“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.
“Please, don’t take this the wrong way,” she continues. “I was very fond of Claire, we all were, but let’s face it, you were her favorite, and I think it was hard for you to see how judgmental she could be at times. And, well, howpremeditatedshe was when it came to her sons.”
Maybe Claire and I had a strong connection, but that hardly means I was oblivious to who she was. Yes, she apparently had certain expectations of the boys when they were younger, but as they grew older, she let them become their own men. Regardless, this isn’t about Claire being Claire. It’s about how dangerous Hannah is.
“Okay, maybe Claire didn’t love the idea of Nick getting married,” I say, “but I think there was something else at play. And we have to keep looking.”
Wendy’s face is hard to read in the twilight, but I can hear the sigh that escapes her lips and the swish of her dress as she shifts position in the chair.
“Summer, I know you’ve got the best intentions,” she says, “but I think we need to leave this alone now. If Hannah’s not right for Nick, he’ll find out soon enough.”
“But—”
“And to be perfectly honest, I’m uncomfortable with theidea of doing any more snooping. By the time I got off the phone today, I felt like I’d been dumpster diving.”
Since I’m the one who promoted the so-called dumpster diving, her comment triggers a ripple of resentment through me. I open my mouth in protest, but quickly bite my tongue. It’s pretty obvious she just doesn’t get it—and if I keep desperately trying to make the case, Wendy might think I’m suffering from a bad case of Hannah envy, the way Gabe does.
“Sure, I understand,” I say steadily. “And I appreciate your looking into it. It’s reassuring to know the basic facts line up.”
“I should go back,” she says, smacking another mosquito. “Blake’s waiting, and I know he’s as knackered as I am. You must be, too.”
Yeah, but I say tired, not knackered, I’m tempted to tell her,because I didn’t live in the UK for fifteen minutes a million years ago.
I know I shouldn’t be annoyed with Wendy. Since I haven’t told her about the fight, or the foxgloves, I can hardly fault her lack of urgency. And yet I was counting on her, and I hate this sudden goody-two-shoes moralizing from someone who sells multimillion-dollar paintings of nothing but polka dots. Plus, it means I’m totally on my own again.
Blake’s waiting on the patio as promised, brandy snifter in hand, and Gabe and Henry are there, too, brownie crumbs scattered on the table in front of them. As Blake and Wendy head off to the carriage house, Gabe hoists a sleepy Henry in his arms, and we trudge to the cottage. The night air is filled now with the insistent, rhythmic mating calls of countless katydids and crickets, a sound I usually find soothing, but tonight it grates against my nerves, making me even edgier.
While Gabe puts Henry to bed, I not only turn the lock on the front door but fasten the brass chain we never use. By the time he returns downstairs, I’ve turned on all the lights in the sitting room and poured us each a glass of rioja from a bottle I found on the butler’s table.
“I thought you might like this,” I say, offering him the goblet.
“Yeah, thanks. I had my share at dinner but one more won’t kill me.”
“He asleep?”
“Out like a light. He seems pretty exhausted from everything.”
“I know. He even took a nap at the pool. I’m sure the memorial service will be sad for him, but I’m glad he’s staying for it.”
He takes a long sip of wine, and as he lowers the glass, his eyes meet mine.
