The Fiancée

by Kate White

  Dedication

  To my dazzling, wonderful friends, Nigel Campbell and Bernard Donoghue—and their cat, Tom, too

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Also by Kate White

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The first thing that seems wrong to her is the vultures.

  There are five or six of them, perched in a cluster on the peaked roof of the old bird blind, which sits at the edge of the woods and to the right of the stream.

  She freezes with a start about twenty yards away from them, unsettled by their presence. What are they doing so close? They’re usually in the sky when she sees them, riding thermals.

  One of them creeps along the base of the roof and drops its beak. Her eyes follow the movement downward and then keep going, drawn magnetically to the ground.

  Three more of the birds ruffle about in the knee-high grass by the stream, and they’re pecking at something long and tan colored. A deer must have staggered here and died after being maimed by a car. She watches in disgust as one of the vultures beaks the far end of the animal, then tears away a stringy red piece of flesh.

  She starts to turn, unable to stomach a second more of the grisly scene, but part of her brain has gone rogue and won’t let her look away, urging her to revise her interpretation.

  No, not a deer, she realizes. What she’s staring at is a coat. And something denim colored near the lower end of it. Her heart lurches.

  Stooping down, she grabs a rock off the ground and hurls it toward the vultures, who lift their wings slightly and hop backward.

  It’s clear now there’s a body inside the coat, lying facedown, with one arm flung outward. And there’s skin evident below the bottom of it, the backs of two bare calves. The denim, she now sees, is a pair of jeans that have been bunched around the ankles. Her stomach heaves.

  A voice in her head screams at her to flee. Before she can propel herself away, she notices the hand protruding from the sleeve, its nails painted a vivid shade of pink. She’s seen this hand before.

  1

  The day couldn’t be more gorgeous. It’s late July, and the sky is a spectacular shade of blue, with only a few tiny clouds scudding across. I’m in the passenger seat of our Volvo with my husband, Gabe, behind the wheel and my nine-year-old stepson, Henry, in the back. We’re halfway to Gabe’s parents’ sixty-acre country home in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, for our annual family vacation there, a week that I know from experience will involve plenty of swimming, tennis, badminton, biking, hammocking, forest hikes, Frisbee-tossing, stargazing, board games, and epic conversations, to say nothing of fantastic meals and delicious cocktails.

  And yet I’ve got a pit in my stomach that won’t go away, no matter how deeply I breathe, release, and repeat.

  “You okay?” Gabe asks, glancing over at me and raising a single eyebrow in that way of his.

  “Not totally,” I admit. “I’m kind of upset about the job I did this morning.”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to ask how that went. Want to talk about it?”

  I steal a glance into the back seat, where Henry, a precocious kid and world-class eavesdropper, appears engrossed in something on his iPad.

  “The session turned into a real dumpster fire,” I tell Gabe.

  “I thought you were only recording a short story today,” he says. “Wouldn’t that be pretty straightforward?”

  I’m an actress, and I’ve been concentrating for the past couple of years on voice-over work. Today’s dumpster fire involved, yes, me reading one story for the audio edition of an upcoming collection by a hotshot writer.

  I sigh. “The author convinced the publisher to let her sit in on the sessions, which is a bad idea on so many levels. Two minutes in she starts wrinkling her nose, like she’s smelling a dead yak, and whispering to Shawna, my director. Then, if you can believe it, she started doing line readings for my benefit—to explain how things should sound.”

  “Did Shawna say anything?”

  “Not really. She seemed totally intimidated by this woman. We got through the whole recording, but I think they could tell I was flustered.”

  “I’m sure you did fine, Summer, you always do. And besides, it’s just one job.”

  I usually appreciate Gabe’s typical glass-half-full attitude, but it’s not as simple as that. Though audiobooks don’t pay as well as some of the other voice-over work I do, like TV and radio commercials, and also IVR (interactive voice response)—you know, those prompts that route your call when you contact your insurance company or internet provider, the ones that sometimes make you want to hurl your phone against the wall—I love recording them. That’s because it feels like acting, and I don’t want Shawna to think twice about hiring me again.

  But I just nod. Gabe’s been worried lately that I give my inner critic way too much headspace, and I shouldn’t look like I’m stressing as we kick off our vacation.

  “How about you?” I ask. “Are you going to be able to chill this week?”

  “Yeah, mostly. Marcus and I need to sit down with Dad about some business stuff, but we’ll get that out of the way this weekend.”

  Gabe and his brother have a flourishing eight-year-old wine-importing firm, and my father-in-law’s been an adviser to them, as well as an early investor.

  “Will we have time to swim before dinner tonight?” Henry pipes up from the back.

  “Probably, buddy,” Gabe responds. “I talked to Gee earlier and she said we won’t eat till seven.”

  We’d gotten a later start from Manhattan than we hoped for, in part because Gabe’s ex, Amanda, was late dropping Henry off (“You could not believe the traffic.”), but the GPS has us arriving by five.

  “Do you think I’m gonna be able to swim every day?” Henry asks. “My mom said it’s supposed to rain this week.”

  Gabe rolls his eyes for my benefit only. It’s so much like Amanda to put a Debbie Downer spin on a fun vacation, but all things being equal, Gabe’s coparenting experience could be worse. She’s the one who initiated their split (“We were such different people in college, don’t you think?”), and though she can be a pain in the butt, her guilt about ending the marriage seems to have kept her from turning toxic.

  “There might be a few thunderstorms here and there,” Gabe says. “But nothing to worry about. And you downloaded some books, right?”

  “Yeah, a bunch.”

  “What are you reading now, Hen?” I ask.

  “Brief Answers to the Big Questions by Stephen Hawking.”

  Jeez. Well, hopefully he won’t ask me to elaborate on anything. My BFA theater degree meant that I made it through college without any math or science, but feel free to quiz me on what I soaked up in courses like “Freeing the Expressive Human Instrument” and “Unarmed Co
mbat: Learning Slaps, Punches, and Found Objects.”

  “You know what could be fun to do if it does rain, honey?” I say, twisting around in my seat to look at him. “We could ask Gee to give us a cooking class.”

  “Wow, that would be awesome.”

  “Gee,” aka my mother-in-law, Claire, has help from her longtime housekeeper, Bonnie, at the Bucks County house, but she also prepares many of the meals herself. A landscape designer by profession, she’s a natural and talented chef.

  I turn back to Gabe. “So you talked to your mom? Has anyone arrived yet?”

  “Marcus and Keira drove out early, so did Blake and Wendy,” he says, referring to two of his brothers and their wives. “Not sure when Nick arrives. But—major news flash: he’s bringing a new girl with him.”

  “Oh my god!” I punch him lightly on the arm. “Why are you only telling me this now?”

  “Because I heard it myself only a couple of hours ago.”

  I’m happy for Nick. His last girlfriend moved back to Belgium over a year ago, and though I’m sure my charming, dashing brother-in-law hasn’t been lacking for female company, I’ve sensed lately he’s eager for something serious. I just hope a stranger won’t disturb the ecosystem of our family vacation this week.

  “He really sprung it on them last minute, huh?”

  “Yeah, but my mom seemed cool about it. As you know, Nick can do no wrong with her.”

  “Where’s Uncle Nick going to stay?” Henry calls out from the back.

  “Probably in the carriage house. Gee’s had it totally renovated with a couple of new guest rooms.”

  “What about his date?” my stepson asks.

  “Um, probably with him there,” Gabe says.

  “Does that mean they’re shacking up?”

  I stifle a laugh as I see Gabe’s right brow shoot up.

  “Yeah, but let’s not refer to it that way in front of everyone else. Okay, buddy? And speaking of sleeping arrangements, are you sure you want to stay in the main house? You could always bunk down with me and Summer in the cottage.”

  “Thanks, but I wanna be in the big house with Gee and Grandpa. Gee said the dogs can sleep with me.”

  “Okay, but if you change your mind, it’s not a problem.”

  Twenty minutes later we exit the main highway, and in another fifteen, we cross the Delaware River from New Jersey into Bucks County and end up on Durham Road. The sight of the Keatons’ home—a rambling gray stone house with several wings, and dormer windows across the roof—always lifts my spirits, and I feel my work worries ease as soon as we head down the gravel road that leads to the circular driveway.

  As we’re parking, my father-in-law, Ash, strides from the house, his six-two frame bookended by two scampering dogs: Ginger, a golden retriever, and Bella, a pug-Chihuahua rescue mutt.

  “It’s only been three weeks since I saw you, but I swear you’ve grown two inches,” Ash tells Henry, his voice booming, as he envelops him in a hug.

  “Did you know you grow more when you’re sleeping than when you’re awake, Grandpa?” Henry asks.

  “I didn’t know that, but you’re going to sit next to me at dinner and tell me all about it,” Ash says, hugging me and Gabe in turn. Though I know my father-in-law has a reputation for being tough and exacting in his commercial real estate business, he always has plenty of warmth to spare for us. “Now let’s go say hi to Gee.”

  We follow him in, and I’m newly struck by the fact that Gabe, with his slate-blue eyes and hawklike nose, looks a lot like his handsome dad, minus the silver hair.

  Claire is in the large kitchen, wearing a cook’s apron over stylish beige trousers and a cream-colored blouse, and julienning basil, which she pauses doing to hug us. As I set two bags of bagels on the countertop, I spot a few people hanging by the pool through the rear window of the kitchen.

  “Can I get my trunks on?” Henry asks, noticing, too.

  “You bet,” Ash tells him. “Why don’t you carry your bag upstairs first? You’re in the room next to Gee’s and mine.”

  “I think I’ll swim, too,” Gabe says. “What about you, Summer?”

  “I’m going to stay here and catch up with your mom for a bit.”

  “Okay, I’ll take our stuff to the cottage. Unless you need any help here, Mom?”

  She shakes her head. “No, darling, enjoy yourself. There are snacks and drinks by the pool.”

  After they depart, I take a minute to let my eyes roam the room. If Gabe’s business keeps growing like it has been, we’re hoping to buy a small weekend home of our own, and this is the kind of kitchen I’d kill for. All the white keeps it fresh, but there’s also a charming rustic feel thanks to the exposed ceiling beams, apron sink, and painted wood floor.

  “How about an iced tea?” Claire asks, nodding toward the brown ceramic jug that she keeps filled on the counter.

  “Not right now, thanks.” My mother-in-law brews it herself with herbs like fennel and sage, and though I’m sure it has all sorts of antioxidant properties, I’ve always preferred the stuff that tastes like Snapple.

  “You look lovely, by the way,” she says. “The green in your dress perfectly matches your eyes, and the style suits you to a tee.”

  I cherish compliments like that from Claire as she always looks so pulled together. Her blond hair, a shade or so lighter than mine, is pulled back today in a flattering French twist.

  “Do you think so? I wore it to work today. A lot of voice actors dress down for recording jobs, but I always feel I perform better when I make an effort.”

  “I think we all do. Like it or not, people notice our clothes and judge us on them, sometimes without even realizing it, and you pick up on those vibes in the studio, I’m sure.”

  I’m momentarily tempted to tell Claire what happened today at the recording. She’s a fount of wisdom on everything from how much a wedding gift should cost to turning any kind of negotiation into a win-win. But I don’t want to bother her when she’s in the midst of making dinner for all of us.

  “Where’s Bonnie?” I ask.

  “She went out to pick up a few more supplies. Turns out Nick’s date for the week is a vegetarian and we’ll have to add extra side dishes while she’s here.”

  “Do you know anything else about her?”

  “Not a thing. He only told us two days ago that he was bringing her.”

  She returns her attention to the basil on the butcher-block-topped island and scrapes it into a huge white bowl, one already filled with diced tomatoes, chunks of Brie, and olive oil. My mouth waters as I realize that it’s for one of the delicious pasta dishes Claire loves to serve in summer.

  “Do you think that after Marcus’s wedding, Nick started to feel pressure to settle down?” Marcus is Nick’s fraternal twin, and he married a lovely woman named Keira last summer.

  Claire shakes her head. “Nick? I think the only pressure he allows himself to feel these days is work-related.”

  For the past several years, Nick has been involved in Ash’s real estate business.

  “Or,” she adds smiling, “on the squash court. I just hope when he is inclined to marry, it’s to someone as terrific as you.”

  “Oh, Claire, that’s so kind of you to say.” She’s warm and generous to all three of her daughters-in-law, but I know we have a special rapport. “And, of course, it’s entirely mutual. But I should have asked you before—can I help with anything?”

  “No, Bonnie and I have it under control. Go start your vacation, dear.”

  I head out to the patio, near where Henry’s already splashing around at one end of the kidney-shaped, black-bottom pool with Gabe and his grandfather. Blake, Gabe’s oldest brother, is swimming laps, while Marcus, Keira, and Blake’s wife, Wendy, are clustered by the beverage trolley. They wave me over.

  “Great to see everyone,” I say, hugging them all. “We had dinner with these two just last week,” I tell Wendy, cocking my head at Marcus and Keira, “but it seems like ages since we
’ve seen you and Blake.”

  “I know, that’s the problem with moving to the burbs,” Wendy says, flicking a strand of her chin-length hair off her face. “Plus, we’ve both been crazed at work lately.”

  “Everything good in the art world?”

  “Definitely, but you can’t make some of this stuff up,” Wendy says. She’s an art dealer who now runs her own gallery. “I sold two very expensive candle sculptures to a collector in Texas a month ago, and his wife accidentally lit them at a party she gave. He ended up ordering two more.”

  “Why would an artist bother making candles if he didn’t want anyone to light them?” Marcus asks.

  Wendy smiles, unruffled. She’s been married to Blake for ten years, and she knows this is a typical response from Marcus. He’s the quietest of the brothers, but when he does have something to say, he cuts straight to the chase.

  “Blake asked me the same thing. He thinks a lot of modern art is the emperor’s new clothes. But a good artist simply wants you to pause and stare and be provoked and maybe see things in a totally different way.”

  “I guess the wife missed the point . . . . Speaking of Blake, I may take a dip, too.” Marcus glances at Keira. “You want to join me?”

  “You go ahead,” she tells her husband. “I’m going to wait until tomorrow.” He nods and her eyes linger on him as he strides off toward the pool.

  “I was just hearing about Keira’s wonderful new job,” Wendy says to me.

  “Well, not wonderful yet,” my other sister-in-law insists, shaking her head. “I’m still trying to get my bearings.”

  I don’t consider either Wendy or Keira to be close friends, but I get along well with both of them, as different as they are. Wendy’s outgoing and self-possessed, thirty-eight as of last month. Though she seems to favor mostly black designer clothes for work, on weekends she goes for more of that preppy-bohemian Tory Burch style of dressing, which fits well with her white-blond hair and blue-eyed good looks. I’ve seen her be snooty to waiters but never toward anyone in the family. It drives Gabe nuts that she talks with a faint British accent, even though she only lived in the UK for a year—and it was the year she was twenty-two. But if Madonna can be forgiven for doing it, so can Wendy, I suppose.