“I hear you,” I say, probably a little too brightly. “I do. And you’re right, let’s move on.”
He eyes me quizzically, his tan brow wrinkled, as if he’s not sure if I’m sincere or giving a Drama-Desk-Award-caliber performance. But I sense a resignation beneath the surface, that he’s going to take me at my word.
“I should check on Henry,” he says, rising and raking both hands through his hair.
“I’ll watch him during the meeting with the lawyer, of course,” I volunteer. “Maybe fix him an early dinner.”
“But you’re supposed to be at the meeting, too.”
“I am? I thought only you and your brothers were invited.”
“Well, wives, too. Dad’s expecting you.”
“Sure, I’m happy to be included. It’s just a formality, right?”
“That’s what I hear.” He’s moving toward the stairwell, his face still tense.
“Okay, why don’t I go over to the house and see if Henry can hang in the kitchen with Bonnie during the meeting, then?”
Gabe’s lips part, as if he’s about to suggest Hannah could always watch him, but in the end he just nods.
I don’t head directly to the house, though. Instead I wander halfway down the path, veer off toward the cloud boxwood grove, and slip into the glade. This was another one of Claire’s sanctuaries, and it’s not hard to understand why. The space is so serene and Zen-like, a spot where the rest of the world can feel completely removed.
But it doesn’t today. As I lower myself onto one of the two weathered benches, my problems seem to bulldoze their way through the boxwoods. Hannah’s out there someplace, a potential danger to me and to others. And my conversation with Gabe has only intensified the big, fat wedge between us.
Something else is churning in me, too, something besides frustration and anguish. I feel . . . pissed, I realize. I didn’t expect Gabe to leap from his seat like Dr. Watson and shout, My god, you’re right, why didn’t I see it? But I expected him to at least listen carefully, consider my points, and accept that though all I had was circumstantial evidence, it warranted investigation.
Instead, he completely dismissed my theory. And chalked it all up to a personal issue. But I’m not obsessed with Hannah’s career. Yes, I want what she has, have always wanted it, but I’m opening other doors for myself. No, this is simply about the truth and trying to convince Gabe to see it, too.
What I need is an ally, I decide. Not Wendy, obviously, since she now seems to be cozying up to Hannah. No, it has to be someone else, someone receptive.
Marcus. There’s a chance he’s still lusting for Hannah, of course, but based on how he looked at her right here in this spot, I think that he’s feeling anger, too. And perhaps, as I once considered, he might be privy to details about her that make him want to prevent a marriage between her and Nick. I can also probably count on Marcus to be discreet, since the two of us are sharing another secret.
With my mind made up, I leave the grove and hurry to the house. The tables and chairs have been carted off, and the sole reminders of the service that took place are the indentations in the grass. As I round the house toward the pool, I can hear a Rihanna song playing faintly from the kitchen. Claire’s not even buried yet and her “only classical music in the kitchen” policy has already bitten the dust.
Marcus isn’t at the pool, nor is anyone else, hardly a surprise. Chances are he’s in the guest suite, resting or steeling himself for the next gathering. I make my way to the eastern end of the house, knowing that the door to the screened-in porch is always unlocked. There’s a back stairway in this section of the house that will take me right to the guest suite.
Several large fir trees shade the porch, keeping the light in there dim, and it isn’t until I’m a few feet into the space that I notice someone lying faceup on the wicker couch. Wendy. Like me, she’s still in the clothes she wore to the service, and her hand is pressed against her forehead. I’m shocked to see a goblet of what might be chardonnay parked on the coffee table beside her.
“Oh, hi,” she mutters, scooting up a little. Her face is as white as candle wax.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes, I—Oh, you’re looking at my drink. Don’t worry, it’s water. I grabbed the closest glass I could find.”
“Wendy, are you sure you’re feeling okay?” I perch on the rocker across from her so I can see her better in the dimness. “Want me to find Blake?”
“I’m fine, really.” She scooches up even more so she’s almost in a seated position, but her legs are still stretched out in front of her. “Well, maybe not so fine. To be perfectly honest—and you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone—I was feeling crampy a little while ago, and it freaked me out. I thought I might be miscarrying.”
My breath quickens. “You have to let me get Blake. He’ll know what to do.”
“No, please. I don’t want to scare him if nothing’s wrong. And besides, if I am having a miscarriage, there’s no way he can help.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, though I know practically nothing on the subject.
“Trust me, after years of trying, I’m practically an expert on everything related to pregnancy,” she says, a shadow passing over her face.
“It’s good you’re resting, at least.”
She snickers. “You know, doctors used to advise bed rest for a possible miscarriage, but it’s apparently useless. I’m just lying down for my own sanity. I can’t bear the idea of possibly losing this baby.”
“Oh, Wendy, I can only imagine. The cramps—they’re gone now?”
“Yes, they subsided a little while ago. And I’m not bleeding, so hopefully it’s a false alarm.”
“Thank god . . . . I’m sure the situation here isn’t helping matters.”
“You can say that again.” There’s more than a hint of exasperation in her voice. “Are we supposed to simply continue here, pretending we’re all on vacation?”
“I’m sure people would understand if you left in the next day or two.”
“Maybe. I’ll have to see what Blake thinks.”
She lowers herself back on the cushion and brings a hand to her brow again.
“Why don’t I let you rest,” I say, rising. “Do you have your phone? In case of an emergency?”
“Yes, it’s in my pocket.” She slowly closes her eyes. “Thanks, Summer. I appreciate it.”
“Take care.” I wish I had better words of comfort to offer.
I head from the porch into the house and toward the back stairs. Though I’ve always been comfortable in every part of the Keatons’ property, I can’t help but feel a little sheepish about going up to the guest suite now, particularly after Hannah found me outside her room. Once I’m at the top of the stairs, I hurry to the far end of the hall and rap lightly on the bedroom door.
I hear footsteps drawing close, and soon Marcus swings open the door, wearing only a pair of dark slacks. “Hey,” he says, frowning. “Everything okay?”
“Yup. I was just hoping to talk for a second.”