re gone now?”
“Yes, they subsided a little while ago. And I’m not bleeding, so hopefully it’s a false alarm.”
“Thank god . . . . I’m sure the situation here isn’t helping matters.”
“You can say that again.” There’s more than a hint of exasperation in her voice. “Are we supposed to simply continue here, pretending we’re all on vacation?”
“I’m sure people would understand if you left in the next day or two.”
“Maybe. I’ll have to see what Blake thinks.”
She lowers herself back on the cushion and brings a hand to her brow again.
“Why don’t I let you rest,” I say, rising. “Do you have your phone? In case of an emergency?”