When I slip into bed ten minutes later, Gabe’s already asleep, and snoring heavily. It sounds like there’s a woodland animal rooting around in his chest, snorting, snuffling, emitting a low, troubled growl. I drag the pillow over my head, but it doesn’t help.
That’s not the only thing that’s keeping me from a good night’s sleep. There’s also a huge ugly knot in my stomach. I’m nervous, I realize, over the idea of reading the poem at the service tomorrow. Sure, I’ve performed onstage countless times, but it’s never an anxiety-free experience, and these are especially difficult circumstances. I’m also worried about Gabe and me. There’s been this odd clunkiness between us since he found out about my snooping. Or really, ever since I first told him about Hannah’s lie.
But mostly it’s a knot of fear. I keep thinking of Hannah’s wicked little smile tonight, when she’d clearly realized I’d found the foxglove blossom. She seems completely unafraid of tipping her hand to me. She must have concluded by now that if I accuse her of murder in front of the Keatons, everyone will think I’m crazy.
But she’s the one who’s crazy—and dangerous. The blossom was a threat, but would she go so far as to hurt me? She snuck into the cottage once before, and she could do it again.
The patio door, I suddenly think, bolting up in bed. I never checked whether it was locked. I nearly fly down the stairs and, holding my breath, tug back the muslin curtains. The lock is in place. And there’s nothing beyond the window but a wall of darkness.
Before returning to our bedroom, I check in on Henry. The bedding is twisted crazily around his torso, and I take a minute to untangle the top sheet before laying it over him again and returning to the other bedroom.
Though I eventually drift off to sleep, I’m awake again at around one thirty, once more after three, and again near six, this time without even the hint of grogginess that promises a possible return to slumber. I struggle out of bed, dress as quietly as possible, and tiptoe downstairs.
Pale morning light greets me on the ground floor, seeping in from around the edges of the curtains, and when I peek through the window, I see the sky is smeared with pink. For a brief moment, my fears from the night before seem overwrought, even ridiculous. But they’re not, I tell myself. Red sky in morning, sailor’s warning.
Though it’s only six o’clock now, there’s a slight chance Bonnie’s already in the kitchen, prepping for the luncheon. I decide to head over there and see if she needs any help. Coming down the path, I can see the side door of the house is closed, and probably still locked, but when I round the corner, I find the interior kitchen door open and the scent of fresh coffee wafting from inside. I ease open the screen door, and there’s Marcus sitting at the table with a mug in front of him, staring off into the middle distance.
“Hi,” he says when he notices me.
“Good morning. You couldn’t sleep, either?”
“Not really. I kept hearing some animal prowling around again last night. I’m not sure if it was only a raccoon or that damn coywolf. You want coffee? Bonnie apparently isn’t coming until seven, so I went ahead and made a pot.”
“Coffee sounds great, thanks.”
I fill a mug and join Marcus at the table. The two of us, I realize, have had practically no one-on-one time this week.
“Are you and I the only ones up?” I ask.
“Looks that way, though the study door’s shut, meaning my father might be in there.” He lets his gaze sweep the room. “I thought it would be nice to sit in the kitchen for a while. I don’t think I’ve done that since I was a kid.”
“You must have been, what, three or four, when your parents bought this place, right?”
“Yup. Though of course it wasn’t scaled up then like it is now. In those days you could have a Fudgsicle in the kitchen on a summer afternoon, and not worry if it dripped all over everything.”
“Are you ready for this morning?” I ask.
“I guess as ready as I’ll ever be. Gabe says you’re speaking. That’s nice, Summer.”
“I’m just reading a short poem I know your mom liked.”
“Keira decided not to say anything. Talking in public kind of terrifies her.”
“Understood. I guess I’m the only in-law speaking then.”
“Unless you count Hannah,” he says, with a hard edge to his voice.
I almost spit out my coffee. “Hannah? What could she possibly have to say? She knew your mother for two days.”
And probably murdered her, I think.
“You’ll have to ask her. Or Nick.”
It’s clearly a ploy on Hannah’s part to cement the image of herself as the grieving future daughter-in-law.
“What’s your take on her, anyway?” I ask, feeling like he’s given me an opening.
He shrugs, his expression blank. “I don’t really have one. I guess you know I dated her briefly, but I haven’t said more than two words to her the entire time she’s been here.”
Should I tell him his pants are about to explode into flames?
Before I can craft the right response in my head, I hear the far-off sound of tires on gravel.
“Who could that be?” Marcus says, pushing back his chair. “Maybe it’s the truck with the rental tables and chairs.”
I trail him through the house to the living room and join him at one of the windows that faces the drive.
A cobalt blue BMW has pulled in, and Ash is already striding toward it, both dogs bounding along beside him. He must have been in the study, after all. I squint, curious about who’s here so early, and see Jillian unfold herself from the driver’s side, dressed in a sleeveless black dress and strappy sandals.
Ash closes the distance to the car, and as Marcus and I stand there watching silently, he takes Jillian into his arms and embraces her.
16
Tell me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing,” Marcus says under his breath.
“I—”
But I’m at a loss for words. It’s like I’m watching a play in which all the actors have strayed disastrously away from the script.
When Ash and Jillian break apart and turn in the direction of the house, Marcus grabs my wrist.
“Let’s go,” he hisses. “We can’t let them see us.”
We hurry back through the house to the kitchen, making sure the swinging door closes behind us. Marcus’s cheeks have reddened from shock, and probably anger, too.
“Marcus,” I say, my voice low. “It might not be what it seems.”
“Oh yeah? You mean my father and his assistant weren’t really clinging to each other in the fucking driveway?”
“No. But maybe it was nothing more than a comforting hug.”
Do I actually mean that? I don’t have any idea. All I know is that I feel sick to my stomach.
“Bosses and employees hugging to comfort each other?” he says, his tone still brimming with sarcasm. “I didn’t think that was supposed to happen even before the Me Too era.”
“I’m not saying it’s common, but a director I once worked with bear-hugged everybody, and I doubt it was ever sexual. Your dad’s a paternal kind of guy and Jillian’s been with him for at least five or six years, right?”