“I considered it—and I know Blake would be pleased if I did—but I get really teary at funerals, and I don’t want to distract from the service by blubbering all over the place.”
It’s hard to imagine Wendy blubbering, but I know funerals can bring out extreme emotions.
“I’m also trying to keep my stress level down,” she adds. “I generally don’t mind public speaking, but tomorrow will be intense.”
“Sounds like a smart decision.”
We reach the chairs and sink into them. Fireflies have begun to blink their lights all around us, and the delicious scent of honeysuckle clings to the air. It could almost seem like just another summer evening here, but, of course, it isn’t.
“So, tell me,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “You found something?”
“Keep in mind I only had time to make a superficial request, but yes, I had a bit of luck. And you’re not going to believe it.”
I hold my breath for a couple of seconds. “What?” I finally ask.
“Things checked out. She definitely went to USC. And she’s from Miami, exactly as she told us. Her parents died a short time apart several years ago, in their fifties and both from illnesses. She’s never been arrested and doesn’t have any debt to speak of. Of course, as I said, this is only the top-line stuff.”
I can almost feel myself deflating, like a beach ball that’s been popped with a fork.
“Okay, then it must be something else,” I say.
“What must be something else?”
“What Claire discovered. I thought it had to do with USC, but I guess not. We’re going to have to dig deeper to figure it out.”
Wendy swats at her arm, trying to kill a buzzing mosquito.
“I’m not sure what it could be. Hannah certainly doesn’t look like a meth head. And she’s not lying about the Netflix pilot—she showed Blake and me a clip from it, and it seems like she’s landed a big role.”
“But it’s there, somewhere. I know Claire found something.”
“She told you?”
“More or less. She said she had Hannah’s number, and I could tell she didn’t think Nick should marry her.”
“Hmm. Is it possible Claire was simply being superprotective? I know Nick’s, what, a minute younger than Marcus? But Claire considered him her baby and has always held on to him tightly.”
Should I tell her about the foxgloves? I wonder. Or the fight that Henry overheard? No, I can’t. Not now.
“Please, don’t take this the wrong way,” she continues. “I was very fond of Claire, we all were, but let’s face it, you were her favorite, and I think it was hard for you to see how judgmental she could be at times. And, well, how premeditated she was when it came to her sons.”
Maybe Claire and I had a strong connection, but that hardly means I was oblivious to who she was. Yes, she apparently had certain expectations of the boys when they were younger, but as they grew older, she let them become their own men. Regardless, this isn’t about Claire being Claire. It’s about how dangerous Hannah is.
“Okay, maybe Claire didn’t love the idea of Nick getting married,” I say, “but I think there was something else at play. And we have to keep looking.”
Wendy’s face is hard to read in the twilight, but I can hear the sigh that escapes her lips and the swish of her dress as she shifts position in the chair.
“Summer, I know you’ve got the best intentions,” she says, “but I think we need to leave this alone now. If Hannah’s not right for Nick, he’ll find out soon enough.”
“But—”
“And to be perfectly honest, I’m uncomfortable with the idea of doing any more snooping. By the time I got off the phone today, I felt like I’d been dumpster diving.”
Since I’m the one who promoted the so-called dumpster diving, her comment triggers a ripple of resentment through me. I open my mouth in protest, but quickly bite my tongue. It’s pretty obvious she just doesn’t get it—and if I keep desperately trying to make the case, Wendy might think I’m suffering from a bad case of Hannah envy, the way Gabe does.
“Sure, I understand,” I say steadily. “And I appreciate your looking into it. It’s reassuring to know the basic facts line up.”
“I should go back,” she says, smacking another mosquito. “Blake’s waiting, and I know he’s as knackered as I am. You must be, too.”
Yeah, but I say tired, not knackered, I’m tempted to tell her, because I didn’t live in the UK for fifteen minutes a million years ago.
I know I shouldn’t be annoyed with Wendy. Since I haven’t told her about the fight, or the foxgloves, I can hardly fault her lack of urgency. And yet I was counting on her, and I hate this sudden goody-two-shoes moralizing from someone who sells multimillion-dollar paintings of nothing but polka dots. Plus, it means I’m totally on my own again.
Blake’s waiting on the patio as promised, brandy snifter in hand, and Gabe and Henry are there, too, brownie crumbs scattered on the table in front of them. As Blake and Wendy head off to the carriage house, Gabe hoists a sleepy Henry in his arms, and we trudge to the cottage. The night air is filled now with the insistent, rhythmic mating calls of countless katydids and crickets, a sound I usually find soothing, but tonight it grates against my nerves, making me even edgier.
While Gabe puts Henry to bed, I not only turn the lock on the front door but fasten the brass chain we never use. By the time he returns downstairs, I’ve turned on all the lights in the sitting room and poured us each a glass of rioja from a bottle I found on the butler’s table.
“I thought you might like this,” I say, offering him the goblet.
“Yeah, thanks. I had my share at dinner but one more won’t kill me.”
“He asleep?”
“Out like a light. He seems pretty exhausted from everything.”
“I know. He even took a nap at the pool. I’m sure the memorial service will be sad for him, but I’m glad he’s staying for it.”
He takes a long sip of wine, and as he lowers the glass, his eyes meet mine.
“What were you and Wendy talking about out in the yard?”
“The memorial,” I say. Which is partly true. “She’d heard I’m reading a poem, but she’s decided not to speak. She’s afraid of getting too emotional.”
I settle on the sofa, wineglass in hand, and Gabe follows suit, but just far enough away from me that our bodies don’t touch. Is that by chance, or by choice on his part?
“Have you worked out what you’re going to say tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yeah, I decided to read a letter my mother wrote me at summer camp when I was Henry’s age, one with a few good life lessons that have stuck with me. I made a digital copy of it once, and so I’ve got access.”
“What a wonderful idea,” I say. “I can’t wait to hear what she wrote.”
From there we drift into what feels like an awkward silence. Or maybe Gabe is simply grief-stricken and I’m reading it wrong. Finally, he drains his wineglass in a single gulp and announces he’s going to bed.
“I’ll be up in a minute,” I say. I cock my chin to the poetry book on the coffee table. “I want to read over the poem a few more times tonight.”