Marshall glances at me, and I know he’s waiting for me to invite them in. I should. It’s the polite thing to do. But my throat is tight, and my hands are starting to shake.
“We’ve got coffee,” Marshall says when I don’t respond. “Or iced water, if you’d prefer.”
Blaine’s face lights up. “Coffee would be wonderful. I’ve gotten used to drinking espresso in this heat, just like the locals.” He chuckles, indulgent and self-satisfied, and I want to throw the glass at his head.
“Sure,” Marshall says. “Come on in.”
And all four of us head toward the villa. I trail behind, my legs moving on autopilot.
Marshall glances back at me, his brow furrowed. I can see the question in his eyes, but I shake my head slightly. Not now.
We reach the kitchen, and Marshall excuses himself. “Let me grab a quick shower and some clothes. I’ll be right back.”
He disappears upstairs, and I’m left alone with Blaine and Vanessa. My hands are shaking harder now, and I set the glass down on the counter before they notice.
“So,” Vanessa says, settling into one of the kitchen chairs. “How is dear Claire? And Philip? Are they planning to visit soon?”
“In a few weeks,” I say. My voice sounds distant. “With Audrey.”
“Oh, how lovely! Audrey must be, what, sixteen now?”
“Yes.”
“Such a sweet girl. I remember when she was just a baby.”
I move to the espresso machine, grateful for something to do with my hands. I measure out coffee, tamp it down, and fit the portafilter into place. The familiar motions help a little.
“We have lemon meringue pie,” I say, my voice flat. “If you’d like some.”
“Oh, that sounds divine,” Blaine says.
Vanessa waves a hand. “None for me, thank you. I’m watching my figure.”
I set the cups under the spout, pull the espresso shots, and slide them onto the counter. Then I retrieve the pie from the fridge and set it on the cutting board, but the knife slips when I try to cut the first slice.
I hear footsteps on the stairs, and then Marshall is back, hair damp, wearing a clean t-shirt and jeans. He crosses the kitchen and stops beside me, his presence solid and grounding.
“You okay?” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
I look up at him, and it’s a big mistake. He sees it immediately, whatever’s written on my face that I can’t hide.
He reaches up and presses the back of his hand to my forehead. “You feel warm. Did you get overheated out there?”
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t believe me. His eyes narrow, and I can see him cataloging details, putting pieces together even if he doesn’t have the full picture yet.
“Let me do that,” he says, taking the knife from my hand. “Go sit down.”
I don’t argue. I move to the table and sink into a chair, my legs unsteady. Marshall pours me a glass of water and sets it in front of me, his hand brushing my shoulder briefly before he turns back to the counter.
He cuts the pie and serves a slice to Blaine, pours himself a glass of water, and sits across from me. I watch him through a haze, barely registering the conversation happening around me.
Blaine is talking. Vanessa is laughing. Marshall is responding, his voice calm and polite, answering their questionsabout his work, about the family, about his plans for the garden. It’s all background static. White noise.
I feel nauseous.
Marshall glances at me, checking in. I try to give him a reassuring look, but I’m not sure it lands.
