Gabe sleeps fitfully through the night, moaning incoherently at times, and at six, after his constant thrashing’s woken me for the third time, I slip out of bed and steal downstairs.
I feel more ragged than I did last night, and my heart’s even heavier. So many hurdles loom ahead this week—helping Gabe and Henry cope with their grief as well as dealing with my own, weathering the memorial service and burial. And there’s still Hannah to contend with.
As if caught in an undertow, my thoughts are dragged back to the missing foxgloves. I realize I won’t be able to clear my mind until I’ve discovered where they went. Maybe someone who didn’t know better really did clip them for a bedroom bouquet. Unlikely, but in order to eliminate that as a possibility, I’ll have to figure out an excuse to snoop around, especially in the carriage house. After a couple of seconds, I come up with one.
I’m setting out breakfast when the stairwell door creaks open, and Henry pads into the kitchen, wearing his Incredible Hulk pajama top with the matching green shorts.
“Hey, Hen.”
“Morning. Is it still true? Is Gee dead?”
“Yes, honey.” I wrap my arms gently around him. He smells that lovely rumpled way kids do in the morning. “I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t want her to be gone,” he says, sinking into my embrace.
“I know. We’re all going to miss her so much.”
“Does this mean we won’t have a vacation?”
“No, we can still stay here. And though you’ll feel sad, you can do the things you planned on—like swim and play with the dogs. In fact, the dogs look really sad themselves, so the more you hang with them, the better.”
I fix him a slice of peanut butter toast and let him play Subway Surfers on my phone until Gabe materializes, bleary-eyed and barefoot.
“Morning,” he murmurs.
“Morning,” I say and give his arm a squeeze. “Did you get much sleep?”
“A few hours.” He turns toward Henry, who’s immersed in the game. “Buddy, give me a hug, okay?”
Henry obliges with an extra-long one, and when he finally pulls away, Gabe settles at the table, too. I pour him a cup of coffee.
“You need anything else?” I ask. “I thought I’d go over to the house now and check what’s happening in the kitchen.”
“Nah, I’ll probably just have coffee anyway.”
I come up behind his seat, wrap my arms around his chest, and kiss the top of his head. “I love you, honey.”
“Me, too. I’m so glad you’re here.”
When I reach the main house a few minutes later, I enter through the side door rather than the kitchen and immediately do a lap through the downstairs, hunting to see if foxgloves have somehow ended up in a bouquet on a table or shelf. Other than a mason jar filled charmingly with rosemary, sage, and mint in the powder room off the main hall, there’s not a vase in sight.
The one first-floor room I don’t inspect is the study because the door is closed, meaning Ash is most likely ensconced in there. As I start to back away, I pick up the deep timbre of his voice, and I assume he’s on a phone call. But then, after a pause, I hear another voice, which I think belongs to Blake. It makes sense that he’d be the one Ash is relying on—he’s the oldest child and plays that role—but I hope Gabe isn’t going to be excluded from chunks of the memorial planning, or the twins, either.
As I’m returning to the front hall, I spot Keira descending the staircase from the second floor, dressed in crisp pants and with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Good, I think, this saves me from having to find an excuse to knock on her bedroom door.
“Morning,” we say in unison, each offering a wan smile.
“How’s Marcus doing today?” I ask.
“He’s really suffering. I’m sure Gabe is, too.”
“Definitely. It’s all so out of the blue. By the way, I was thinking of putting some flowers out, like Claire did. Do you want any in your bedroom? Unless you already picked some for it.”
She looks befuddled. “I didn’t think we were supposed to pick them. But I hate the smell of flowers in a bedroom anyway.”
“Okay, sure, just asking.”
“Speaking of Marcus, did you see him down here by any chance? He left the room a while ago and hasn’t come back.”
Oh, great, don’t tell me he’s off canoodling with Hannah again.
“No, sorry. But if I run into him, I’ll let him know you were looking for him.”
My next stop is the kitchen. I find Bonnie working on her usual eight cylinders, though she looks frayed around the edges and her short blond hair is frizzed from the heat. Jake’s there, too, and politely asks if I’d like an omelet.
“No, Jake, breakfast here is always a continental buffet, okay?” Bonnie tells him over her shoulder. “There’s no omelet stand.” She returns her attention to me, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “How you doin’ today, hon?”
“Surviving, I guess.” I wander over to the dog beds and give the glum-looking Ginger and Bella each a pat. “How about you?”
“Still in a state of shock, but I’m trying to stay strong for Ash’s sake.”
I nod. “We really appreciate that, Bonnie. Do you have all the help you need?”
“I think I’m covered. I’ve got Jake on board for the rest of the week, and as far as the meals go, I’m going to follow the menus Claire and I planned out.”
“What about food for the luncheon tomorrow?”
“Ash told me to use my own judgment. I figured I’d serve sliced roasted turkey breast and some salads, including a pasta one Claire especially liked. And I rented extra tables and chairs from the place we always use for big parties.”
“That all sounds perfect. Can I do anything?”
“When you get the chance, can you eyeball the lawn and decide on the best spot for the tables?”
“Of course. You know what else I think I’ll do today? Deal with the vases Claire never got around to filling yesterday and then distribute them around.”
“That’s a nice idea,” she says.
“I know my arrangements will pale utterly to what Claire would have done,” I add, pouring it on a little thick, “but at least there’ll be flowers in the house.”
“Yes, good point. You know, don’t you, only to take them from the cutting gardens?”
“Yup. Just one last thing. Are these all the vases there are?”
Bonnie looks over and silently counts each one off with a nod of her head.
“I think that’s it,” she says.
With three vases in my arms, I make my way next to the potting shed near the eastern end of the house, not far from the garage and the carriage house. It’s a simple wood structure, used as a work space and storage area for gardening supplies, though it also seemed to be a kind of sanctuary for Claire, and one she was nice enough to welcome me to. As soon as I step inside, the familiar smell—a sweet, ripe mix from clay pots and bags of soil—comes at me like a punch, triggering another spasm of sadness.
I set down the vases on one of the unfinished wood counters lining the walls, and my eyes quickly fall on the gardening gloves lying nearby. They’re still puckered a little from the last time Claire wore them, as if anticipating her return. The sight of them is almost unbearable.