I feel a weird, diluted kind of relief. On one hand I’m glad there’s no major family conflict, but part of me was hoping that Clairehadput Hannah on notice.
“Does your mom know Henry’s staying here now?”
Gabe takes a couple of moments to chug his coffee. “Yeah, and she gets it—that he’s not quite ready to bunk down at the main house on his own. Though she was upset to hear he was out in the dark like that.”
I pour a mugful of coffee for myself and feel a frown form on my face, as if the muscles around my mouth have a mind of their own.
“What is it?” Gabe asks, his eyes curious.
“After you went over to the house last night, Henry remembered one more thing about the conversation. He said your mom told the person that if they didn’t do the rightthing,shewould. How does that jibe with your mom catching a girl stealing bottles of wine?”
“Hmm. Well, I doubt Henry’s memory of the exchange is a hundred percent accurate—especially if he fell asleep right after. And my mother could have meant she wanted the girl to tell Bonnie what had happened—or she would.”
“That makes sense, I guess,” I say, even though it seems like a stretch.
“By the way, my mom wants to keep this low-profile, so don’t mention it to anyone, okay?”
“Got it.”
Gabe grabs a plum and leans over to kiss me on the lips. “I figured we’d get out of your hair for a while today so you can work on your play,” he adds.
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Gabe, I’m happy to see, seems to be doing his best to bring us back on an even keel. “Shall we meet up before lunch?”
“Maybeatlunch. Marcus and I are going to talk shop with Dad before then.”
“Wait,” I say, remembering something else as he starts to rise from the table. “Are you planning to ask your dad for a loan?”
His brow wrinkles. “Who told youthat?”
“Keira mentioned it last night. I felt stupid not knowing.”
“She’s clearly misunderstood what Marcus told her,” Gabe says, obviously frustrated by Keira getting it wrong. “No, we don’t need money at the moment, but Dad’s been promising some investment funds and we have to nail down the details if we want to expand going forward.”
“Okay, that’s what I figured it might be.” I’m relieved not only that Gabe’s business is okay but also that he hasn’t hidden any problems from me.
After they take off, I serve myself a bowl of yogurt from the fridge and open my laptop on the kitchen table, thinking there’ll be fewer distractions in here than out on the patio. But before long I’m groaning in frustration. I just can’t concentrate.
My mind keeps replaying the events of last night. Not only Henry bursting in from the dark like a scene out of a Harry Potter movie, but all the tension that preceded it: the engagement announcement, Gabe complaining about my behavior, Claire sharing her concern.
And as I sit there, a spoon dangling in my hand, a memory rushes into my brain like an animal suddenly darting across the road at night: Claire and me in the kitchen, speaking quietly, the rhythmic calls of katydids and crickets coming through the windows. Voices, too. Bonnie and her helper chatting as they dropped a trash bag into the bin outside, and then the firing of their car engines as they departed for the night. All before we went in to admire Henry’s magic tricks.
Which means the pink-haired helper was long gone by the time he went up to bed. Which means she wasn’t the person Claire confronted.
Who was she talking to then? And why would she concoct a story for Gabe?
I replay the fragments of conversation that Henry claimed to have overheard:I know what you’re up to.... You’d better do the right thing.... And if you don’t, I will.
So what “right thing” could she be referring to? For Hannah to confess to Nick? And possibly back out of her engagement?
I’m too antsy now to look at my computer, so I decide simply to make some notes about how to clarify the arc of my story and the question it involves. I grab my notebook and start up the path to the house, in search of an espresso and a spot where I can sit and scribble, maybe the boxwood glade.
To my surprise, I seem to have the entire grounds to myself. Granted, it’s early still, but I’d expect on a Sunday to hear sounds of people playing tennis or someone splashing in the pool, but there aren’t any. And the table under the pergola is abandoned. It feels as if I’ve showed up at an event on the wrong day or at the wrong time.
But clearly people have been here earlier—the croissant basket on the sideboard, I notice, is only half full.
“Morning,” I call out, stepping into the kitchen. But no one’s in there.
I enter the dining room next, as the swinging door yawns behind me. The space has been tidied up from last night, and the living room is pristine, too. You’d hardly know we’d been gathered there.
