The Fiancée

by Kate White

  “How annoying.” I nod toward her camera. “Gabe mentioned last week that you might be taking on a new landscaping job. Does that mean you’re considering coming out of retirement?”

  “Yes, I’m working on a small project but not for commission. Friends of ours in Palm Beach want to give a jungle garden feel to their property, and I said I would create the design as a favor because I absolutely love doing those. I had to fly down a couple of weeks ago to take a closer look at their property, but it gave me the chance to check on our house. While we’re on the subject of gardens,” she adds, “I promised Hannah a tour at four today. I know you’ve been on plenty before but please join us if you feel like it.”

  I flash a smile, despite how much the mention of Hannah’s name irritates me. “Thank you, Claire, but I’m sure it will be more fun for her if the tour’s a private one.”

  “That’s sweet of you to say, Summer. And she does seem very eager to learn.”

  I wish I could tell Claire that Hannah’s simply trying to ingratiate herself, but knowing how catty it would sound, I instead wish her good-bye and promise to see her later. After changing into my swimsuit at the cottage, I return to the pool area and end up playing Marco Polo with Henry, Gabe, and eventually Nick. By the last round, I’m wondering what kind of sadist invented this game.

  “One more game?” Henry begs as I hoist myself out of the pool.

  “Tomorrow, okay, sweetie?” I tell him. “I’m too waterlogged today. Why don’t you read for a while?”

  “Hey, Henry,” Nick calls out. “Dive for coins with me, okay?”

  He eagerly agrees, and I give Nick a grateful thumbs-up. As I do, I notice that Hannah’s sunbathing facedown at the far end of the pool, near Blake and Wendy. I’m glad she’s at the other end. This is as close as I hope to get to her for the rest of the week.

  I collapse onto a lounge chair next to Gabe, who has a slightly damp Nordic thriller splayed on his torso. He rolls over onto his side, rests a hand on my stomach, and stares at me intently.

  “If we have a little boy, do you mind naming him that?” he asks.

  “Nick? Won’t your other brothers mind?”

  “No, Marco. Marco Polo.”

  “Very funny,” I say, grinning. I open my mouth, intending to tell him that I suspect Wendy’s pregnant—but realize that if it’s true, Blake will want to surprise Gabe with the news himself.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “Just that I’m excited about us trying for a baby this winter.”

  “Me, too.”

  I appreciate the fact that Gabe hasn’t pushed to start before then, as keen as he is for Henry to have a sibling. He’s been really supportive of my career and knows I want to see my first short play staged and start on a second before I get pregnant.

  “In fact,” he adds, “how about some practice this afternoon? My dad’s taking Henry to the farmers’ market in a little while.”

  I glance at my phone on the wrought-iron table. It’s two forty-five, and I’d promised myself I’d return to my play this afternoon, but Gabe and I so rarely have the chance for afternoon sex anymore.

  “What a good idea. Why don’t I go make myself beautiful?” I say.

  “That will take all of four seconds. I’ll see Dad and Henry off, then meet you there.”

  Back at the cottage, I shower quickly, and straighten the bedding from this morning. When Gabe arrives, I hear him bound up the stairs.

  “Very beautiful indeed,” he says, running his eyes over my body.

  Though it’s warm outside, the bedroom feels cool, inviting. We make love at a languorous pace, and afterward, as Gabe dozes, I watch the filmy white curtains flutter in the breeze and let the rest of the world recede for a while.

  Eventually, I leave him sleeping, change into a sundress, and tiptoe downstairs. Blake promised he’d play tennis with Henry after he returned from the farmers’ market, so we have a bit more downtime. I slide out a bottle of rosé that Gabe stashed in the fridge, set it in a bucket of ice, and grab a can of nuts from the lightly stocked pantry. As I’m setting them out on the antique wooden trunk that serves as a coffee table, I hear him start the shower.

  How nice for Gabe and me to have a little time for ourselves. Though I appreciate that our life is rich with family and friends, I always feel my marriage is at its strongest when we make time for the two of us, whether it’s going to wine tastings, or seeing plays, which Gabe has embraced with gusto, or even simply watching Netflix thrillers at home.

  My attention is caught by the muted sounds of two female voices coming from outside, not far from the patio. Glancing out the French doors, I spot Claire and Hannah, their backs to me, meandering alongside one of the gardens on this part of the property. I tug the cream-colored muslin drapes closed, but I don’t back away from the window. Instead, I practically hug the fabric with my body as I listen.

  “Absolutely dazzling,” Hannah exclaims. They’re moving closer, and before long their voices are so distinct I realize they’re by the border garden that runs along the edge of the cottage patio. “And what are these called?”

  “Here we have mostly foxgloves, alliums, and artemisias,” Claire explains. “But I added some iris and ornamental chartreuse Japanese forest grasses to make the mix more interesting.”

  “Did you always have amazing instincts when it came to gardening, Claire?”

  Oh my god. Could she be any more of a suck-up?

  “I think I always had a sense of what worked visually, but as a professional gardener, your aesthetic interests don’t matter unless you’re aware of what grows where and when.”

  “You mean, like knowing whether a certain plant prefers sun or shade?”

  “Yes, and the type of soil plants favor, and which climates, and even what they like or dislike as neighbors. I once planted a garden not far from an English walnut tree, which I didn’t realize is toxic to many flowers. Everything started to die.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yes, ouch indeed. I had to eat the cost. But I learned over time.”

  There’s a moment of silence and then a whoosh of fabric. I sense Claire stooping down, probably touching a plant.

  “Do you always wear those gloves?” Hannah asks.

  “I do. There are thorns to worry about, of course, and lots of bacteria in the soil. And some plants are toxic, not just to other plants but to humans and animals. Like oleander. Monkshood. And foxgloves. That’s why I don’t use them in indoor arrangements. I wouldn’t want the dogs sampling any petals that might have dropped to the floor.”

  “Why even grow them, then?”

  “Because they’re glorious to look at.” I hear Claire chuckle lightly. “And of course, it’s nice to think a passing fox has access to a pair of gloves on a stormy night if she needs them . . . . We should be getting back. I need to check on dinner.”

  As they move away, Hannah asks her another question, which regrettably I can’t hear. No sooner have I leaned in a little closer than I feel something behind me, and I spin around to find Gabe standing there.

  “What in the world are you doing?” he asks, squinting at me.

  “I was pulling the drapes closed.”

  He steps forward and tugs the curtain back with a finger. His mother and Hannah are in his line of sight, making their way back to the main house.

  “Not spying?”

  “Spying? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Come on, fess up.”

  “I wasn’t spying, Gabe. I heard voices, and I was closing the drapes for a little privacy.” I conjure up my most mischievous grin. “I’ve got this wicked postorgasmic glow thing going, and I’m not interested in showing it off to the world.”

  “You do look pretty radiant,” Gabe says, smiling.

  “Ready for some rosé?” I cock my chin toward the coffee table.

  “Definitely, though cut me off after one handful of cashews, will you? I’d like to avoid packing on five pounds here like I did last
July.”

  I pour us each a glass of the ice-cold wine and then we flop side by side on the couch. The crook of Gabe’s shoulder beckons and I lean into it, relishing the feel of his chest through his slightly damp T-shirt. Like Henry, Gabe doesn’t have the patience to dry himself off fully after a shower.

  “Oh, this wine is perfect,” I say after taking a sip.

  “I thought you’d like this one. It’s Tuscan . . . . Are you feeling more relaxed now?”

  “About work?” He nods. “I guess. I got an annoyingly vague text from Shawna saying, ‘Thanks for going with the flow.’ If she was really happy with my recording, she probably would have come right out and said so.”

  “Okay, maybe it wasn’t your best day, but no one hits it out of the park every time, Summer.” He props a bare foot on the trunk and I sense a comment hovering in the air.

  “Is something else on your mind?” I ask.

  “I was wondering, too, if you’re feeling more relaxed about Hannah.”

  “Hannah? Well, in all honesty, no. But if the topic’s going to annoy you, I’m not getting into it.”

  “Is there more to say?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  He leans forward a little.

  “What?”

  I tell him about my conversation with her and his father, and how unsettled it left me.

  “You thought she might have forgotten about the showcase when I first asked her,” I add, “but that’s clearly not what happened. It’s obvious she didn’t want to admit it last night because she was afraid I might know about the theft. So now that she can’t deny she was in the play, she’s pretending that I was the one who was confused about it.”

  Gabe presses his index finger sideways across his mouth, a gesture that always signals he’s taking things seriously. “Don’t you think it’s possible she did misunderstand you?”

  “No. How does ‘a cat who turned into a woman’ sound like ‘a woman who’s suffering from amnesia’? Plus, I hated the way she tried to embarrass me in front of your father.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why not just say she’d misunderstood me, instead of making it look like I was an idiot?”

  “I guarantee my father doesn’t think you’re an idiot.”

  “I know, I know. But the bottom line is that she lies and probably steals, too, and now she’s dating your brother.”

  “But there was never any proof Hannah took the money and bracelet or necklace or whatever it was.”

  “God, Gabe, I feel like I’m trying to hold on to a wet bar of soap. Can’t you see my side of things?”

  “I do see your side of things. I just don’t want you getting all agitated about something that isn’t going to matter in the long run.”

  “It might matter to Nick. Even if he only sees her for the short term, he could be vulnerable.”

  “Well, if his wallet ends up missing, I promise I’ll tell him what you heard.”

  “But won’t he resent us for not having warned him?”

  “Nick’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

  I let out a loud sigh, realizing it’s pointless to continue. “Fine. Let’s move on to a different subject, okay?”

  He reaches up and rests a hand on my back. “Great idea, babe. You really shouldn’t let girls like her bother you.”

  I feel myself start to bristle. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “I know it’s not always easy for you to be around other actresses. But you can’t let her agitate you. You’re in a crazy, totally unfair business, you’ve always known that.”

  I soooo don’t like where he’s going with this.

  “You think I’m ‘agitated’ because I’m envious of Hannah?”

  “I’m not saying that, but it has to be a little tough to be in close proximity to someone doing the kind of work you want to be doing,” he says. Sensing this isn’t going well, he starts to overexplain. “But what you’re doing these days is great, I mean. And so much saner than playing the Hollywood game.”

  I feel my whole mood shift, as fast as an actor dropping through a trapdoor on the stage. I have to do everything in my power not to jump down his throat.

  “Gabe,” I say, rising from the couch, “I appreciate your support, I really do, but I don’t need you making judgment calls about what I should or should not be doing professionally, or whether I should be playing the Hollywood game or not. I don’t advise you on the wine business, do I?”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he says. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I was—Where are you going?”

  I’m halfway out of the room. “I need to put on some makeup before dinner.”

  “Summer—”

  “Please, can we finally table this? There’s really nothing more to say.”

  I scurry up the stairs and shut myself in the bathroom, giving the door a forceful shove to close it. I pile my hair into a sloppy bun and dab on foundation and blush, stewing the whole time. Up until ten minutes ago, it had been such a lovely, perfect afternoon.

  I’m not sure what’s pissing me off more: Gabe’s unwillingness to acknowledge that there might be something unsavory about Hannah or his hint—despite his attempt to backtrack—that he thinks I’m motivated by envy. Does he really believe I was so undone by the notion of Hannah shooting a Netflix pilot that I’ve lost sight of what’s important?

  I nearly tear off the top of the lipstick tube and swipe color across my lips. I wish now that I’d never confessed to Gabe how annoyed I was by an actress who was a fellow guest at a dinner party we attended last year. She was a college friend of one of the couple hosting the dinner, L.A. based but in town to shoot a movie, and she totally monopolized the conversation, regaling us with tales about this actor and that actor, using the nicknames they use in real life—like Jen instead of Jennifer—to let us know she was a member of their secret club.

  There’s a knock at the bathroom door.

  “Babe, we need to go. They want to eat early since it might rain later.”

  “Fine,” I mutter.

  “I’m really sorry, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I slap on a smile because I want this week to be special, and I’m certainly not going to let Hannah drive a wedge between me and Gabe. And you know what? I’ve done my part. If something valuable goes missing this week, it won’t be my fault.

  We’re halfway up the path when I detect the delicious scent of food grilling over an open flame, and soon Henry comes tearing around the corner of the house, announcing he’s shucked twenty pieces of corn for dinner. We all head over to the large built-in outdoor grill, where Ash, with Nick and Marcus at his side, is gingerly rotating kabobs, some with chicken and vegetables, others simple vegetarian ones, obviously for Hannah.

  “So tell me about the wines for tonight,” Nick says to Gabe and Marcus. “What are you treating us to this time?”

  “We’ve got a really nice French pinot noir,” Gabe tells him. “I think you’ll like it.”

  “Not white?” Nick asks.

  Marcus shoots him a look. “The only people who still think you have to drink white wine with chicken are the ones who keep those tags on their pillows that say, ‘Do not remove under penalty of law.’”

  “Oh, you know us philistines,” Nick says with a laugh and then turns to Henry. “If I use the wrong fork tonight, can you correct your old uncle Nick right away?”

  It might be only good-natured ribbing—Marcus and Nick get into that at times—but I sense extra tension tonight. Ash seems to make a point of ignoring them, though, and asks Henry to let Bonnie know that the kabobs are done and it’s time to eat.

  At the table, I park myself as far away as possible from Hannah and motion for Henry to sit by my side. Gabe leaves his phone at the place across from me and joins Marcus in pouring the wine. They’ve no sooner taken their seats when everyone’s attention is drawn to Blake, who’s tapping his wine goblet with a knife. We all focus his way as he rises from his seat.


  “First,” he says, “I’d like to thank Mom and Dad for another wonderful day. They say living well is the best revenge and I suppose that’s true. But living well is also a testament to following your passion, working incredibly hard, and always striving for the best. And that’s what your lives have been about.”

  People smile and Gabe calls out, “Hear, hear.”

  “Second,” he says with a smile, “Wendy and I have an important announcement to make.”

  Wow, seems like I might have been right about the pregnancy.

  “I’m thrilled to tell you all,” he continues, “that we’re expecting. And needless to say, we’re over the moon about it.”

  The whole table erupts in applause and shouts of congratulations. Gabe looks especially happy, and to my surprise, I even find myself blinking back tears.

  As the others at the table barrage Blake and Wendy with questions—“When are you due?” (“December”); “Do you know the sex?” (“Not yet, but we want to and will let everyone know”); “Have you had any morning sickness?” (“A little”)—Henry tugs on my arm.

  “Does expecting mean a baby?” he whispers in my ear.

  “Yes, that’s right. You’ll finally have a cousin, sweetie.”

  “Cool, though we’ll be nine years apart, right? So it’s not like we can go to Disney World together, or anything.”

  “No, but it will be so much fun to have him or her in the family.”

  As if on cue, Bonnie and her helper, the dogs trailing behind them, emerge from the house and set a huge blue ceramic bowl of potato salad on the table along with a platter of steaming corn on the cob, then return with two trays of kabobs.

  Ash, I notice, is still beaming as we pass the food up and down the table—and though I can’t see Claire from where I’m sitting, I’m sure she’s in heaven, too. She sometimes plays her cards close to the vest, like Marcus, but I sense that she’s fretted about Blake and Wendy’s fertility struggles.

  Speaking of Marcus, as I glance down the table, I catch him stealing a look at Hannah, his expression hard like it was last night. It’s so not a look that says, You know, she was never my type, but I’m really glad my twin brother seems to like her.