“Yes, except for the lunch.”
“But do they bury Gee now? Right here in the yard?”
“No, not here, sweetie. Down by the woods. Later this week.”
“Can I have the list Gee wrote for Dad? And do all the stuff on it?”
“Of course. That’s a great idea.”
People are on their feet now, starting to mingle again. Henry spots the dogs and galumphs dispiritedly in their direction, but once they raise their heads in anticipation, he breaks into a run.
“Summer, how on earth did you pull that off?” Gabe says, closing the gap between us. He’s radiating concern, and for a moment I feel in sync with him again.
“I have no clue,” I say. “It was like I was having an out-of-body experience, and . . . and I just started racing through my memories of your mom.” I don’t add that the exchange I quoted might not have been word-for-word correct. But it was true in essence and essence was as good as I could come up with today.
“I can’t believe Hannah picked the same poem to read as you did,” he says. “Though I guess it makes sense when you consider—”
“Gabe,” I interrupt, scanning the crowd to see if Hannah’s looking at me. “Let’s talk about it a little later, okay?”
“Sure,” he replies, his expression wary. He senses trouble. And though he may not like it, I’m going to have to tell him everything. Because who knows what Hannah will try next?
We merge with the crowd, and the first person I see is Ash, who hugs me and thanks me for my words about Claire. Soon, like a school of fish, we all move in unison toward the patio, where we load up our plates and then retreat back to the white, round wooden tables the groundskeepers have set up in the shade of the maple trees.
Gabe, Henry, and I end up at a table with Keira and Marcus, as well as Gabe’s aunt, uncle, and cousin. Keira looks even more watchful than usual, and beyond complimenting my tribute, she says very little. I wonder if she’s regretting not speaking. Is she grieving in her own way? Or is she still deliberating whether a marriage can survive if one of the partners is still hung up on his former lover?
While the others make polite but strained small talk, my eyes roam the yard in search of Hannah, who’s seated with Wendy and Blake, among others. Because she’s got her back to me, there’s no way for me to see her expression, but I’m dying to know if she’s pissed because I wasn’t undone by her nasty little ploy.
Wendy’s to her left, her profile to me, and I watch as she touches Hannah’s arm and smiles. Seeing her make nice to the woman she yesterday tagged as an interloper tells me I should never have confided in Wendy about my concerns.
When people start to wander back to the patio for slices of carrot cake, I use the moment to pop into the kitchen and check on Bonnie.
“Wow, what a fantastic lunch,” I say, though I barely ate a bite.
“Thanks, Summer. And what a perfect day to eat outside.”
I lower my voice. “Did Jillian give you any more trouble?”
“Thanks to you, no. The only time I saw her was a few minutes ago when she came in to thank me.”
“Good. Did you have the sense she’s planning to hang around today?”
“Don’t think so. She and Blake went into the dining room for a minute, and when he came back into the kitchen, he said she was leaving, going back to the city.”
That’s a relief. And it might be a sign that there’s really nothing going on, but I think Marcus still needs to talk to Ash about what we saw.
I check my watch as I head back outside. The meeting with the lawyer is only a couple of hours away, and I could use a break. Gabe and I decide that I’ll take Henry back to the cottage and he’ll meet us there as soon as the last guests have left. Once Henry and I are ensconced in the sitting room, and he’s scribbled down everything he remembers from Gabe’s summer camp list, I somehow manage to convince him to take a reading break in his room with a glass of Coke. If Amanda finds out, she’ll report me to the national dental authorities, but she’s the least of my concerns right now. When Gabe returns, I have to tell him everything I know about Hannah, and I need to convince him that this isn’t a matter of me being envious or snoopy. Hannah could be a murderer. And she’s a potential threat to all of us.
In my college acting program, I learned that to come across as authentic and credible as a character, one of the keys is to not sound fanatical. Most great theatrical characters are plagued by doubts at times—well, maybe not Antigone—and I need to indicate that I’ve weighed all sides of the situation. I’m still thinking this through when Gabe pushes open the door.
“Everybody get off okay?” I ask.
“Just about,” he says. “Where’s Hen?”
“Upstairs reading, though he may have conked out by now. I loved what you had to say today, Gabe, and so did Henry. He’s been busy writing down all the items on the list.”
“Thanks—but I didn’t have to miraculously make it up on the spot. You have to tell me how you did it.”
“Let me ask you something first,” I say, closing the door to the stairwell so Henry won’t overhear. “Did Nick know exactly what I was planning to read today?”
“Nick? No. He just asked if you were speaking and I told him you were reading a poem. I didn’t tell him the name because I didn’t know it myself at the time. I’m sure it was all just a rotten coincidence.”
I take a deep breath. “I wish. But there was no coincidence, Gabe. Hannah figured out the poem I’d chosen, and she decided to read it herself, knowing that I’d be left high and dry.”
“What?” he says, looking incredulous. “How can you think that?”
“I don’t think it, I’m sure of it.”
“Summer, she’s not a mind reader. How could she have known? And why would she do something like that anyway? You two might not have hit it off, but that would be a pretty aggressive move on her part.”
“Well, she is aggressive.” I point to the volume of poetry on the coffee table. “She figured out which one it was because she snuck into the cottage and saw the bookmark on the page.”
Gabe’s gawking at me but he doesn’t say a word.
“Look, I know it seems hard to believe,” I say, “but I need to share something difficult with you, okay? It’s something that at first I thought couldn’t possibly be true, prayed wasn’t true, but despite my initial doubts, I’ve come to see it probably is true . . . . I think Hannah might have murdered your mother.”
He straightens in shock, then steps a few feet backward, finally collapsing on the sofa, his eyes on the ground. But he still doesn’t say a word.
It all spills out of me then: how his mother lied to him about who she’d confronted on the patio that night; my strange conversation with her the day she died; the missing foxgloves; my fruitless search for the flowers; the disappearing jug; Hannah pretending she didn’t know about the dangers of foxgloves; the blossom tucked diabolically in my drawer. Finally, I present a minute-and-a-half course on digitalis, how it’s especially dangerous for anyone on a diuretic and why it can lead to cardiac arrest.
I give Gabe a chance to respond, but he remains silent, staring now at something in the middle distance. After what feels like an hour, he looks in my direction and pushes himself up off the couch. Okay, I think, he’s going to take me in his arms and say that it all makes sense, and that he’s horrified I’ve had to deal with this solo.