“Great idea,” I tell him. I feel desperate to escape the cottage, too. Maybe if I clear my head, my next steps will become evident to me.
In the kitchen, we greet Bonnie, and Henry drops to the floor with the dogs.
“Anything going on?” I ask her.
“It’s been real quiet so far this morning,” she reports, setting down the whisk she’s been using on an aluminum bowl filled with raw eggs. Next to it are a half dozen empty tart crusts. “Ash has been in the study with the door closed, and Wendy had her dry toast and tea in the dining room, but I think she’s since gone back to the carriage house.”
“No one else is stirring?”
“Not that I’ve seen. Oh, Hannah was here a little while ago, getting coffee.” She lowers her voice. “I feel sorry for that girl.”
Beneath my sleeves, goose bumps roll up my arms. “What do you mean?”
Bonnie lowers her voice so Henry can’t overhear, though he’s probably doing his best to do so. “This can’t be easy for her. Coming out here for the first time, getting engaged, and then having her future mother-in-law die. I think it’s putting a strain on things.”
“On her, you mean... or the relationship?”
“Both. I shouldn’t be talking out of turn, but you’re so bighearted, Summer, maybe you could reach out to her, see if you could help.”
“Of course, of course. But why do you suspect there’s a problem?” I ask lightly, then hold my breath.
“They were in a tiff last night after dinner,” she says, whispering now. “I heard them right before I left.”
“Do you know what they were arguing about?”
“No idea. But Nick seemed pissed. And you know Nick. He never gets pissed.”
In a split second, some of the tension coiled in my body unwinds. Maybe Nick is finally coming to his senses. It could have something to do with whatever Keira told him right before dinner. Maybe she discovered that Marcus, despite his protestations to the contrary, had been meeting privately with Hannah, and she conveyed as much to Nick.
“Summer?”
I’ve been so lost in my thoughts, it takes me a couple of seconds to realize Bonnie’s still talking to me.
“Yes, I know what you mean,” I say. “Let me see what I can do.”
“You’re a doll.”
If she only knew.
Henry and I end up taking Bella and Ginger outside and romping with them in the yard at the far side of the pool. I doubt anyone’s played with them since Sunday and they seem in heaven.
Once we’ve tired out the dogs, we drop them off in the kitchen and return to the cottage, and Gabe shows up a while later, carrying one of the freshly baked goat cheese andasparagus tarts that Bonnie made. “I figured we’d eat lunch here,” he says.
I appreciate the thought, but his tone and body language toward me still feel really distant.
While Henry and I set the table, Gabe slices the tart and uses a spatula to wiggle three slices onto plates. “Don’t let me forget,” he says. “I promised Bonnie I’d return the tart pan so she doesn’t lose track of it.”
“Does Bonnie always wash her hands when she makes our food?” Henry asks. It’s the kind of question I’ve never heard him utter.
“Of course. What brings that up, Hen?” Gabe says, clearly surprised, too.
“My mom says you always have to wash your hands before food preparation, or people can get sick.”
“That’s true, and Bonnie always does it.”
“And what about the people who help her? Do they wash their hands, too?”
“You bet. Bonnie would kick some serious butt if they didn’t.”
