“Look, I see your point,” I say, switching gears. “I’ve never viewed your parents’ home as a place where we need to stand on ceremony, but Nick has someone new in his life, and I should have respected their privacy.”
He studies me, obviously trying to assess how sincere I am.
“Okay,” he says finally. “I’m glad you get it. You’d hardly want Hannah coming into our room uninvited, would you?”
“Of course not. Please tell Nick I’m sorry.”
He nods. “See you back at the table then.”
Frustrated, I hurry the rest of the way to the cottage. In the bathroom mirror I discover that I look as agitated as I feel. My face has turned lumpy and red, like I have a bout of diaper rash on my cheeks and chin, and my T-shirt is streaked with dirt from lugging around the vases earlier. I change into a new one, and press a cold wet washcloth to my face for a minute, then dab on a concealer and foundation.
Back downstairs I take a minute to peruse the small bookcase, loaded with volumes for weekend guests, and dig out a book of poetry by Mary Oliver. Thumbing through it quickly, I come upon “Why I Wake Early,” the poem the collection takes its title from. I’ve decided that if Gabe feels comfortable with me speaking tomorrow at the service, I’ll read this because Claire once told me it was a favorite of hers. It begins with the line, “Hello sun in my face,” and goes on to talk about tulips and morning glories and how the sun holds us in its hands of light. It perfectly reflects Claire’s love of nature.
Before I return to the patio, I bookmark the page with a scrap of paper and grab my phone from the charger in the kitchen. There are a bunch of emails and text alerts, but I don’t start reading until I’m on the path. And that’s when things get even shittier. The first text is from Shawna.
Hey, just a heads-up. They decided to re-record that story with another actor. Pls don’t take this personally. They wanted the voice to sound a little older. Talk soon.
Oh, lovely. I couldn’t manage to nail a job reading a story about two women taking the world’s most boring road trip together—they don’t even meet a hot drifter who steals their money, let alone drive their car into the Grand Canyon. Is Shawna being honest when she says we’ll talk soon—meaning she’ll book me for another recording? It’s impossible to tell.
To my dismay, there are no requests for voice-over auditions from my agent, and the only other professional message in my in-box is from a Columbia University grad student who’d had me read twice for a student film he’s directing. “Thank you for your time,” he writes. “Unfortunately, we’ve decided to go in another direction.” I’ve learned that “other direction” generally means they want someone younger, prettier, thinner, hotter, bigger boobed, shorter chinned (yup, I was told that once), or in their view, more talented. Or all the above.
I shouldn’t let this stuff get to me, but it’s impossible not to. And right now, it’s piling on top of everything else—my sorrow over losing Claire, the mystery of the missing foxgloves and jug, to say nothing of the tension between me and Gabe.
By the time I return to the table, most of the diners have left, but Gabe and Henry are listlessly working on a bowl of cherries, and Blake’s lost in thought. I imagine he might be struggling to make sense of his mother’s death, wondering if there could have been a way to save her. I pick at what remains from the inside of my wrap.
When he comes out of his reverie, Blake looks at Gabe. “You up for smacking a tennis ball around?” I sense he’s looking for distraction more than exercise.
“Man, I’d love that,” Gabe says.
“But, Dad, I thought we were going to swim now,” Henry says despondently.
“Um, you’re right, buddy. Blake, how ’bout later?”
I flash back to the advice my mother offered earlier, about how important it is to sense what a loved one needs when they’re grieving. And I know Gabe’s been missing his regular get-togethers with Blake this past year.
“Honey, play tennis,” I insist. “I’ll hang by the pool with Henry, and you can come by when you’re done.”
“That would be great.” He sounds appreciative, and I hope he’s no longer miffed.
I send Henry off to change into his trunks, and by the time he’s back, I’ve set up two lounge chairs with beach towels and grabbed us a couple of cans of sugar-free lemonade. For the next half hour, I watch him splash around in the pool and rate his handstands Olympic-style from one to ten. It’s about as exciting as waiting in line at the DMV, but it seems to lift Henry’s spirits.
I only wish there was something that could lift mine. Everything seems off without Claire here, and I’ve experienced a sense of mounting dread since I woke up. Right now, it’s as hard to ignore as a toothache, and it’s coupled with the embarrassment I feel about being caught going into Nick and Hannah’s room. And the hot sun isn’t helping.
As Henry performs what must be his fiftieth handstand, Wendy wanders onto the deck in a black one-piece bathing suit and flip-flops with the double Gucci G and settles into a lounge chair on the other side of the pool, iPad in hand. We wave at each other across the water. Watching her triggers a memory of the conversation we had earlier today about her dislike of Hannah. Maybe we can commiserate.
I convince Henry to take a break so I can apply more sunscreen on him and he can jiggle the water out of his ears. He’s brought his own iPad from the cottage, and soon falls asleep on the lounge chair before he’s read more than a page or two.
I round the pool to where Wendy’s sitting.
“I’m not interrupting, am I?” I ask.
“No, no, please sit,” she says, stuffing the iPad into her squishy leather tote. “And while you’re at it maybe you can tell me how to develop the endless patience you have as a mom. You’re brilliant at it.”
“I appreciate the compliment,” I say, lowering myself onto the chaise lounge next to her. She’s gotten a light tan, which looks fetching with her pale blond hair. “And I wish I could say it came naturally to me, but it really has to do with Henry. He’s always been such an easy, undemanding kid. Not sure how I’d handle a spoiled brat. Regardless, you shouldn’t worry, Wendy. I know you and Blake will be fabulous parents.”
“I hope so. I’ve wanted this baby for so long.”
“Are you feeling any less stressed this afternoon?”
“Honestly? No. I’d kill for a glass of rosé right now, but that’s not a possibility.”
“I know how you feel.” I break into a grin. “Tell you what—I’ll drink a rosé for both of us later.”
“Go for it.”
“Hey, I wanted to ask you about something you mentioned earlier—the so-called interloper.”
Wendy raises her pale blond eyebrows above the rims of her tortoise-framed Ray-Bans. “Have you had your own concerns?”
“Actually, yes. I recognized Hannah as soon as I saw her Friday night—we were in the same playwrights’ showcase a couple of years ago. But she lied and said I was mistaking her for someone else.”
“How strange. Why would she do that, I wonder?”