The Fiancée

by Kate White

  “Claire, my dearest, you’ve done it again,” he says, leveling his gaze at her. “Thank you. And to everyone else: Welcome, enjoy, and we’re so glad you’re able to share this wonderful family time with us.”

  After what seems like endless clinking of glasses, I turn back to Blake. “Well, I’m just glad that with all the work on your plate, you both managed to get away this week.”

  “My mother would strangle me if we ever skipped a year.”

  “Really?” It’s hard for me to imagine Claire annoyed at any of her sons, but especially Blake. He’s such a solid citizen.

  “I’m kidding, of course. We wouldn’t miss it for the world. We all have so much to catch up on.”

  I’m reminded suddenly of the swell in Wendy’s belly. Maybe she is pregnant, and they’re planning to tell us this week.

  “The last time we spoke at length,” he says, “you were picking my brain about fillers and Botox for a play you were writing. Are you still working on that?”

  “Oh, you’re sweet to remember, Blake. Yes, I’m still tweaking it. It’s about five women planning to do an intervention with a friend and at first you think it’s about alcohol or drugs—if I’m doing my job right—but then you realize it’s about the friend having had way too many cosmetic procedures. The good news is that it was accepted into a small playwriting festival and is going to be staged in November.”

  “How clever, Summer. It sounds wonderful.”

  Well, it’s not a damn Netflix pilot, but it’s something. “Thank you, Blake.”

  “Is there a part for you, I hope?”

  I smile. “Better be.”

  “The voice-over stuff sounds great, too. When we were in the pool, Gabe mentioned that you set up a recording studio right in the loft.”

  “True, though it’s nothing fancy. I just put up some acoustical foam in a walk-in closet. But I can do a lot of voice-over jobs that way—even if it sometimes seems like I’m in a padded cell.”

  “Ah, but to have so much freedom in your professional life. There are days when I feel like I’m stuck on a gerbil wheel.”

  The comment surprises me. I always assumed Blake, the responsible oldest child, was thriving in his work or at least convinced it was worth all the spoils: a huge house in the suburbs; a condo in Aspen; weekend jaunts to the Caribbean. Is it possible he’d like a break from always having to follow the rules?

  “What about a short sabbatical?”

  “It’s hard to do in my world, and I don’t know if it would help. I’ve always envied Gabe. He parlayed his passions for wine and travel into a business and gets to do what he really loves every day. I like medicine, but it’s hard to be passionate about removing endless moles from people who refuse to stay out of the sun.”

  Before I can ask him to elaborate, he switches gears back to the voice-over work. Though I appreciate his friendly questions, they have the unfortunate effect of forcing my mind on the morning’s recording session, and I start to wonder if I should have attempted any kind of damage control with the director.

  As Bonnie and her helper clear away the plates from the first course, I excuse myself, head to the powder room off the main hall in the house, and shoot Shawna a text.

  Sorry abt all the back and forth today. Hope everyone’s happy with the final results.

  I give it a minute, waiting to see if she’ll respond. No reply appears. I slip my phone back into my purse and step outside, but I don’t return to the table yet. Instead, I pause in the corridor, leaning against the row of tan slickers that hang on wall pegs, placed there by Claire for anyone in the house to borrow in foul weather.

  There’s something else on my mind and I fish my phone from my purse again and send another text, this one to Billy Dean, my college friend who is now an actor-barista-tour guide in New York. It happens that he was in that West Village showcase with me.

  Crazy Q 4u. I was thinking of those plays we did abt 2 years ago at the Lilac Theater on West 13th St. Do u remember the name of the girl who played the cat who turned into a woman? In the last play?

  By the time I return, the pasta with tomatoes and melted Brie is being served, and the volume of the conversation has gone up a decibel or two. Dusk has begun to dissolve into darkness, and fireflies dance in the yard beyond the patio, oblivious to all of us.

  During this part of the meal, I chat with Gabe’s uncle, and I also have the chance to observe Hannah in action. She’s to the left of Aunt Jean, Ash’s sister, with Nick on her other side, his arm draped around her shoulder like a pashmina she’s brought along in case the weather cools.

  While nodding and smiling during the conversation I’m pretending to be engaged in, I manage to hear Hannah entertaining Nick, Jean, and Wendy with a story about her first day on a film set. When she heard the term “honey wagon,” she tells them, her voice sparkling, she assumed it was where food and beverages were served, but it turned out to be the trailer with the toilets. She’s greeted with warm laughter from her listeners.

  As I watch her from the corner of my eye, I’m struck by how totally unselfconscious she seems. Her hands move a little for emphasis or illustration when she’s telling a story, but she never touches her face, twirls her hair, or nibbles a cuticle, which is my go-to nervous habit. During my first years in New York, when I wasn’t chasing auditions or waiting tables, I took endless acting workshops and classes, and the best ones focused on training you to look natural and spontaneous when you performed—acting teachers call it being “unentangled.” The legendary Stanislavski—whom I did not study with needless to say—stressed that actors need to learn “public solitude,” meaning that even with people watching you, you’re at ease. Hannah’s more than nailed the technique.

  Discreetly, I steal a glance toward Marcus at the far end of the table, wondering how he’s handling Hannah’s presence. He seems fully absorbed in conversation with Claire and his cousin. But a few seconds later, as I’m about to ask Gabe’s uncle a question, Marcus shifts slightly in his seat and reaches for the breadbasket, and as he does, his gaze shifts to Hannah. He stares hard at her, seemingly unable to look away.

  Has he misled Keira, I wonder, allowing her to believe he was never serious about Hannah? Maybe he’d been as enthralled with her as Nick is. And if that’s the case, I can’t imagine how uncomfortable he must be, not just from Hannah’s being here but also the fact that she’s bedding down with his twin.

  I can see how Hannah would have been attracted to both of them initially. As fraternal twins, Marcus and Nick aren’t supposed to look any more alike than regular brothers, but there’s an uncanny resemblance. They’re both about six feet tall, a little shorter than Gabe, with light blue eyes like their mother and her blond hair, as well, though slightly darker.

  That said, they lack the magical bond so many identical twins have. They get along well enough most of the time, but from what Gabe has told me, and what I’ve seen with my own eyes, there’s always been a subtle, unspoken rivalry between them. By all accounts, Nick was an easygoing and fun kid, a natural athlete whom others glommed on to, whereas Marcus was a chubby, introspective child, who spent hours in his room and didn’t fully come into his own—and his looks—until his midtwenties, around the time he and Gabe began their partnership. And though Marcus is now happily married and runs a successful business with Gabe, due in no small part to his excellent head for numbers, I sense he’s still envious of Nick at times.

  And though this is far less obvious, I suspect Nick has moments when he envies Marcus. For being so brainy. For not needing to charm people until their cheeks hurt from smiling.

  Once the heavenly tiramisu has been served and eaten, I rise and make my way over to Henry, who’s been entertaining Ash through the meal and now has his eyes at half-mast. Gabe joins us.

  “Want me to tuck him in?” I ask.

  “No, I better do it,” Gabe says. “I want to make sure he feels really comfortable sleeping in a different house from us. I’ll meet you at the
cottage, okay?”

  I nod. “Night, honey,” I say to Henry, tousling his silky light brown hair.

  “Can you do Peter and Wendy tonight?” he asks, looking up at me.

  I’ve been reading Peter Pan to him when he stays at our loft in the city, acting out the characters, but it’s clear he’d pass out tonight before I uttered a line. Plus, it’s good to give Gabe some time alone with Henry. He’s got great natural instincts as a father, but I know he’s always working at being an even better one. His marriage broke up when Henry was only two, and he initially felt fairly hapless as a single dad, along with petrified that Amanda would sense his insecurity and use it to press for full custody. He stockpiled dozens of parenting books and even did sessions with a child therapist to help him gain more confidence and skill.

  “Some other night this week, I promise. When you’re not so sleepy.”

  Gabe sweeps him up in his arms and off they go. Moments later, the extended family members say their good-byes before they start back to New Jersey, and Blake and Wendy announce they’re turning in. Before they head up to the carriage house, which they’re sharing with Nick and Hannah, Ash announces to everyone that the badminton tournament kicks off Monday at four so we have the weekend to simply relax. Too bad, I think. I’m going to have to wait two whole days to see the mistress of the shuttlecock in action.

  After wishing the remaining guests good night, I wander up to the cottage. The sky is cloudless, scattered everywhere with bright white stars, and the night air is filled with the insistent, magical calls of katydids and crickets.

  Inside the cottage, I curl up on the sofa, waiting for Gabe. My tummy, I notice, is still doing a vaguely nervous jig. I check my phone, but there’s still nothing from Shawna. Which makes sense, of course. Why would she bother answering a work text on a Friday night in the summer?

  There is, however, a text from my mom, asking how things are going in Pennsylvania. Nice, I tell her. Good to see everybody. Will give you a call this week. I know it’s not necessary, but when I talk to my mother, I often find myself underplaying how much fun I have with the Keatons. Despite their sadness, my parents tried their best to give my sister and me a happy home, and I don’t ever want her to think that our family was lacking.

  Fifteen minutes later, Gabe still isn’t back, and I realize he’s probably having a hard time getting Henry down. I mount the stairs and change for bed, telling myself I’ll read until Gabe returns, but when I feel him crawl in bed beside me, I realize I’ve dozed off with the lights on.

  “Hi,” I murmur, happy to finally see him again. “Where’ve you been?”

  “I ended up walking Nick and Hannah over to the carriage house after I put Henry to bed.”

  “Oh. What did you think?”

  “My mom did a really great job with it. Open plan downstairs, two bedrooms on the second floor.”

  “No, I mean what do you think of Hannah?”

  “Oh, the mystery woman,” he says, reaching across me and turning off the light on my bedside table. “Yeah, she seems nice, fun. Certainly an improvement over the girl Nick brought to our apartment a few months ago.”

  “Did you know that she used to date Marcus?”

  “Yeah, so I hear. But he says it wasn’t a big deal. Apparently, she was a little too flashy for his taste.”

  “Did he sleep with her, do you know?”

  “He admitted he did, but says it didn’t mean anything.”

  “Your father seemed to like her.”

  “Yeah, but as Nick knows, Mom’s the tougher critic.”

  “Any idea what she thinks?”

  “None at all,” he says, wrapping an arm around me. “But don’t worry, babe. No matter who Nick ends up with, you’re always gonna be her favorite daughter-in-law. Night.”

  I try to get back to sleep, but I can’t seem to. After about thirty minutes, I slip downstairs, where I pour a glass of water, and park myself on the couch again. My phone’s still on the coffee table and I notice two text alerts on the screen. The first text is a reply from Shawna:

  Thanks for going with the flow. Have a nice weekend.

  Not what you’d call a direct response to my comment about hoping everyone was happy, but I don’t want to bug her and press for more.

  And there’s a message from Billy, sent only ten minutes ago.

  I’ll give you the name but first tell me why you’re so hot to know.

  That’s typical of Billy. He likes to use gossip as a bargaining chip. Confident he’s still up, I tap his number and call him.

  “Why aren’t you in bed with that hunky hubby of yours, the wine impresario?” he says.

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  “Let me hear him snoring.”

  “No. What about you, the playboy of the Western world? It’s Friday night.”

  “She just left.”

  “Right. So do you remember the girl I’m talking about?”

  “Of course, but tell me, why so curious?”

  “Uh, I was at a party at my in-laws’ tonight and I thought a woman I was talking to might be her.” That’s the most I’m revealing to Mr. Blabby. “I’ve been racking my brain to think of her name.”

  “Well, the actress’s name—excuse me, actor’s name—was Hannah. Hannah Kane.”

  So my memory had been correct after all. It’s possible Hannah’s simply forgotten, but that seems unlikely. The showcase was only two years ago, and most actors can tell you every part they ever played, right down to roles like “Shepherd #1” in the fourth-grade Nativity play.

  “Not her then?” Billy says into the silence.

  “Actually, it is. But she swore she wasn’t in that showcase. Why would she lie?”

  “Maybe she wants to pretend that whole nasty experience with the other actress never happened.”

  The skin on the back of my neck begins to crawl. “What nasty experience?”

  “You don’t remember? The night of the dress rehearsal turned into a real shitstorm. Because Hannah stole a wad of cash from the other actress.”

  3

  My heart skips. Nick’s new girlfriend isn’t only a liar, she might be a thief, too?

  “How much cash are you talking about?” I ask.

  “I think it was close to a hundred bucks,” Billy says. “But that actually wasn’t the worst part. She also took a pricey necklace, which the chick said was a gift from her parents.”

  “Who was this other actress, anyway?”

  “Cary something. She was in the same play as me. Curly brown hair, overacted as if the fate of Western civilization depended on it.”

  I know exactly who he’s talking about. One evening she and I had gotten to talking and realized we both loved the play Skylight by David Hare, how our dream would be to star in it. We’d even gone out for coffee after an early rehearsal and had promised to stay in touch, but as often happens, neither of us ever reached out.

  “And she was sure Hannah did it?”

  “Well, Hannah wasn’t required to open her purse or consent to a strip search if that’s what you mean. But Cary Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Is said that they’d changed clothes at the same time in that pit of a dressing room, and she caught Hannah watching her during the process. If I remember correctly—and I’m trying not to tax too many brain cells doing so—Cary said she’d forgotten she’d worn the necklace that day, and stuck it into the toe of her boot because she couldn’t wear it during dress rehearsal. She’s clearly one of those actors who believe in total authenticity . . . . Don’t tell me none of this is ringing a bell?”

  I’ve combed through my memories as we’ve been speaking, pulling up a few images from the run of the showcase: the overcrowded coed dressing room that reeked of someone’s BO; a director going nuclear on one actress who wasn’t off book by dress rehearsal; Gabe applauding wildly as I took my bow on opening night. But I finally realize why I missed the showdown Billy’s talking about.

  “I needed to meet Gabe at an event th
at night, and I had to leave the second my own dress rehearsal was over,” I tell him.

  “Too bad, because the drama in the dressing room was better than anything those playwrights had written. I almost thought Cary wouldn’t show for the play the next night, but someone apparently talked the poor thing off the ledge.”

  “And Cary’s only evidence was that she’d noticed Hannah watching her undress?”

  “No, there was also some maintenance guy who was dragged into the mess. He claimed he’d seen Hannah alone in the room at one point, in the corner by Cary’s stuff.”

  A bed creaks on the floor directly above me, and I pause for a sec, wondering if I’ve woken Gabe, but the cottage goes quiet again.

  “Do you think Hannah really stole the stuff?” I ask.

  “Probably. She denied it and claimed the maintenance guy was pissed because she’d given him the deep freeze after he’d tried to flirt with her. But there was something off about her whole demeanor that night. She seemed almost bemused by the accusation, not at all embarrassed.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow. I’d thought about asking her out for a drink but changed my mind. You know I like edgy, Summer, but I draw the line at sociopaths.”

  “Glad to hear you were looking out for yourself. Anyway, I appreciate the info. And I better let us both turn in now.”

  We sign off, and I tiptoe back upstairs, crawling into bed in the pitch-darkness. I flip onto my back and lie there with my eyes wide open and my curiosity on fire.

  Did Hannah really steal the cash and the necklace? I’ve only got Billy’s version of events, but the fact that she lied to me about being in the showcase suggests she has something to hide.

  It’s hard to draw a bigger conclusion from it, though. Maybe stealing’s something she did once out of total financial desperation. I certainly felt a little desperate for cash myself in the years before I began landing regular voice-over work and married Gabe. True, I never stole anything, but when I was waiting tables for extra income, eager for the biggest tips possible, I regularly upsold my customers desserts like Anjou pear crisps and pumpkin mousses they so didn’t need.