I’ve had a question I’ve been wanting to ask Gabe and I slide back onto the lounge chair next to his. “Would you mind—or would your dad mind—if I spoke at the service tomorrow?” I say. “I thought I could read a poem.”
“That would be really nice, Summer. Please, yes.”
“There’s one by Mary Oliver that I know your mom loved. I could show it to you if you’d like.”
“No, I don’t need to see it. I trust you totally.”
“Okay, good. You’re planning to say something, right?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m still working it out in my head.”
I’m grateful for Gabe’s support of my decision to do a reading, but I sense that things are still a little off between us—and I’m not sure how to remedy that without making me the focus when what he needs to do is grieve.
As the afternoon slips away, Henry and Gabe opt for one more dip, but I decide to return to the cottage, saying I’ll see them there later.
It’s really dim inside when I arrive, and I fumble for the wall switch to the right of the door. Once the light comes on, I discover that Gabe has pulled the muslin drapes closed for some reason.
I pick up the book of poems on the coffee table and turn again to the one I bookmarked earlier with a scrap of paper: I read it several times aloud, familiarizing myself more deeply with the words.
I calculate that I have enough time for a quick shower, and while toweling off afterward, I consider my outfit options for dinner. There’s a dress I haven’t worn yet on this trip, but I decide to save it for the service tomorrow. Instead, I yank a cotton skirt off a hanger in the closet and open the dresser drawer to find an appropriate top.
My eyes light on a sleeveless jersey tank, and as I lift it from its spot, something falls into the drawer—a small piece of purple cloth that must have been caught in its folds.
But no, that’s not it. As I stare into the drawer, I finally realize that what’s fluttered down isn’t a piece of cloth.
It’s a trumpet-shaped bloom from a foxglove.
15
I gulp air, trying to catch a breath.
Someone snuck into the bedroom and tucked the blossom among my things. I rifle through the drawer, and the one below it, chucking items of clothing onto the bed. Nothing else is out of place. I scan the room next, but there are no other nasty leave-behinds that I can see.
After stuffing my clothes back into the drawers, I sink onto the mattress and press both hands to my mouth.
There’s only one possible explanation: Hannah left the blossom. It has to be her because she’s the only one I’ve mentioned foxgloves to. Which means she might very well have killed Claire. I’ve dismissed the idea each time it’s wiggled into my mind, but why would Hannah hide a blossom in my drawer if something wasn’t going on?
It’s like she’s issuing a warning: Back off or you’ll be next.
So what the hell do I do now? I need to talk to Wendy as soon as possible—to see if she’s managed to dig up anything, even though it’s only been a couple of hours. And as Laertes says to Ophelia, “Best safety lies in fear.” I have to let Hannah scare the living daylights out of me, meaning my guard must be up at all times.
“You okay?” Gabe asks.
I’ve been so immersed in my thoughts, I didn’t hear him come up the stairs. I twist around to face him, and see an unusual wariness in his eyes.
“Uh, just tired,” I say. The sound of my heartbeat seems so loud I bet he can hear it. “How about you? You must be exhausted.”
“Yeah, I’m probably gonna crash right after dinner tonight. I’ll need all the energy I can summon for tomorrow.”
“Henry’s with you?”
“In his room changing.”
Gabe unwinds the white beach towel around his waist, yanks off his suit, and digs a pair of boxer briefs out of his duffel bag. Ordinarily I’d feel a swell of desire at a moment like this, simply from catching a glimpse of his tanned, toned body, but I’m too scared and unsettled to experience even a twinge of lust.
As the three of us prepare to leave the cottage a few minutes later, I glance toward the French doors leading out to the patio.
“Did you close the drapes in here?” I ask Gabe.
“No, I thought you did. It must have been Bonnie. I noticed she emptied the wastebaskets earlier.”
Bonnie might have dealt with the wastebaskets, but my money’s on Hannah having closed the drapes so that no one would spot her moving around in here.
When we arrive on the patio for dinner, everyone’s already gathered, slowly taking their seats, and I make a point of picking one as far away from Hannah as possible.
Most of us seem less shell-shocked at this meal than we were at lunch, and even Ash appears more himself. There’s a bit of friendly chatter as the wine is poured, and Blake, his voice cracking, offers a toast to his mother’s memory. Over crab cakes and salad, Nick, with tears in his eyes, tells us several laugh-out-loud stories about Claire, one involving her teaching him the names of the constellations as they wandered around the pool deck one night. She became so caught up in the lesson that she accidentally stepped off into the water, dressed in pants, a button-down sweater, and her favorite pair of Tod’s suede loafers—but resumed the lesson as soon as she emerged, as if nothing had happened.
The chatter continues, but my focus shifts to the right, as if pulled by a magnetic force, and suddenly I’m staring right into Hannah’s eyes. The edges of her mouth turn upward into a tiny, mischievous smile. She knows I found the blossom—and that I’m rattled. Stay scared, I warn myself, as I quickly glance away.
Toward the end of the meal, I manage to snag Wendy’s attention. I cock my head as if to ask, Find anything?, and she gives me a tiny nod. Thank god.
By the time Bonnie and Jake are clearing the plates, Ash looks distracted and restless again, and he excuses himself before dessert is served. Blake and Wendy soon make motions to leave, too, and I realize I need to act fast. As Gabe helps Henry select a brownie from the platter on the table, I rise and edge over to her.
“Do you have a sec?” I say casually, careful not to pique anyone’s interest. “I’d love your advice on something for tomorrow.”
She turns to Blake. “You go back to the carriage house,” she tells him. “I’ll walk over in a minute once I’ve spoken to Summer.”
He cups the side of her head with his hand, lacing his fingers through some of the silky strands.
“No, no, I’ll wait.”
“Blake, I’ll be fine, I swear. I’m not the first woman on the planet to have a baby.”
“I don’t mind hanging here. I’ll grab a brandy and sit with the others for a while.”
She shrugs, rises, and takes my arm, and as the two of us walk onto the lawn in the direction of the Adirondack chairs, I can almost feel Hannah’s eyes on my back.
“Blake mentioned you’re planning to read a Mary Oliver poem tomorrow,” Wendy says. “That’s such a thoughtful idea.”
I realize with a stab of guilt that I should have given Wendy and Keira a heads-up that I intended to speak. At least Gabe has spread the word.
“It’s just a short one, but Claire mentioned once she loved it. Are you going to say anything?”