I grab the basket and go. The day’s really muggy now, and I’m sweating by the time I reach the patio, which turnsout to be empty. No one down by the pool, either. I peer through a kitchen window, but the gauze curtain is drawn, so I tug open the door to find that the lights are off and the only sound is the faint hum of the dishwasher.
But there’s Claire sitting on a stool at the butcher-block-topped island. All by herself, in the dimness.
“Hello, darling,” she says softly.
“Claire, hi. Where is everyone?”
“I believe most people have opted for a short siesta this afternoon.”
“That makes sense in this heat.... Want me to turn a light on?”
“No, that’s all right, dear. It was feeling a little too bright.... Can I get you anything?”
“Thank you, I’m fine,” I say. “I just wanted to say hello.”
After setting down the basket, I step closer so I can see her better. Her hair’s pulled back today, with a few silvery-blond tendrils curled by her ears, and her face looks unusually shiny, probably from the humidity. In front of her on the island is an empty drinking glass, the jug she uses to make her special iced tea, and a plate with an untouched sandwich. She taps her index finger to her lips a few times, as if she’s sensing the start of a fever blister.
“You know what?” she says. “We should set aside a time this week to take a walk together. I feel like I haven’t had much chance to catch up with you yet.”
“Great thought. What about right now?” I ask.
“Would you mind waiting until later? I might take a siesta myself since I’m feeling slightly drained from the heat.”
“Of course. Whenever works for you.”
Sensing that she’d like to be alone, I say good-bye and turn to leave.
“Summer,” she says quietly as I near the door. I pivot. “Have you colored your hair lately, darling?”
“Myhair?”
“It looks lighter to me this weekend.”
“Uh, no, just the usual highlights I indulge in every few months.”
A minute later, while I’m pouring myself an ice water on the patio, I feel a hot swell of anger. This week has already gone to hell, and it’s only Sunday. Gabe’s not only upset with his Dad, he’s pissed at Marcus as well. Claire’s distressed about Nick’s engagement, and I’m pretty sure Marcus is, too. Keira’s feeling worried about her marriage. And I’m too agitated to concentrate on my play. I know Hannah’s not responsible forallof it—but life would be so much better if she weren’t here.
How fitting that at this exact moment, I catch a glimpse of her in the distance, all by herself and heading down the path that connects the pool area with the carriage house. She’s dressed in a cutoff jean skirt and T-shirt, and there’s total confidence in her stride. If she was actually the one Claire confronted last night, the experience certainly hasn’t undone her. And neither has the encounter with Marcus. Or perhaps she’s an even better actress than I realize.
When I reenter the cottage, Gabe’s still reading to Henry—I hear the murmur of their voices from above. I read myself for an hour or so, though my eyes keep sliding off the screen of my iPad. I feel restless, unable to relax. A hikehelped Gabe clear his head, and maybe I need some exercise, too. By now I’m picking up the sound of Gabe’s light snoring from the spare bedroom, meaning they’rebothasleep—so I write a note explaining my intended whereabouts before changing into running shoes and slathering on a glob of sunscreen. Then I head to the front of the property and onto Durham Road.
Granted, it’s a lousy day to jog, not only hot but humid. As I accelerate my speed, pounding the road hard, I feel the heat radiating from the blacktop through my shoes. Gnats swarm around my face, trying to shoot up my nostrils. But it’s nice to move my legs and good to have a change of scenery.
I don’t pass a single car on the road as I go, and the only person I spot is a farmer riding a tractor in a distant field. The solitude feels good, even essential, right now. After about fifteen minutes, my tension begins to subside, and after another ten, I do a U-turn and start back at a slower pace.
And then, just as I’m jogging the last stretch, not even minding that my top is clinging to my torso, I have a revelation. Things will work out with the wine business. Theywill. Gabe is incredibly clever, and he’ll sort out the problem with the vineyard. He’ll insist that Marcus be more forthcoming in the future and he’ll smooth things over with his dad. Because the Keatons don’t do family drama.
I’m almost back at the house when my attention is diverted by the wail of a siren, from a fire truck or maybe an ambulance. It’s about half a mile ahead, I guess, barreling in this direction. Instinctively, I step even closer to the edge of the road.
Abruptly, the siren ceases—but the vehicle never passesme. My heart skips and I hasten my pace. Could it have stopped atourhouse? I move even faster, breaking into a run, and tearing up the gravel drive.
And there it is, an ambulance smack in front of the house.
Panic surges through me. My first thought is Henry. Has something happened to him?
“What’s going on?” I shout to the two paramedics who have jumped out the back of the vehicle.
“We need to get inside,” one of them yells as they grab equipment and charge into the house.
