“Lately, I had this weird sense that... there was a distance between my parents. They didn’t seem to talk a lot to each other, or even make eye contact as much as usual.”
“But your dad made that beautiful toast at dinner the night we arrived. He—” As I flash back to that moment, however, other memories nudge it out of place. Claire eating breakfast alone in the kitchen. Claire eating lunch alone. Ash going on a bike ride alone when in the past they generally went out together on Sundays. The fact that I rarely saw them interact over the weekend. I’d been so preoccupied, I hadn’t let those details snag my attention.
“Maybe it had to do with them being superbusy. Theyhadninehouseguests, after all. Or they were just going through a little rough patch.”
He shrugs, unconvinced, and drops his gaze to the table. “Yeah, maybe.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Not sure.” His eyes cut quickly to mine. “But listen, don’t say anything to Gabe, okay?”
I throw up a hand. “Whoa, Marcus, you can’t make me promise that. I think Gabe would feel he has a right to know.”
What I don’t add is that my husband’s probably still smarting from the Spanish vineyard kerfuffle, and Marcus keeping another secret from him would go over really poorly.
“Okay, okay. But can you hold off a little while? I... I’ll talk to my father, ask him about Jillian. Maybe it’s what you said—a comforting hug.”
“All right,” I respond, without enthusiasm. He’s suggesting that he leave Gabe in the dark again until he supposedly gathers more information—but this time I’m in on the deception. As I hurry toward the cottage a few minutes later, I realize that I wouldn’t tell Gabe right now anyway. I don’t want to knock the wind out of his sails before the memorial service.
Gabe’s not on the first floor of the cottage when I arrive, but I can hear him clomping around upstairs. I quickly start the coffee machine and grab bread, and butter and yogurt from the fridge.
By the time he enters the kitchen, the coffee’s already dripping into the carafe.
“Hey, morning,” he says.
“Morning, honey. Henry still sleeping?”
“Yeah, he’s so wiped, I’m going to wait to wake him. You been out already?”
“Yeah, I was going to check if Bonnie needed anything, but she’s not coming till seven. I’ll have a cup of coffee with you and then go back over there.”
He doesn’t ask if anyone else was up already, which thankfully means I don’t have to dance around the truth with him.
I pour us each a cup, and Gabe slices off a piece of bread from the loaf. As I watch him drop it into the toaster, with his shoulders uncharacteristically slumped, I realize how much I want to be there for him right now, and yet I’m not sure exactly how. Does he want to talk about his grief, try to shape it into words, or would he prefer to seek comfort in silence? I once again conjure up the advice my mom offered me on the phone: Follow his lead.
Rather than talk, Gabe sits at the table and scans his phone, pressing his index finger against his lip. In the awkward quiet, I end up fixing a piece of toast for myself, something I haven’t done in ages, not since I made a full-bore commitment to trying to be cast as the female lead and not her carb-loving, wiseass best friend. It tastes incredible, making me realize how much I’m in need of comfort food.
But the dread that hounded me last night soon rears its head again. I feel disconnected from my husband, when I should be helping him. Ash might be having an affair with his assistant. And there’s probably a murderer on the property, one who knows I’m wise to her.
“It’s almost seven,” I tell Gabe. “I think I’ll scoot over to the house again and check in with Bonnie. I’ll be back to help get Henry dressed.”
“Thanks,” he says distractedly, eyes still glued to his phone.
“Let me know if there’s anything else, will you?” I kiss the top of his head good-bye.
“By the way,” he calls out as I approach the door. “Dad worked out the order for the service. Blake will welcome everyone. Then there’ll be some kind of spiritual reading. Two of Mom’s friends will speak next, followed by Hannah, you, and us four guys at the end.”
“Got it. Are you sure you don’t want to see the poem I picked? It’s called ‘Why I Wake Early.’”
“No, like I said, I trust your judgment. And I want to be surprised.”
I’m touched by this. Maybe once the service is over, things will feel less stiff between us.
Bonnie’s in the kitchen when I arrive, along with Jake and two additional helpers, both twentysomething women. They’re all in black pants and white collared shirts beneath their aprons, though Jake’s shirt looks like it might have been recently balled up in a hamper.
“You guys look nice,” I say.
Bonnie blows a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Yeah, well, Jake is going to tend bar so he needs to iron his shirt, but there are a few items ahead of it on the list,” she says.
