But he doesn’t. He simply says, “Show me the place in the garden where the flowers are missing.”
“Of course,” I respond, feeling an iota of relief. I hurry across the room, part the drapes, and tug open the doors to the patio, beckoning him to follow. A cloud has passed across the sun, dulling the garden colors, but the air is ripe with the sweet scent of the artemisias.
“There,” I say, pointing to the spot but training my eyes on Gabe. Instantly I see the surprise on his face. He gets it. He finally does.
But when I drop my eyes to the garden a second later, I see there’s no gap anymore. It’s now filled entirely with stalks of purple foxgloves.
18
For a second I freeze, my feet bolted to the ground. But then I bend my knees for a closer inspection and I discover right away what’s happened. The soil around a handful of the foxgloves is rough and knobby, making it clear that someone has dug there in the last day or two, and the flowers themselves are a little limp.
“Okay, there’s no gap now, but it’s pretty obvious why not,” I say, hearing the desperate edge to my voice. “She clearly found these foxgloves in another one of the gardens, dug them up, and planted them to replace the ones she clipped.”
But when? Probably after I’d stupidly mentioned foxgloves to Hannah, telegraphing my suspicions.
Gabe doesn’t move. He’s next to me, his eyes on the border garden.
“Summer,” he says, finally pivoting to me. His tone is plaintive, the way guys get when they’re about to tell you they slept with a girl they met on a business trip to Dayton or have come to realize they never really loved you after all.
“Wait,” I say, squinting as the sun sneaks from behind a cloud. “I took a picture. I can show you.”
He trails me back into the sitting room where I grab my phone, click on the photo I took Sunday night, and thrust it toward him. “Here, see,” I say.
He sighs and lowers his gaze. A second later, using his thumb, he swipes a few frames forward and then backward, obviously searching for additional photos.
“Is this the only one you have? Because there’s really nothing here.”
I snatch the phone back and as I glance at the photo, my heart sinks. It was even darker out than I realized when I took it, and the flash never went off. Though I know exactly where the gaping hole is, to anyone else looking at the photo, it might appear to be simply a mush of dark plants and shadows.
“Gabe,” I plead. “You have to believe me. There was a hole there. Someone dug up the foxgloves the day your mother died.”
“I believe you, Summer.”
I tear up. Maybe I am getting somewhere. “So what do you think we should do?”
Gabe shakes his head forlornly. “Nothing.”
“But why not?” I feel my stomach twisting. “If you believe me.”
“I do believe you saw a gap. I understand that the jug isn’t in the cupboard anymore. I’m sure there was one of those foxglove buds or blossoms or whatever you call it in your drawer. But I also think you’re looking at everything from the wrong angle. Or maybe it’s been refracted somehow, like when Henry makes a pencil look bent in a glass of water.”
“Refracted? Gabe, I saw the hole. It was there.”
“Let’s sit, okay?” he says, gesturing toward the couch, and I oblige because I only have a chance of convincing him if I seem as level-headed as possible.
“What I mean,” Gabe says when we’ve settled onto opposite ends of the couch, “is that it might have seemed like a gap when you saw it, but the wind or the heat had probably parted the flowers a certain way at the time. Plus, it was clearly dark then—so maybe it looked like a bigger gap than it was.”
I grit my teeth. “What about the jug then?” I say. “And the flower in my drawer?”
“The jug—I’m sure it’s in the house somewhere, or maybe that new guy Bonnie’s using broke it, swept up the pieces, and threw it away . . . . As for the flower in your drawer, you said you were carrying vases around yesterday. The blossom part probably snagged onto whatever you were wearing and then ended up in the drawer.”
“And your mom saying that thing about my hair being lighter?”
“It is lighter. You’ve been in the sun a lot this summer.”
Frustration nearly overwhelms me, but I force calm into my voice. “So what you’re saying is that after your mother basically threatened to expose Hannah, Hannah simply let it roll off her back. And all these other things are pure coincidence?”
“There’s no evidence whatsoever that my mother was talking to Hannah that night.”
“But then who was she fighting with?”
“I don’t know,” he says, throwing up his hands. “One of my brothers? My father?”
“Your father?” Does Gabe suspect an issue in his parents’ marriage?
“That was only a suggestion. My point is that we don’t know. She might not have even been all that upset. We have only a sleepy little boy’s transcript of what she said.”
“And the poem today?”
“I’m sure my mother also told Hannah she loved it. She probably told every woman who’s come out here that it was her favorite.”
Somewhere in there is a dig, but I ignore it. I clasp my arms against my chest, wondering how things have gone so horribly wrong. Gabe doesn’t get it at all.
“Summer,” he says with eerie calm, like a cop trying to talk a potential jumper off a ledge, “what I’m asking is that you take a long deep breath and try to see this all from another perspective.”
Obviously, he hasn’t noticed that I’ve been breathing so deeply I’ve nearly sucked all the air from the room.
“Gabe, please . . . .” I look at him, imploring. “Can’t you try to see it from another perspective? You seem so . . . so quick to come to Hannah’s defense.”
“I’m not,” he snaps. “There’s simply no evidence she’s done anything wrong.”
As I search desperately for a response, I notice that his eyes are now glistening with tears. In the moment, I’ve lost sight of the fact that Gabe is distraught and grief-stricken, and this conversation is only making him feel worse.
“Gabe, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you today. But I had to tell you all this. How could I forgive myself if I didn’t?”
“Fine, and thank you. You’ve told me. But now you have to let it go, okay? My mother’s dead, dead from a massive heart attack, and supporting my dad and Henry is what I need to focus on.”
“Of course,” I say, chastened. “And I want to be there for you, and your dad, and Henry.”
“Great, so let’s move on. Seriously, Summer, I can’t have another crazy conversation like this. You have to figure out a way to stop obsessing about Hannah.”
So that’s it, isn’t it? That’s what he thinks this is all about. Me crazily fixated on Hannah and her success. Jealous and unable to stop trash-talking. I feel an urge to hurl something at the wall, but instead I smother my anger. More talk or flying objects won’t open his eyes, and I need to stop exacerbating his distress over his mother’s death.