“You want any help?” I ask.
“I think we have everything under control. Oh, actually, thereissomething you can do.” She steps closer, dropping her voice. “You can do your best to keep Jillian off my case.”
“Has she been a problem?” I ask, my heart skipping. That worrisome scene from the driveway keeps replaying in my mind.
“She’s been up in my business since yesterday. Making sure I’d bought the salmon, telling me what we should wear today as if I didn’t know, even asking me what’s in the damn salads.”
And then as if on cue, the door from the dining room swings open, and Jillian steps into the room. I quickly set my facial expression to neutral, but Bonnie’s is frozen in annoyance.
“Morning, Summer,” Jillian says and then shifts her attention to Bonnie without uttering her name. “Everything for lunch on schedule?”
“Yup. Though we have to get breakfast out of the way first.”
“Understood. But wouldn’t it make sense to at least start setting up the dining room?”
Bonnie looks startled by the suggestion. “But we’re not using the dining room. We’re serving lunch outside.”
“Outside?” Jillian says. “I don’t think we want the reception to feel like a Fourth of July picnic, do we?”
Bonnie’s shoulders sag, as if she’s decided she’s no match for Jillian, and angry indignation stirs inside me. Regardless of what may or may not be going on with Ash, Jillian is his assistant, not the lady of the house. At least not yet. I shift my body to square my shoulders with hers.
“Actually, Jillian, I think outdoors is exactly what Claire would have wanted,” I say. “She loved entertaining guests al fresco.”
“If that’s what you’d like,” she says crisply. “I’m simply trying to make sure things go smoothly for Ash’s sake.”
“Of course. But Bonnie has this covered. She was Claire’s right hand in the kitchen for years.”
I may be out of line here, but I don’t care.
Jillian doesn’t slink off. That’s not her style. Instead, she gives us a tight smile and turns on her heel.
“Thank you,” Bonnie says as soon as she’s gone. “That’s one less thing to worry about now.”
It seems like the right moment to take my leave, too, and I head outside through the back door. Clacking sounds fill the air, and as I round the corner of the house, I see that Blake is supervising as two groundskeepers set up the rented white folding chairs in rows on the lawn. If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone was getting married here today.
And what a beautiful day the lucky couple would have. For the first time I take note of the bright blue sky. So much for red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning.
The next several hours go by in a blur. Back at the cottage I find Henry awake and Gabe urging him into the shower. I rummage through Henry’s duffel and dig out khaki pants and the one collared shirt he’s brought, then press them on the kitchen table with an iron from under the sink. When Gabe and Henry depart in search of another round of breakfast, I shower quickly, blow-dry my hair, and apply foundation, blush, eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick. Once downstairs again, I reach for the Mary Oliver book, which is still lying on the coffee table, and open it to “Why I Wake Early.”
By now I have the poem memorized, but I plan to holdthe book when I’m speaking and glance down a few times so that it looks as if I’m reading, not reciting, which I’ve decided will seem more natural and appropriate for the occasion. I say it aloud a few more times, to make certain I have the beats and emphases right, and I practice making eye contact, using the sitting room furniture as stand-ins for people. I’ve only been in one or two plays where the actors “broke the fourth wall,” that is, acknowledged the presence of the audience, and I need to be comfortable doing it today. Done practicing, I tuck the book into my purse.
By ten fifteen, Henry and Gabe have returned, and the three of us are ready, as spruced up as we can be, considering we obviously hadn’t packed anything for a funeral. I’m wearing a flowy black dress dotted with small pink flowers, and Gabe’s in navy slacks and a blue-and-white-striped dress shirt. The deep circles under my husband’s eyes betray how tough this morning is for him.
Though there’s still forty-five minutes to go until the service, a few people are already mingling on the lawn when we show up there. Some of them turn out to be the members of the string quartet, and I also spot Denton Healy, Claire’s friend and former business partner, who retired a year or two before she did. He’s with his husband, who’s helping him set up several gorgeous floral arrangements he’s designed and brought for the occasion. Blake’s here, too, I notice, now sporting a navy blazer. As far as I know, he’s never left home without one.
Wendy arrives a few minutes later, followed by Keira and Marcus, and my stomach churns as I wait for Hannah’s grand entrance. And then suddenly she’s there, holding hands with Nick and dressed in dark pants and a bright pink blouse. Herchoice of outfit surprises me, since she’s worn a dress for dinner every night so far. But I realize that her sundresses tend to reveal a fair amount of cleavage, so perhaps she’s decided that this is not the moment to be treating us all to the sight of her breasts.
As Henry scampers through the grass with Bella and Ginger—and the quartet begins to play a soft classical music piece—Gabe and his brothers merge into a loose conversational group, along with us, their partners. There’s no effort from Hannah to make any eye contact with me this time, which I take as a small blessing. Maybe she’s busy mentally prepping for a reading she’s hoping to wow the crowd with. What could she possibly say about Claire that could be meaningful to anyone here?
Soon, Claire’s long-lost cousin arrives, and shortly after that I spot her college friend, Ellen, emerging from the side of the house. She’s tall, probably six feet, with superstraight posture, which enhances how stunning she looks in the black summer suit she’s chosen for today. While Blake and Gabe greet their mother’s cousin, I make my way toward Ellen and pull her into a hug.
After we separate, she pushes her sunglasses up into her silver hair, to reveal eyes that are bloodshot and puffy.
“Oh, Ellen,” I say, “I’m so sorry. You knew Claire longer than any of us.”
She manages a smile. “Goodness, this is so dreadful. I’ve been on a crying jag for two days.”
I nod. “It’s completely understandable. We’re all so unbearably sad.”
