by Kate White
“I found out a little while ago that you’d planned to read the same poem today.”
I inhale deeply, wondering where she’s going with this. It’s surely a booby trap of some kind. “Who told you that?” I ask.
At that moment the den door opens with a creak and Gabe steps over the threshold.
“Hannah,” he says, clearly surprised to see her next to me.
“Hello, Gabe. I was looking for Summer so I could apologize. I found out that I recited the same poem she’d intended to share at the service. I’m so sorry.”
“Who told you that?” I repeat, hoping that Gabe will see me catch her in a lie.
“Nick. He heard from Marcus, I believe.”
“And Claire just happened to mention that poem to you during the brief one-on-one time you had with her before she died?”
“Summer,” Gabe says, as if I’m five years old and just called my kindergarten teacher a “caca head.”
“She did—on a tour she gave me of the gardens.”
I feel a sudden urge to throttle her, to squeeze the truth out of her as she gasps for air, but I sense the tension in Gabe, and his words from earlier echo in my head: You have to stop obsessing about Hannah.
“Apology accepted,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
I’ve caught her off guard with my response. Somehow, as unnerved as I feel, I’ve managed to find the perfect tone, the kind that sounds unchallengingly authentic, but the person you’re talking to knows it’s fake as fuck.
“See you tomorrow then,” she says. She pivots and retreats down the corridor.
Gabe doesn’t seem exactly pleased as I follow him back into the den and settle in with him, Henry, and the dogs, but he doesn’t say anything.
While I was making popcorn, the two of them selected Home Alone, a movie Henry has never seen. It ends up being just what the doctor ordered. Henry, wedged between Bella and Ginger on the sofa, is riveted from the very first scene, and he howls with laughter through much of the film. Though Gabe and I each saw it years ago, we laugh out loud in our respective leather armchairs.
But despite how diverting the movie is, worry gnaws away at me. I’m not sure how Hannah’s apology works into her overall plan, but it must, because from what I’ve seen so far, she always has an agenda.
When the movie ends, Henry insists on watching the credits, but before they’re over, he’s slumped against Ginger, fast asleep.
“I hate to wake him,” Gabe says. “Why don’t I carry him back to the cottage?”
“Okay.” I glance at the floor, which is strewn with rejected DVDs and popcorn kernels. “I’ll tidy up in here and be over in a minute.”
After their footsteps fade, along with the sounds of Gabe shooing the dogs upstairs, I realize how absolutely quiet the house is. I stack up the DVDs quickly, stick them back in the shelves, and scoop up the kernels with my hands.
When I start down the corridor a minute later, I spot light seeping from beneath the kitchen door, and pick up the sound of rustling from inside. It can’t be Bonnie, I think. I’d heard a couple of cars pulling out of the driveway while we were watching the movie.
I’m just about to investigate when the door swings open and Keira emerges into the corridor, wearing a terry cloth bathrobe over her pajamas.
“Gosh, you scared me,” she says. “I didn’t realize anyone else was still down here.”
“Sorry. Everything okay?”
In the light flooding from the kitchen, I have my first recent glimpse of her without makeup this week, and I notice that her light brown skin, always so flawless, is dotted with blemishes, and the area beneath each eye is a puffy crescent. It seems like the past couple of days have taken a toll on her, as well.
“Yeah.” She looks down and I see that she has a man’s dress shirt draped over one arm. “Marcus spilled some red wine on his shirt, and I volunteered to put vinegar on it. It always gets that kind of stain out.”
“Wow, as a wife, I have zero tricks like that up my sleeve.”
“Trust me, this is my only one. Is Gabe still around? Marcus was looking for him a while ago.”
“He’s gone back to the cottage, but I’ll tell him.”
“Thanks . . . I should get back upstairs.”
We say good night, and as I turn to leave, my eye catches on the shirt. And the fluttering thought I couldn’t quite snag at the dinner is finally in my grasp. The shirt Marcus was wearing tonight is white, not blue. It was Nick who was wearing a pale blue shirt. And that means it was Nick whom Keira was confronting in the side yard before we all sat down for dinner.
What would they have had to discuss in such a heated way? Was she sharing her suspicions about Marcus and Hannah? I’m losing the ability to make sense of things.
Outside, the beautiful day has turned into an overcast evening, and despite the walkway lights on, the area along the path is mostly shrouded in darkness.
I’m halfway to the cottage when I see it—a large form, low to the ground and darting behind a shrub on the side of the path where the main lawn is. My heart jumps. Is it one of the dogs?
“Ginger,” I call out weakly, and then stronger a second time. How did she get out of the house?
But it can’t be her. I heard Gabe urging the dogs up to Ash’s room fifteen minutes ago.
And then it’s there again, shooting out from behind the shrub and across the lawn. It’s almost as big as Ginger but more lithe, with an extra-long snout. In a flash it disappears into the darkness.
It must be the coyote. I gulp for air and tear up the rest of the path. By the time I reach the cottage, my lungs are on fire. Before grasping the doorknob, I spin around and stare into the night, checking all around me. There’s no sign of any animal now, and all I can hear are the usual insect sounds from the treetops: katydid; she didn’t; she did; she didn’t.
Maybe it wasn’t a coywolf. Maybe only a possum or raccoon. Or it was nothing at all, simply all my fears metamorphosing into a darting shadow. But I can’t shake it from my mind—the fast dash across the grass, the ominous shape of the snout.
It feels like an omen. Telling me that in this serene, lovely place, a place I’ve always loved, more terrible things are in store for us.
20
Once I thrust open the door to the cottage, I find Gabe sitting in the middle of the couch, lost in his thoughts.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, reading the distress on my face.
“I think I saw the coyote near one of the shrubs. Or the coywolf—or whatever it’s called.”
“You’re kidding.” He makes a move for the door.
“Please, Gabe, don’t go out there. And besides, it’s gone now. It ran across the lawn toward the woods after it spotted me.”
“Damn, that must be what Marcus has been hearing. I’ll let my father know first thing in the morning.”
“Henry’s in bed, I take it?”
“Yeah, he barely stirred when I laid him down.”
“The movie seemed to cheer him up a little.”
“For now. Amanda called me this afternoon and said he’s been sounding morose when they talk, and she’s lobbying to drive out and pick him up before the week is out.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m partly tempted to say yes and that we’ll make up the vacation time with him later in the summer. It might actually be a good idea for him to skip the burial.”
“I think you’re right. He asked me earlier if Gee would be scared in the woods, so it’s clearly causing a lot of anxiety.”
“I’ll call her in the morning, then, and suggest she pick him up early Thursday.”
We’re communicating at least. Navigating regular parenting stuff. But there’s still a wall between us that’s hard to ignore.
“You going up now?” I ask.
“I might sit here for a minute, try to decompress from the day.”
What I want is for him to decompress with me. Spoon me in bed, stroke my hair, let me sleep
in his arms.
“Okay, see you up there,” I say.
Swiveling back toward the door, I turn the lock.
“When you left the house, did you think to lock that door behind you?” Gabe asks.
“Yup. And that reminds me. I ran into Keira, who said Marcus was looking for you earlier.”
“Thanks.”
Upstairs, I dress for bed and dig out my phone from my purse, looking for news about the rest of my life. There’s a missed call from my mom, and a voice mail asking how the memorial service went. I wish I’d had time to check in with her today. But how do I even begin to explain—about the poem, about Hannah, about the poisoning?
As for work, my agent’s booked me for a voice-over job at the end of next week, which I appreciate, but I can’t help but note there’s nothing from Shawna, no Hey, sorry that other job turned into a shitshow, but we’d love you to record the next Liane Moriarty novel.
There are also a couple of texts from friends, who want to know how my vacation is going, and I’m reminded that I haven’t had a chance to tell any of them yet about Claire. Finally, I see a text from Billy Dean asking if I’ve bumped into Hannah again. It doesn’t surprise me—the guy never met a piece of gossip he didn’t love. But maybe there’s a chance he could be of help.
Yeah, unfortunately she turned up AGAIN, I text back. You have friends from USC, right? Anyone know her when she was there?
I’m thinking again of Claire’s comment—Our little USC graduate. Wendy learned Hannah had actually attended the school, but maybe Claire meant something else by her remark, that perhaps Hannah did something at college that wasn’t on the up-and-up.
On it, he replies.
Of course, I’ll end up having to pay Billy back somehow, probably in Moscow Mules. And that’s regardless of whether or not he manages to produce information. But at least I’m not sitting here doing nothing.
Before crawling between the sheets, I make a final run to the bathroom and as I cross the hall, I hear Gabe on his phone downstairs. I pick up the word vineyard, which makes me think it’s Marcus on the other end.
“Right, right,” Gabe says, his voice low.
There’s a long pause, Marcus clearly elaborating on a point. Twice Gabe attempts to interrupt him to no avail.
“Look,” he says finally. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The bottom line is that we now have the cushion we need.”
As relieved as I am that the sudden influx of cash will enable Gabe to deal with his work crisis, the idea leaves me slightly queasy. The newfound safety net exists only because Claire is dead.
Once I’m back in bed, sleep overtakes me quickly. But at around four, I’m woken by a nightmare in which a huge dog chews through not only my suitcase but also all the clothes packed inside, so I’m left naked, and then finally the animal bares its vicious teeth at me. And that’s when I bolt awake.
With my pulse racing, I yank the covers up to my chin and force my breaths to slow. Gabe’s snoring lightly beside me. After a moment I start to make out the shapes in the room: the dresser with the carved mirror above it, the slipper chair, the filmy white curtains fluttering a little in the breeze. There’s no Hound of the Baskervilles after me or my luggage.
I finally manage to fall back to sleep and wake again at close to seven. Leaving Gabe in bed, I dress quietly and creep down the stairs. Before heading into the kitchen, I tug back a curtain on one of the sitting room windows to see that it’s utterly gloomy out, the early morning sky gray and distended.
In the kitchen, I make coffee and slip outside with my mug. The temperature is probably in the seasonal range, but the dampness in the air makes it feel a little raw and unpleasant, such a far cry from the past couple of days.
Leaving the path, I cross the lawn toward the row of shrubs I saw that animal shoot behind last night. I know it’s unlikely I’ll find a tuft of fur snagged on a branch, or, ha, a pile of scat I can ask Marcus to analyze, but I’m hoping there might be some paw prints in the dirt around the bushes. But there’s nothing. I might as well be looking for signs of Bigfoot.
Still, the lack of evidence doesn’t leave me any less rattled—not only about what I saw, but the idea that it felt like a harbinger of something bad.
Gabe and Henry are both stirring when I return, and we eat breakfast together. Afterward, determined to give Henry more of my undivided attention, I act out part of a chapter of Peter Pan for him. Once that’s run its course, we all settle in the sitting room—Gabe with his dog-eared thriller, Henry with his iPad, and me with my laptop.
From time to time I sense Gabe studying me from the corner of his eye. Is he wondering if I’ve done what he asked—taken a long deep breath and let the Hannah business go? I’m certainly using all my acting chops to look like I have. There’s no way he can tell from my I’m-just-perusing-scented-candles-on-Amazon expression that I’m actually doing a deep dive on digitalis. From what I’ve read so far, it stays in the system for days, which means that if an autopsy is done on Claire before she’s buried, the authorities will be able to tell if she had ingested it prior to her death. But first, of course, someone would have to alert the authorities.
Shortly before ten Gabe asks if I’d mind if he went for a run on the road while the weather’s still decent, and I tell him of course, offering a smile.
“Are we gonna be in the cottage all day?” Henry asks after he leaves. Curious rather than whiny, with a sliver of hope that I’m going to answer in the negative.
“Well, it’s not really swimming weather. How ’bout a game of horseshoes?”
He shrugs, unenthused. “Can we go play with Bella and Ginger in the big house?”
“Great idea,” I tell him. I feel desperate to escape the cottage, too. Maybe if I clear my head, my next steps will become evident to me.
In the kitchen, we greet Bonnie, and Henry drops to the floor with the dogs.
“Anything going on?” I ask her.
“It’s been real quiet so far this morning,” she reports, setting down the whisk she’s been using on an aluminum bowl filled with raw eggs. Next to it are a half dozen empty tart crusts. “Ash has been in the study with the door closed, and Wendy had her dry toast and tea in the dining room, but I think she’s since gone back to the carriage house.”
“No one else is stirring?”
“Not that I’ve seen. Oh, Hannah was here a little while ago, getting coffee.” She lowers her voice. “I feel sorry for that girl.”
Beneath my sleeves, goose bumps roll up my arms. “What do you mean?”
Bonnie lowers her voice so Henry can’t overhear, though he’s probably doing his best to do so. “This can’t be easy for her. Coming out here for the first time, getting engaged, and then having her future mother-in-law die. I think it’s putting a strain on things.”
“On her, you mean . . . or the relationship?”
“Both. I shouldn’t be talking out of turn, but you’re so bighearted, Summer, maybe you could reach out to her, see if you could help.”
“Of course, of course. But why do you suspect there’s a problem?” I ask lightly, then hold my breath.
“They were in a tiff last night after dinner,” she says, whispering now. “I heard them right before I left.”
“Do you know what they were arguing about?”
“No idea. But Nick seemed pissed. And you know Nick. He never gets pissed.”
In a split second, some of the tension coiled in my body unwinds. Maybe Nick is finally coming to his senses. It could have something to do with whatever Keira told him right before dinner. Maybe she discovered that Marcus, despite his protestations to the contrary, had been meeting privately with Hannah, and she conveyed as much to Nick.
“Summer?”
I’ve been so lost in my thoughts, it takes me a couple of seconds to realize Bonnie’s still talking to me.
“Yes, I know what you mean,” I say. “Let me see what I can do.”
“You’re a doll.”
/> If she only knew.
Henry and I end up taking Bella and Ginger outside and romping with them in the yard at the far side of the pool. I doubt anyone’s played with them since Sunday and they seem in heaven.
Once we’ve tired out the dogs, we drop them off in the kitchen and return to the cottage, and Gabe shows up a while later, carrying one of the freshly baked goat cheese and asparagus tarts that Bonnie made. “I figured we’d eat lunch here,” he says.
I appreciate the thought, but his tone and body language toward me still feel really distant.
While Henry and I set the table, Gabe slices the tart and uses a spatula to wiggle three slices onto plates. “Don’t let me forget,” he says. “I promised Bonnie I’d return the tart pan so she doesn’t lose track of it.”
“Does Bonnie always wash her hands when she makes our food?” Henry asks. It’s the kind of question I’ve never heard him utter.
“Of course. What brings that up, Hen?” Gabe says, clearly surprised, too.
“My mom says you always have to wash your hands before food preparation, or people can get sick.”
“That’s true, and Bonnie always does it.”
“And what about the people who help her? Do they wash their hands, too?”
“You bet. Bonnie would kick some serious butt if they didn’t.”
Gabe and I make brief and puzzled eye contact, and I can’t help but wonder if Henry’s preoccupied by sickness because of his grandmother’s death.
After lunch, Gabe and Henry retreat to the couch again, but I feel even antsier than I did this morning. With each hour that ticks by, I’m further away from proving what I know. I need to stretch my legs and think.
“Hey,” I call out to Gabe and Henry, who barely look up. “I’m going to take the tart pan back to Bonnie.”
Only Jake is in the kitchen when I arrive, loading glasses into the dishwasher and bobbing his head to a song on his iPod I can’t hear. Wondering if anyone else is still around postlunch, I open the dining room door an inch to see Keira at the table, drinking an espresso and studying the contents of a folder, probably for work. Instead of disturbing her, I quietly ease the door closed.