“Gabe, what’s the matter? You seem, I don’t know, slightly perturbed.”
He folds his arms against his chest, briefly looks off, and then returns his gaze to me. This time he doesn’t let go.
“Tell me honestly,” he says. “Did you really sneak into Nick and Hannah’s room this morning?”
14
Oh my god, Hannah tattled on me. What a bitch.
“Yes, I did go into their room,” I tell him. “Well, notintoit. I opened the door in order to set a vase of flowers on the floor.... Did she say something to you about it?”
“Nick did. Hannah found it really disturbing, and so did he. I don’t get it, Summer.”
“I was only trying to benice, Gabe. No one answered my knock, and I decided to leave the vase in the room rather than lug it back downstairs.” I hate being untruthful with Gabe, but I don’t want to tell him why I was on a quest to find the missing foxgloves.
“Why not leave them outside the room?”
“I guess I didn’t see any harm in opening the door for two seconds. It wasn’t as if I expected to see bondage equipment in there, or bags of heroin.”
I can tell from his expression that he doesn’t appreciate my attempt at humor. And this isn’t the time for it anyway.
“Look, I see your point,” I say, switching gears. “I’venever viewed your parents’ home as a place where we need to stand on ceremony, but Nick has someone new in his life, and I should have respected their privacy.”
He studies me, obviously trying to assess how sincere I am.
“Okay,” he says finally. “I’m glad you get it. You’d hardly want Hannah coming intoourroom uninvited, would you?”
“Of course not. Please tell Nick I’m sorry.”
He nods. “See you back at the table then.”
Frustrated, I hurry the rest of the way to the cottage. In the bathroom mirror I discover that I look as agitated as I feel. My face has turned lumpy and red, like I have a bout of diaper rash on my cheeks and chin, and my T-shirt is streaked with dirt from lugging around the vases earlier. I change into a new one, and press a cold wet washcloth to my face for a minute, then dab on a concealer and foundation.
Back downstairs I take a minute to peruse the small bookcase, loaded with volumes for weekend guests, and dig out a book of poetry by Mary Oliver. Thumbing through it quickly, I come upon “Why I Wake Early,” the poem the collection takes its title from. I’ve decided that if Gabe feels comfortable with me speaking tomorrow at the service, I’ll read this because Claire once told me it was a favorite of hers. It begins with the line, “Hello sun in my face,” and goes on to talk about tulips and morning glories and how the sun holds us in its hands of light. It perfectly reflects Claire’s love of nature.
Before I return to the patio, I bookmark the page with a scrap of paper and grab my phone from the charger in the kitchen. There are a bunch of emails and text alerts, but Idon’t start reading until I’m on the path. And that’s when things get even shittier. The first text is from Shawna.
Hey, just a heads-up. They decided to re-record that story with another actor. Pls don’t take this personally. They wanted the voice to sound a little older. Talk soon.
Oh, lovely. I couldn’t manage to nail a job reading a story about two women taking the world’s most boring road trip together—they don’t even meet a hot drifter who steals their money, let alone drive their car into the Grand Canyon. Is Shawna being honest when she says we’ll talk soon—meaning she’ll book me for another recording? It’s impossible to tell.
To my dismay, there are no requests for voice-over auditions from my agent, and the only other professional message in my in-box is from a Columbia University grad student who’d had me read twice for a student film he’s directing. “Thank you for your time,” he writes. “Unfortunately, we’ve decided to go in another direction.” I’ve learned that “other direction” generally means they want someone younger, prettier, thinner, hotter, bigger boobed, shorter chinned (yup, I was told that once), or in their view, more talented. Or all the above.
I shouldn’t let this stuff get to me, but it’s impossible not to. And right now, it’s piling on top of everything else—my sorrow over losing Claire, the mystery of the missing foxgloves and jug, to say nothing of the tension between me and Gabe.
By the time I return to the table, most of the diners have left, but Gabe and Henry are listlessly working on a bowl ofcherries, and Blake’s lost in thought. I imagine he might be struggling to make sense of his mother’s death, wondering if there could have been a way to save her. I pick at what remains from the inside of my wrap.
When he comes out of his reverie, Blake looks at Gabe. “You up for smacking a tennis ball around?” I sense he’s looking for distraction more than exercise.
“Man, I’d love that,” Gabe says.
“But, Dad, I thought we were going to swim now,” Henry says despondently.
“Um, you’re right, buddy. Blake, how ’bout later?”
I flash back to the advice my mother offered earlier, about how important it is to sense what a loved one needs when they’re grieving. And I know Gabe’s been missing his regular get-togethers with Blake this past year.
“Honey, play tennis,” I insist. “I’ll hang by the pool with Henry, and you can come by when you’re done.”
