The Fiancée

by Kate White

  “I appreciate the compliment,” I say, lowering myself onto the chaise lounge next to her. She’s gotten a light tan, which looks fetching with her pale blond hair. “And I wish I could say it came naturally to me, but it really has to do with Henry. He’s always been such an easy, undemanding kid. Not sure how I’d handle a spoiled brat. Regardless, you shouldn’t worry, Wendy. I know you and Blake will be fabulous parents.”

  “I hope so. I’ve wanted this baby for so long.”

  “Are you feeling any less stressed this afternoon?”

  “Honestly? No. I’d kill for a glass of rosé right now, but that’s not a possibility.”

  “I know how you feel.” I break into a grin. “Tell you what—I’ll drink a rosé for both of us later.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Hey, I wanted to ask you about something you mentioned earlier—the so-called interloper.”

  Wendy raises her pale blond eyebrows above the rims of her tortoise-framed Ray-Bans. “Have you had your own concerns?”

  “Actually, yes. I recognized Hannah as soon as I saw her Friday night—we were in the same playwrights’ showcase a couple of years ago. But she lied and said I was mistaking her for someone else.”

  “How strange. Why would she do that, I wonder?”

  “I didn’t know this at the time, but she supposedly stole money and jewelry from another actress in the showcase and I guess she didn’t want me to connect the dots. I’m worried about what this means for Nick. For all of us, frankly.”

  “You’ve mentioned this to Gabe, I assume?”

  “Yes, but he’s got so much else on his mind, even before Claire died, and he hasn’t taken it seriously.”

  She shifts a little in the chair, crossing her long, slim arms over her chest. “I’m not sure what recourse either of us has. Let’s say you or I took Nick aside and confided in him. He’s hardly going to send Hannah packing because she told a little white lie about dressage, or that you heard a rumor she stole something. And he’d probably resent us for interfering.”

  “What if it were more serious than that?”

  “Serious how?”

  On and off since Saturday night, I’ve replayed my conversation with Claire, and one phrase keeps echoing in my head: Our little USC graduate.

  “It’s possible Hannah lied about where she went to college.”

  “That’s pretty shady.”

  “I know. It’s not the kind of lie that could cause any real damage, but it says something about her character . . . . You spend a fair amount of time in Florida, don’t you?”

  She looks surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “I just mean you do business there, right? Do you think there’s a way to find out anything about Hannah’s background—if her parents are both really dead, if she’s even from there?”

  Wendy looks off, seeming to mull over my request. “I can do a little digging. My gallery runs a background check on anyone we’re considering doing a major transaction with—it’s called KYC for ‘Know Your Client.’ I can ask my guy about Hannah and see what turns up.”

  “That would be great. I know it might seem like an extreme step, but I don’t want Nick to find himself in a terrible situation one day.”

  “I don’t, either.”

  “And would you mind not saying anything to Blake for the moment, since I haven’t totally looped Gabe in?”

  She nods. “Of course, understood. And speaking of Blake, I promised I’d watch him and Gabe play.” She rolls her eyes. “He barely lets me out of his sight these days.”

  “I don’t blame him. And thanks again, Wendy.”

  She propels herself off the lounge chair and no sooner is she gone, descending the small hill to the tennis court, than I’m gripped by second thoughts. Did I make a mistake by involving Wendy? What if she talks to Blake and it gets back to Gabe, or worse, Nick?

  No, it was the right thing to do, I tell myself. If Wendy finds out that Hannah’s who she says she is, fair enough. And if she turns up incriminating information, it will help me make my case to Gabe.

  Plus, Wendy is incredibly discreet. I know from the family grapevine that she’s had her share of famous clients over the years and hasn’t breathed a word about them. She’s always struck me as someone for whom the pleasure is in having the secret all to herself and savoring it.

  I drift back to my original lounge chair, and it’s not long before Henry stirs. When a freshly showered Gabe joins us, we spend the next half hour or so playing gin. Blake appears at one point, dressed in swim trunks, and dives into the deep end of the pool and begins slicing through the water with perfectly synchronized stokes. From where I’m sitting, I have a view of the patio and I can see Keira, sunglasses perched on top of her head, perusing folders that are probably work-related.

  In so many ways, everything appears absolutely normal. If Claire hadn’t died, this might be exactly what we’d all be doing anyway—swimming, lounging, playing cards, reading at the table. But there’s a pall over everything, like a smog thick enough to make it hard to breathe.

  Eventually needing to pee, I decide to use the powder room in the main house, rather than walk all the way to the cottage. The door’s locked, so I hang for a minute in the side corridor, leaning into the folds of slickers hanging from pegs. When the door opens, Keira emerges, having changed from her earlier shorts and top outfit into navy cotton pants and a crisp button-down. Her hair’s a little wavier than usual, probably from the heat, and she’s pulled it into a low ponytail.

  “You headed someplace?” I ask.

  “Marcus and I are driving into Doylestown in a few minutes,” she replies, and I shudder inwardly hearing the name of the town where Claire died. “We’re just going to walk around a little, get an ice cream cone.”

  Of course, there’s a freezer in the house with about twenty-seven tubs of ice cream, all in different flavors, but my guess is that she needs a break from all of us.

  “Sounds like a good diversion. Will you be able to stick around past Tuesday?”

  “Yes, I’m staying all week now. Work was totally understanding about the situation, of course.”

  “I’m glad. It’ll be good to have you here.”

  “Thanks, Summer, I appreciate that.” She glances one way down the hall and then the other, as if making sure we won’t be overheard. “You and I haven’t actually gotten a chance to talk in the last day, and I was worried you might be upset with me.”

  That came out of left field. “Upset? Why?”

  “Because of Marcus not telling Gabe right away about the mess at work. I know he was only trying to spare him unnecessary worry.”

  “Keira, I don’t fault you for any of that. It’s between the two of them, and they’ll sort it out. I just hope they can find a way to get it under control in the midst of everything else they’re coping with.”

  She bites her lip, as if there’s more she wants to say but doesn’t know how to broach it.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Maybe there’ll be less to sort out now.”

  “I’m not following.”

  Before she can respond, our attention’s diverted by the crunch of car tires on gravel coming from outside.

  “Is Ash expecting someone else?”

  “I think that’s Jillian leaving. I saw her a few minutes ago and she said she was staying at that B&B along the river so she won’t have to drive all the way back from the city tomorrow for the service. You know what, I should get going myself. I told Marcus I’d be right back.”

  She smiles wanly and pivots, hurrying down the corridor. Her remark lingers in the air. Maybe there’ll be less to sort out.

  Is she suggesting that with Claire dead, Marcus and Gabe can convince Ash to give them the money they need? It seems like a crude point for her to make now, though, and really unlike her to think that way.

  By the time I return to the pool, Blake’s gone, but Ash has taken over one of the lounge chairs. He’s not in a swimsuit tod
ay, instead wearing a business casual green polo shirt and khakis—and a face taut from distress. He’s staring down at his phone and appears to be writing an email, practically stabbing at the screen. Without a word to any of us, he struggles up out of his chair, strides across the deck, and heads over to the house.

  Seeing Ash this way, when he’s usually so comfortable in his own skin, is jarring, but I’m sure he’s handling his grief as best as he can.

  I’ve had a question I’ve been wanting to ask Gabe and I slide back onto the lounge chair next to his. “Would you mind—or would your dad mind—if I spoke at the service tomorrow?” I say. “I thought I could read a poem.”

  “That would be really nice, Summer. Please, yes.”

  “There’s one by Mary Oliver that I know your mom loved. I could show it to you if you’d like.”

  “No, I don’t need to see it. I trust you totally.”

  “Okay, good. You’re planning to say something, right?”

  “Yeah, of course. I’m still working it out in my head.”

  I’m grateful for Gabe’s support of my decision to do a reading, but I sense that things are still a little off between us—and I’m not sure how to remedy that without making me the focus when what he needs to do is grieve.

  As the afternoon slips away, Henry and Gabe opt for one more dip, but I decide to return to the cottage, saying I’ll see them there later.

  It’s really dim inside when I arrive, and I fumble for the wall switch to the right of the door. Once the light comes on, I discover that Gabe has pulled the muslin drapes closed for some reason.

  I pick up the book of poems on the coffee table and turn again to the one I bookmarked earlier with a scrap of paper: I read it several times aloud, familiarizing myself more deeply with the words.

  I calculate that I have enough time for a quick shower, and while toweling off afterward, I consider my outfit options for dinner. There’s a dress I haven’t worn yet on this trip, but I decide to save it for the service tomorrow. Instead, I yank a cotton skirt off a hanger in the closet and open the dresser drawer to find an appropriate top.

  My eyes light on a sleeveless jersey tank, and as I lift it from its spot, something falls into the drawer—a small piece of purple cloth that must have been caught in its folds.

  But no, that’s not it. As I stare into the drawer, I finally realize that what’s fluttered down isn’t a piece of cloth.

  It’s a trumpet-shaped bloom from a foxglove.

  15

  I gulp air, trying to catch a breath.

  Someone snuck into the bedroom and tucked the blossom among my things. I rifle through the drawer, and the one below it, chucking items of clothing onto the bed. Nothing else is out of place. I scan the room next, but there are no other nasty leave-behinds that I can see.

  After stuffing my clothes back into the drawers, I sink onto the mattress and press both hands to my mouth.

  There’s only one possible explanation: Hannah left the blossom. It has to be her because she’s the only one I’ve mentioned foxgloves to. Which means she might very well have killed Claire. I’ve dismissed the idea each time it’s wiggled into my mind, but why would Hannah hide a blossom in my drawer if something wasn’t going on?

  It’s like she’s issuing a warning: Back off or you’ll be next.

  So what the hell do I do now? I need to talk to Wendy as soon as possible—to see if she’s managed to dig up anything, even though it’s only been a couple of hours. And as Laertes says to Ophelia, “Best safety lies in fear.” I have to let Hannah scare the living daylights out of me, meaning my guard must be up at all times.

  “You okay?” Gabe asks.

  I’ve been so immersed in my thoughts, I didn’t hear him come up the stairs. I twist around to face him, and see an unusual wariness in his eyes.

  “Uh, just tired,” I say. The sound of my heartbeat seems so loud I bet he can hear it. “How about you? You must be exhausted.”

  “Yeah, I’m probably gonna crash right after dinner tonight. I’ll need all the energy I can summon for tomorrow.”

  “Henry’s with you?”

  “In his room changing.”

  Gabe unwinds the white beach towel around his waist, yanks off his suit, and digs a pair of boxer briefs out of his duffel bag. Ordinarily I’d feel a swell of desire at a moment like this, simply from catching a glimpse of his tanned, toned body, but I’m too scared and unsettled to experience even a twinge of lust.

  As the three of us prepare to leave the cottage a few minutes later, I glance toward the French doors leading out to the patio.

  “Did you close the drapes in here?” I ask Gabe.

  “No, I thought you did. It must have been Bonnie. I noticed she emptied the wastebaskets earlier.”

  Bonnie might have dealt with the wastebaskets, but my money’s on Hannah having closed the drapes so that no one would spot her moving around in here.

  When we arrive on the patio for dinner, everyone’s already gathered, slowly taking their seats, and I make a point of picking one as far away from Hannah as possible.

  Most of us seem less shell-shocked at this meal than we were at lunch, and even Ash appears more himself. There’s a bit of friendly chatter as the wine is poured, and Blake, his voice cracking, offers a toast to his mother’s memory. Over crab cakes and salad, Nick, with tears in his eyes, tells us several laugh-out-loud stories about Claire, one involving her teaching him the names of the constellations as they wandered around the pool deck one night. She became so caught up in the lesson that she accidentally stepped off into the water, dressed in pants, a button-down sweater, and her favorite pair of Tod’s suede loafers—but resumed the lesson as soon as she emerged, as if nothing had happened.

  The chatter continues, but my focus shifts to the right, as if pulled by a magnetic force, and suddenly I’m staring right into Hannah’s eyes. The edges of her mouth turn upward into a tiny, mischievous smile. She knows I found the blossom—and that I’m rattled. Stay scared, I warn myself, as I quickly glance away.

  Toward the end of the meal, I manage to snag Wendy’s attention. I cock my head as if to ask, Find anything?, and she gives me a tiny nod. Thank god.

  By the time Bonnie and Jake are clearing the plates, Ash looks distracted and restless again, and he excuses himself before dessert is served. Blake and Wendy soon make motions to leave, too, and I realize I need to act fast. As Gabe helps Henry select a brownie from the platter on the table, I rise and edge over to her.

  “Do you have a sec?” I say casually, careful not to pique anyone’s interest. “I’d love your advice on something for tomorrow.”

  She turns to Blake. “You go back to the carriage house,” she tells him. “I’ll walk over in a minute once I’ve spoken to Summer.”

  He cups the side of her head with his hand, lacing his fingers through some of the silky strands.

  “No, no, I’ll wait.”

  “Blake, I’ll be fine, I swear. I’m not the first woman on the planet to have a baby.”

  “I don’t mind hanging here. I’ll grab a brandy and sit with the others for a while.”

  She shrugs, rises, and takes my arm, and as the two of us walk onto the lawn in the direction of the Adirondack chairs, I can almost feel Hannah’s eyes on my back.

  “Blake mentioned you’re planning to read a Mary Oliver poem tomorrow,” Wendy says. “That’s such a thoughtful idea.”

  I realize with a stab of guilt that I should have given Wendy and Keira a heads-up that I intended to speak. At least Gabe has spread the word.

  “It’s just a short one, but Claire mentioned once she loved it. Are you going to say anything?”

  “I considered it—and I know Blake would be pleased if I did—but I get really teary at funerals, and I don’t want to distract from the service by blubbering all over the place.”

  It’s hard to imagine Wendy blubbering, but I know funerals can bring out extreme emotions.

  “I’m also trying to ke
ep my stress level down,” she adds. “I generally don’t mind public speaking, but tomorrow will be intense.”

  “Sounds like a smart decision.”

  We reach the chairs and sink into them. Fireflies have begun to blink their lights all around us, and the delicious scent of honeysuckle clings to the air. It could almost seem like just another summer evening here, but, of course, it isn’t.

  “So, tell me,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “You found something?”

  “Keep in mind I only had time to make a superficial request, but yes, I had a bit of luck. And you’re not going to believe it.”

  I hold my breath for a couple of seconds. “What?” I finally ask.

  “Things checked out. She definitely went to USC. And she’s from Miami, exactly as she told us. Her parents died a short time apart several years ago, in their fifties and both from illnesses. She’s never been arrested and doesn’t have any debt to speak of. Of course, as I said, this is only the top-line stuff.”

  I can almost feel myself deflating, like a beach ball that’s been popped with a fork.

  “Okay, then it must be something else,” I say.

  “What must be something else?”

  “What Claire discovered. I thought it had to do with USC, but I guess not. We’re going to have to dig deeper to figure it out.”

  Wendy swats at her arm, trying to kill a buzzing mosquito.

  “I’m not sure what it could be. Hannah certainly doesn’t look like a meth head. And she’s not lying about the Netflix pilot—she showed Blake and me a clip from it, and it seems like she’s landed a big role.”

  “But it’s there, somewhere. I know Claire found something.”

  “She told you?”

  “More or less. She said she had Hannah’s number, and I could tell she didn’t think Nick should marry her.”

  “Hmm. Is it possible Claire was simply being superprotective? I know Nick’s, what, a minute younger than Marcus? But Claire considered him her baby and has always held on to him tightly.”

  Should I tell her about the foxgloves? I wonder. Or the fight that Henry overheard? No, I can’t. Not now.