The Fiancée

by Kate White

“I was taking a look at the gardens and thinking of your mom. And all the magic she created.”

  Gabe nods, walks over to the butler’s table in the sitting room, and grabs a bottle of red wine. “The gardens, the house, the ambience, everything,” he says, uncorking the bottle. “I can’t imagine how it’s all going to exist without her.”

  “Oh, Gabe, I know. Your mother was so remarkable.”

  He looks off, and though I sense he’s about to elaborate, he doesn’t.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing. Frankly, I’m at a loss for words tonight. It all still seems so surreal to me.” He pours us each a goblet of wine.

  Should I mention the missing foxgloves? I wonder, then decide against it. Suggesting, without any evidence, that his mother might have been poisoned would be on par with telling him I suspect she died from the bite of a vampire bat. Besides, I’m clearly wrung out from everything that’s happened, and tomorrow there’s bound to be a totally rational explanation staring me in the face.

  Gabe plops down on the couch to drink his wine, where I join him.

  “So tell me about Henry,” I say. “It must have been so hard to break the news.”

  “I wish I’d had time to google the right things to say, but I guess I did okay. At least I avoided stupid euphemisms, like ‘She’s in a better place’ and shit like that.”

  “I’m sure you did a great job. Did he seem to get it?”

  “I think so. Nine is probably a tricky age for fully processing this stuff. You’re old enough to know that death is permanent, but you still don’t quite understand it all.”

  “You’re planning on having him stay for the memorial service, right?”

  “Definitely. I called Amanda right before you came back and filled her in. I could tell she wasn’t thrilled about the idea of Henry being here for the service, but I’m not going to let her pressure me out of it.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be able to handle it,” I say, thinking of how I attended my grandfather’s funeral when I was ten and have always been glad that I did.

  We sit in silence for a while, sipping our wine. Gabe appears misleadingly at ease—one leg stretched out across the coffee table and his hand dangling the wineglass—but with our bodies touching lightly, I can almost feel the emotions churn inside him. Grief, anguish, possibly anger at how unfair life can be.

  “I know you need to get back over to the house,” I say after he’s drained his glass. “I’ll stay here with Henry. And please eat something, honey. Even if you don’t feel hungry.”

  “Will do.”

  As soon as he leaves, I find myself with a sudden urge to phone my mom, to tell her about Claire and to hear the words of comfort I know she’ll offer. But she and my dad go to bed early these days, and it wouldn’t be fair to wake her. The call will have to wait until tomorrow.

  I should probably try to read, but I’m too distraught about Claire to focus on a book. I’m also still unsettled by that gaping hole in the garden. I grab my laptop from the table and take it back to the couch with me. I know that it would be foolish to jump to any conclusions, and even worse to spout off to Gabe about it, but I can at least google foxglove poisoning, right?

  I open the first link that pops up, a site devoted to dangerous plants, and there’s no mincing of words. Foxgloves contain something called digoxin and can be extremely toxic—not only the flowers, but also the stems, leaves, and seeds. Over a century ago, small amounts of the plant were used for medicinal purposes, and later foxglove extract actually became the basis for the heart medication digitalis—though too high a dose can dangerously interfere with the electrical signals that keep the heart beating.

  I quickly scroll down to the symptoms of foxglove toxicity: irregular or slowed heart rate; low blood pressure; rashes or hives; weakness or drowsiness; loss of appetite; stomach pain; vomiting, nausea, or diarrhea; blurred vision; headache; confusion; fainting.

  Could this be what I observed in Claire today? She was clearly tired, acting a little confused, and she didn’t appear to have much appetite.

  But I remind myself, these symptoms overlap with those of a woman having a heart attack. I snap my laptop shut. Going down this internet rabbit hole is not how I should be spending my time tonight.

  I fill the next hour tidying up the cottage, checking twice on Henry, trying to read the news on my phone, and wishing I could dash over to the house. But what if Henry woke up, came downstairs, and found himself alone? I don’t want to add any stress onto what he’s already dealing with tonight.

  Finally, the door creaks open and Gabe trudges in looking wearier than I’ve ever seen him. He has an update on the memorial service. It’s going to be held on Tuesday morning at eleven here at the house, attended only by immediate family and Claire’s closest friends, and followed by a simple outdoor luncheon that Bonnie will put together. Ash is also thinking of asking a meditation instructor friend of Claire’s to offer a spiritual reading. As for the burial, that will most likely be Thursday, down by the lower woods where the stream is.

  “There are probably a few other things I’m forgetting,” Gabe says, “but my brain has stalled.”

  “No problem, honey. Let’s go to bed.”

  We collapse onto the mattress, though not before I’ve mustered enough energy to switch on the AC.

  Gabe sleeps fitfully through the night, moaning incoherently at times, and at six, after his constant thrashing’s woken me for the third time, I slip out of bed and steal downstairs.

  I feel more ragged than I did last night, and my heart’s even heavier. So many hurdles loom ahead this week—helping Gabe and Henry cope with their grief as well as dealing with my own, weathering the memorial service and burial. And there’s still Hannah to contend with.

  As if caught in an undertow, my thoughts are dragged back to the missing foxgloves. I realize I won’t be able to clear my mind until I’ve discovered where they went. Maybe someone who didn’t know better really did clip them for a bedroom bouquet. Unlikely, but in order to eliminate that as a possibility, I’ll have to figure out an excuse to snoop around, especially in the carriage house. After a couple of seconds, I come up with one.

  I’m setting out breakfast when the stairwell door creaks open, and Henry pads into the kitchen, wearing his Incredible Hulk pajama top with the matching green shorts.

  “Hey, Hen.”

  “Morning. Is it still true? Is Gee dead?”

  “Yes, honey.” I wrap my arms gently around him. He smells that lovely rumpled way kids do in the morning. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t want her to be gone,” he says, sinking into my embrace.

  “I know. We’re all going to miss her so much.”

  “Does this mean we won’t have a vacation?”

  “No, we can still stay here. And though you’ll feel sad, you can do the things you planned on—like swim and play with the dogs. In fact, the dogs look really sad themselves, so the more you hang with them, the better.”

  I fix him a slice of peanut butter toast and let him play Subway Surfers on my phone until Gabe materializes, bleary-eyed and barefoot.

  “Morning,” he murmurs.

  “Morning,” I say and give his arm a squeeze. “Did you get much sleep?”

  “A few hours.” He turns toward Henry, who’s immersed in the game. “Buddy, give me a hug, okay?”

  Henry obliges with an extra-long one, and when he finally pulls away, Gabe settles at the table, too. I pour him a cup of coffee.

  “You need anything else?” I ask. “I thought I’d go over to the house now and check what’s happening in the kitchen.”

  “Nah, I’ll probably just have coffee anyway.”

  I come up behind his seat, wrap my arms around his chest, and kiss the top of his head. “I love you, honey.”

  “Me, too. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  When I reach the main house a few minutes later, I enter through the side door rather than the kitchen and immediately d
o a lap through the downstairs, hunting to see if foxgloves have somehow ended up in a bouquet on a table or shelf. Other than a mason jar filled charmingly with rosemary, sage, and mint in the powder room off the main hall, there’s not a vase in sight.

  The one first-floor room I don’t inspect is the study because the door is closed, meaning Ash is most likely ensconced in there. As I start to back away, I pick up the deep timbre of his voice, and I assume he’s on a phone call. But then, after a pause, I hear another voice, which I think belongs to Blake. It makes sense that he’d be the one Ash is relying on—he’s the oldest child and plays that role—but I hope Gabe isn’t going to be excluded from chunks of the memorial planning, or the twins, either.

  As I’m returning to the front hall, I spot Keira descending the staircase from the second floor, dressed in crisp pants and with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Good, I think, this saves me from having to find an excuse to knock on her bedroom door.

  “Morning,” we say in unison, each offering a wan smile.

  “How’s Marcus doing today?” I ask.

  “He’s really suffering. I’m sure Gabe is, too.”

  “Definitely. It’s all so out of the blue. By the way, I was thinking of putting some flowers out, like Claire did. Do you want any in your bedroom? Unless you already picked some for it.”

  She looks befuddled. “I didn’t think we were supposed to pick them. But I hate the smell of flowers in a bedroom anyway.”

  “Okay, sure, just asking.”

  “Speaking of Marcus, did you see him down here by any chance? He left the room a while ago and hasn’t come back.”

  Oh, great, don’t tell me he’s off canoodling with Hannah again.

  “No, sorry. But if I run into him, I’ll let him know you were looking for him.”

  My next stop is the kitchen. I find Bonnie working on her usual eight cylinders, though she looks frayed around the edges and her short blond hair is frizzed from the heat. Jake’s there, too, and politely asks if I’d like an omelet.

  “No, Jake, breakfast here is always a continental buffet, okay?” Bonnie tells him over her shoulder. “There’s no omelet stand.” She returns her attention to me, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “How you doin’ today, hon?”

  “Surviving, I guess.” I wander over to the dog beds and give the glum-looking Ginger and Bella each a pat. “How about you?”

  “Still in a state of shock, but I’m trying to stay strong for Ash’s sake.”

  I nod. “We really appreciate that, Bonnie. Do you have all the help you need?”

  “I think I’m covered. I’ve got Jake on board for the rest of the week, and as far as the meals go, I’m going to follow the menus Claire and I planned out.”

  “What about food for the luncheon tomorrow?”

  “Ash told me to use my own judgment. I figured I’d serve sliced roasted turkey breast and some salads, including a pasta one Claire especially liked. And I rented extra tables and chairs from the place we always use for big parties.”

  “That all sounds perfect. Can I do anything?”

  “When you get the chance, can you eyeball the lawn and decide on the best spot for the tables?”

  “Of course. You know what else I think I’ll do today? Deal with the vases Claire never got around to filling yesterday and then distribute them around.”

  “That’s a nice idea,” she says.

  “I know my arrangements will pale utterly to what Claire would have done,” I add, pouring it on a little thick, “but at least there’ll be flowers in the house.”

  “Yes, good point. You know, don’t you, only to take them from the cutting gardens?”

  “Yup. Just one last thing. Are these all the vases there are?”

  Bonnie looks over and silently counts each one off with a nod of her head.

  “I think that’s it,” she says.

  With three vases in my arms, I make my way next to the potting shed near the eastern end of the house, not far from the garage and the carriage house. It’s a simple wood structure, used as a work space and storage area for gardening supplies, though it also seemed to be a kind of sanctuary for Claire, and one she was nice enough to welcome me to. As soon as I step inside, the familiar smell—a sweet, ripe mix from clay pots and bags of soil—comes at me like a punch, triggering another spasm of sadness.

  I set down the vases on one of the unfinished wood counters lining the walls, and my eyes quickly fall on the gardening gloves lying nearby. They’re still puckered a little from the last time Claire wore them, as if anticipating her return. The sight of them is almost unbearable.

  Since I’ve promised Bonnie I’m going to fill all the vases, I have no choice but to follow through, but my priority right now is to inspect the carriage house, and I only need a single vase for that purpose. After snatching a pair of cutting shears from a hook on the wall, I hurry outside to one of the nearby cutting gardens, quickly clip a mixed assortment of flowers, and return with them to the shed. With little attention to design, I stuff all the flowers into a vase. Henry could have probably done a better job, but I don’t have the time to fuss.

  I’m halfway down the path to the carriage house when I notice Wendy emerge from the doorway.

  “How you doing this morning?” I ask when we meet up. She looks as if she slept as poorly as I did.

  “It’s a nightmare, isn’t it?” she says. “I’m just trying to go easy, not stress out too much.”

  “That sounds wise. Listen, I was planning to drop off this arrangement in the carriage house. Are there any already there, do you know?”

  “How nice of you. I don’t think we have any—oh, wait, there’s a jar of fresh herbs in our bathroom.”

  “Okay, I’ll find a spot for these then. Is anyone still inside?”

  “Blake is up at the big house with his dad, and Nick and his lady must have gone to breakfast. I heard their door shut a little while ago.”

  Good, I think, I can get into her room, and then I notice Wendy’s mouth morph into a faint grimace.

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s just a shame that in the middle of this, we have to deal with that . . . that interloper.”

  Oh wow, however bad the timing, this is an opportunity I didn’t see coming. “Did something happen with Hannah—besides her hijacking your announcement?”

  “Between us girls? I’m not so sure that I like her. For one thing, I think she made up her experience with dressage. I asked her a question about it yesterday at the pool, and she clearly had no idea what I was talking about. Totally clueless.”

  “Why would she have done that? To ingratiate herself with you?”

  “That’s my guess. I bet that Nick told her about my interest and she researched it before she came out here.”

  “How strange,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “I wonder what that says about her.”

  “Me, too. Hopefully Nick will catch his breath and take some time to figure her out before they set a date. Sorry, I should stop. I don’t want to sound like a total bitch.”

  I hardly fault her for it. In fact, I’m relieved she’s gone from simply being offended by Hannah’s action the other night to spotting the cracks in her facade.

  “No, I hear your concerns,” I say, before we wish each other good-bye and continue in opposite directions.

  Though I saw the renovation of the carriage house in process, this is my first glimpse of the final results, and they’re impressive. It’s double-heighted downstairs, a great room with an open living and dining area and a small separate kitchen at the far end. The couch and chairs are comfy looking, and there are a few antiques scattered about, echoing the style of the main house, but the overall design is modern. I scan the space, confirming that there are no flowers anywhere, unless I count the framed botanical prints on the wall.

  After taking a quick peek out the window to make sure no one is coming along the path, I carry the vase up the stairs to the open landing that ru
ns the width of the house. There are two doors, which, if I remember the plans correctly, each lead to an en suite bedroom. I twist open the handle of the first one and slowly push it open until I notice Wendy’s Louis Vuitton duffel bag on the whitewashed bench at the end of the bed. I close the door and inch down the landing until I’ve reached the next room. The only sound besides my shallow breathing is from a bird outside one of the windows chirping “Peter, peter, peter.” I slowly twist the handle and ease the door open.

  The room is nearly identical to Blake and Wendy’s, though one side of it is strewn with shoes, shorts, and T-shirts that obviously belong to Nick. The cloying scent of Hannah’s patchouli-vanilla mix still clings to the air.

  I scan the room. There aren’t any flowers in here, either, which means neither Hannah nor Nick stupidly picked the foxgloves and stuffed a vase with them. As I start to back out into the hallway, ready to beat a retreat, I hear the soft tread of footsteps. I swivel in place, and my heart skips as I see Hannah standing at the top of the stairs.

  “Looking for me?” she asks, raising a thick, perfectly groomed eyebrow.

  “Yes. I mean, sort of. I’ve been dropping off flowers this morning.”

  For a moment she says nothing, simply takes me in with her eyes, which in the dimness of the landing seem coal black, not brown.

  Her lips swell briefly into a pout and then she opens her mouth. “Don’t you know it’s not nice to go into someone’s room without their permission?”

  I feel my chest flush, followed by my cheeks, like there’s a red tide surging up through my body. “I wasn’t going into the room. I was planning to set the flowers inside the door.” I shrug, a pathetic attempt at nonchalance. “But I can hand them to you instead.”

  “If you don’t mind, actually, I’ll pick my own.”

  “Fine.” Get out of here, I command myself. Shut up and leave. But I can’t resist. “Be careful, though. Some of the flowers around here are poisonous and shouldn’t be brought into the house. Like foxgloves.”

  “Thanks, I didn’t know that,” she says, her expression even. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  That’s one more lie she’s told me.