“Did you always have amazing instincts when it came to gardening, Claire?”
Oh my god. Could she be any more of a suck-up?
“I think I always had a sense of what worked visually, but as a professional gardener, your aesthetic interests don’t matter unless you’re aware of what grows where and when.”
“You mean, like knowing whether a certain plant prefers sun or shade?”
“Yes, and the type of soil plants favor, and which climates, and even what they like or dislike as neighbors. I once planted a garden not far from an English walnut tree, which I didn’t realize is toxic to many flowers. Everything started to die.”
“Ouch.”
“Yes, ouch indeed. I had to eat the cost. But I learned over time.”
There’s a moment of silence and then a whoosh of fabric. I sense Claire stooping down, probably touching a plant.
“Do you always wear those gloves?” Hannah asks.
“I do. There are thorns to worry about, of course, and lots of bacteria in the soil. And some plants are toxic, not just to other plants but to humans and animals. Like oleander. Monkshood. And foxgloves. That’s why I don’t use them in indoor arrangements. I wouldn’t want the dogs sampling any petals that might have dropped to the floor.”
“Why even grow them, then?”
“Because they’re glorious to look at.” I hear Claire chuckle lightly. “And of course, it’s nice to think a passing fox has access to a pair of gloves on a stormy night if she needs them . . . . We should be getting back. I need to check on dinner.”
As they move away, Hannah asks her another question, which regrettably I can’t hear. No sooner have I leaned in a little closer than I feel something behind me, and I spin around to find Gabe standing there.
“What in the world are you doing?” he asks, squinting at me.
“I was pulling the drapes closed.”
He steps forward and tugs the curtain back with a finger. His mother and Hannah are in his line of sight, making their way back to the main house.
“Not spying?”
“Spying? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Come on, fess up.”
“I wasn’t spying, Gabe. I heard voices, and I was closing the drapes for a little privacy.” I conjure up my most mischievous grin. “I’ve got this wicked postorgasmic glow thing going, and I’m not interested in showing it off to the world.”
“You do look pretty radiant,” Gabe says, smiling.
“Ready for some rosé?” I cock my chin toward the coffee table.
“Definitely, though cut me off after one handful of cashews, will you? I’d like to avoid packing on five pounds here like I did last July.”
I pour us each a glass of the ice-cold wine and then we flop side by side on the couch. The crook of Gabe’s shoulder beckons and I lean into it, relishing the feel of his chest through his slightly damp T-shirt. Like Henry, Gabe doesn’t have the patience to dry himself off fully after a shower.
“Oh, this wine is perfect,” I say after taking a sip.
“I thought you’d like this one. It’s Tuscan . . . . Are you feeling more relaxed now?”
“About work?” He nods. “I guess. I got an annoyingly vague text from Shawna saying, ‘Thanks for going with the flow.’ If she was really happy with my recording, she probably would have come right out and said so.”
“Okay, maybe it wasn’t your best day, but no one hits it out of the park every time, Summer.” He props a bare foot on the trunk and I sense a comment hovering in the air.
“Is something else on your mind?” I ask.
“I was wondering, too, if you’re feeling more relaxed about Hannah.”
“Hannah? Well, in all honesty, no. But if the topic’s going to annoy you, I’m not getting into it.”
“Is there more to say?”
“Actually, yes.”
He leans forward a little.
“What?”
I tell him about my conversation with her and his father, and how unsettled it left me.
“You thought she might have forgotten about the showcase when I first asked her,” I add, “but that’s clearly not what happened. It’s obvious she didn’t want to admit it last night because she was afraid I might know about the theft. So now that she can’t deny she was in the play, she’s pretending that I was the one who was confused about it.”
Gabe presses his index finger sideways across his mouth, a gesture that always signals he’s taking things seriously. “Don’t you think it’s possible she did misunderstand you?”
“No. How does ‘a cat who turned into a woman’ sound like ‘a woman who’s suffering from amnesia’? Plus, I hated the way she tried to embarrass me in front of your father.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why not just say she’d misunderstood me, instead of making it look like I was an idiot?”
“I guarantee my father doesn’t think you’re an idiot.”
“I know, I know. But the bottom line is that she lies and probably steals, too, and now she’s dating your brother.”
“But there was never any proof Hannah took the money and bracelet or necklace or whatever it was.”
“God, Gabe, I feel like I’m trying to hold on to a wet bar of soap. Can’t you see my side of things?”
“I do see your side of things. I just don’t want you getting all agitated about something that isn’t going to matter in the long run.”
“It might matter to Nick. Even if he only sees her for the short term, he could be vulnerable.”
“Well, if his wallet ends up missing, I promise I’ll tell him what you heard.”
“But won’t he resent us for not having warned him?”
“Nick’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”
I let out a loud sigh, realizing it’s pointless to continue. “Fine. Let’s move on to a different subject, okay?”
He reaches up and rests a hand on my back. “Great idea, babe. You really shouldn’t let girls like her bother you.”
I feel myself start to bristle. “What exactly do you mean?”
“I know it’s not always easy for you to be around other actresses. But you can’t let her agitate you. You’re in a crazy, totally unfair business, you’ve always known that.”
I soooo don’t like where he’s going with this.
“You think I’m ‘agitated’ because I’m envious of Hannah?”
“I’m not saying that, but it has to be a little tough to be in close proximity to someone doing the kind of work you want to be doing,” he says. Sensing this isn’t going well, he starts to overexplain. “But what you’re doing these days is great, I mean. And so much saner than playing the Hollywood game.”
I feel my whole mood shift, as fast as an actor dropping through a trapdoor on the stage. I have to do everything in my power not to jump down his throat.
“Gabe,” I say, rising from the couch, “I appreciate your support, I really do, but I don’t need you making judgment calls about what I should or should not be doing professionally, or whether I should be playing the Hollywood game or not. I don’t advise you on the wine business, do I?”