And then suddenly the music stops, signaling it’s time for people to take their seats. I find Gabe and the two of us head to the front row with Henry, positioning him in a chair between us. As I give Henry’s hand an affectionate squeeze, he leans his head against my arm, almost breaking my heart. Dear Claire, I think, you didn’t have to be grateful to me. Henry’s been so easy to love.
A hush falls over the crowd as Blake walks to the front of the seating area. Behind him, lush cumulous clouds chase one another across the sky. He welcomes everyone, his voice breaking once or twice as he speaks, and introduces Claire’s friend and meditation instructor, who will start things off with a spiritual reading. The reading is nice, a little woo-woo probably for Claire’s taste, but overall it sets the right tone. Next, Denton speaks about his long, wonderful partnership with Claire and quotes from emails former clients have sent, gushing about her talent. Another friend of Claire’s, one I don’t know, shares a story of Claire nursing her through a serious illness.
And then finally it’s time for Hannah, who’s sitting with Nick across the aisle from us. As she rises, I see that she’s holding an index card in one of her perfectly manicured hands, with nails painted to match her top. She strides the short distance to the front, her butt swaying a little as she walks but her expression sober. The sight of her forces the taste of bile into my throat. How does she have the fucking nerve?
“Good morning, I’m Hannah Kane, Nick’s fiancée, and I so appreciate the chance to speak today,” she says with a restrained but confident smile. “Sadly, I knew Claire for only a very short while, but the hours we spent together were some of the most wonderful ones in my life. I felt an instant connection to her, especially on our tour of her magnificent gardens.”
I have to fight off the urge to dry heave.
“I realize,” Hannah continues, “that it would be silly of me to share impressions of Claire with people who knew her so much better than me, so I decided instead to read a poem that I know was one of her favorites.
“It’s called ‘Why I Wake Early’ by Mary Oliver.”
17
You’ve GOT to be kidding me. I sit there, stunned, as the words spill from her lips, the poem I was going to read. It can’t be a fluke. No, no, she’s very clearly done this on purpose.
My fury is quickly overtaken by panic. What the hell am I supposed to do? We hardly covered this kind of situation in the year’s worth of improv workshops I did.
Think, think. The poem’s short and she’s almost finished. I sense Gabe eyeing me, and when I turn to him, I see surprise on his face. But it’s not indignant surprise. He flips over both hands, palms up, as if to say, Yikes, what a lousy coincidence. What are you going to do?
My hands are trembling in my lap, and I raise a finger as discreetly as I can to indicate I’ve got this. I sure as hell don’t have it, but somehow I’m going to have to. I’m a damn actress, right?
Hannah has finished and bows her head slightly in thanks. She lingers at the front for a moment, as if expecting a round of applause, before striding back to her seat.
As I rise from my own, my mind grasps desperately for memories. Claire and Gabe. Claire and me. Claire and her gardens. Impromptu can work, I tell myself, as long as it’s sincere.
Reaching the front, I turn, face forward, and pause. Though there are fewer than thirty or so people, it feels like an ocean of faces. I take a breath from as deep in my diaphragm as I can manage and slowly exhale.
“Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to speak today,” I say, still rooting around for words. “I was so lucky to have Claire as my mother-in-law for the past four years, and knowing her was one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. She not only was a terrific mother to my husband, Gabe, and a fantastic grandmother to my stepson, Henry . . . but she also brought such joy into my own life. She taught me how to grow basil all winter long on my kitchen counter, and to set the kind of table people love to linger at . . . and, um, how to make a divine pasta sauce when all you have are lemons and cream.”
The faces in the group are kind and receptive, but I have no freaking idea where I’m going next, and the back of my dress is all sweaty now, as if Henry’s doused me with his Super Soaker. Suddenly, though, a memory snags in my mind.
“And most of all,” I continue, “Claire taught me the importance of cherishing every day, rather than always fantasizing about the future. She came to see me once in a short Chekhov play off-off-Broadway, one called The Bear. She took me to dinner after, and as we were discussing that incredible playwright who knew so much about human nature, I mentioned a quote from him I’d read: ‘The life of a man is like a flower, blooming so gaily in a field. Then, along comes a goat, he eats it and the flower is gone.’
“‘That line—it always crushes me,’ I told Claire. ‘To think it’s all over in an instant.’ And . . . and do you know what she said? She said, ‘But oh, to be that gaily blooming flower, if only for a little while.’
“Oh, Claire, what a flower you were. Thank you with all my heart for letting me—letting all of us—be witness to it.”
My god, I think as soon as I stop, I’ve made it sound as if Claire’s been devoured by a goat. But people are nodding, their expressions approving. Some are sniffling, and Ellen is dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
Then there’s Hannah. She’s staring straight ahead, her gaze fastened to some distant point on the horizon. I wish I could gloat, because she didn’t derail me as she’d planned, but I’m too shaken to do anything other than smile weakly and return to my chair. As soon as I’m seated, Gabe reaches across Henry, grasps my arm, and smiles appreciatively.
As the service continues, I try to focus on the remarks from Nick and Marcus, but the blood’s pounding in my head, and all I can think of is Hannah, and what she’s done. How had she figured out what poem I was planning to read? Had Gabe told Nick, who then told her? But I didn’t even mention the exact name of the poem to Gabe until a couple of hours ago.
Wait, I know how she figured it out. When she snuck into the cottage yesterday to leave her ominous calling card, she probably snooped around and spotted the book of poems on the coffee table with “Why I Wake Early” bookmarked. By then she’d heard I was reading a poem, and now she knew which one.
When Gabe rises from his seat, I finally manage to focus again on the service. He briefly gives the context for the letter he’s chosen, then proceeds to read his mother’s wonderful advice: “Study the night sky and spot at least one shooting star; ask three kids to tell you the thing they like best about their hometowns; run so fast you break a flip-flop and have to use your backup pair,” and so on. It’s a list, Gabe says, that not only kept him happy at camp, but has served as a guide for life in general. It’s a simple but lovely tribute, beautifully delivered, and I feel a swell of pride.
Blake finishes up the service with a short eulogy of his own and then Ash makes his way to the front, thanking everyone for coming to celebrate the life of his amazing Claire, whose death has broken his heart.
“Is it over?” Henry whispers to me as Ash retreats from the front.