Page 35

I wake up confused, my head still swirling with thoughts of who could’ve killed Will.

Or, more important, why. I can’t let go of the fact that Constance has no alibi.

But is she the type to do something so drastic?

I know she wants Mia to have her father, which contradicts the narrative I am concocting about why she would have shown up drunk and shoved Will off our dock.

But if she was drunk, maybe…Maybe it was an accident? But how would she even get on the dock?

I need to start one of those boards with suspects. I’ll need pushpins, red yarn, and Will’s printer—which never works.

I pad downstairs, where I find Marcus reading on the couch. He springs into action when he sees me.

“Nora—”

“What time is it?” I rub at my eyes, adjusting to the lights of the house and the darkness outside.

“Nearly ten p.m. ”

“On what day?”

“Still Saturday. You must be hungry.”

I’m not, but I am a reasonable enough person to know that I need to eat.

I walk over to the island and sit down as Marcus starts pulling plates out of the warming drawer.

Never one to do anything in half measures, he pulls together a meal worthy of a Michelin star, setting a plate in front of me that looks like a still life.

The baby carrots’ greens wrap around a pork medallion adorned with mushrooms and mustard sauce.

Pearl onions are perfectly placed in a brown sauce that is drizzled delicately on one edge of the plate.

And there’s a pile of arugula, golden raisins, and walnuts that looks like birds in a bush. He’s an impossibly talented artist.

People here think he’s just a chef. How silly.

He hands me a silver fork with a little peacock engraved at the bottom.

“Nice fork. Did you bring it?” I say, hoping small talk might keep the swells of grief at bay.

Marcus looks at me confused. “Uh, no. You have a whole set in the butler’s pantry. You don’t know what cutlery you own?”

“Marcus, the chef, meet Nora, the queen of DoorDash.”

He chuckles as I push a pearl onion a little with my fork, then force myself to take the first bite. It’s the most perfect soft-but-firm sweet onion in the history of the world. As soon as it hits my taste buds, I realize that I am famished. I can’t remember the last time I ate.

It turns out you burn through the calories of Prosecco pretty fast.

He pulls out a plate for himself and stands kitty-corner from me. It’s the spot where I always stood when Will got home late to a foil-covered dinner and wanted to talk.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” I say.

“It’s okay. I ate a late lunch. Plus, I eat alone almost every meal. Figured you’d be up at some point.”

I nod toward the seat next to me. Something about this tableau is too painful to stay in. Marcus obliges and sits down.

We chew in silence for a while. I don’t know if it’s his years of working around the people of Winter Park, or in high-end restaurants, or both, but Marcus has an incredible ability to just wait. To be patient. To give space to something. I’m grateful.

After we’ve eaten, I help Marcus do the dishes—much to his protest. But doing something is making me feel better. People have been catering to me for most of the week. Este basically dresses me every morning.

It’s a strange thing, the way people react to grief that isn’t their own.

It’s the monster no one wants to get too close to.

It’s too scary to think about it being their own horror-filled story.

So people cook, and clean, and bring casseroles, and do laundry for you.

The work, the movement, the physical toil become sandbags in a hurricane.

If they stay in motion, maybe they can keep the grief just far enough at bay that they won’t absorb it and have to face any of their own.

Everyone around me is keeping their foundations dry while I sink farther to the bottom of an ocean of sorrow.

It’s nearly midnight when I sit back down on the couch. I’m exhausted, but there’s no way I can go back to sleep now. Marcus comes over with a glass of red and hands it to me.

“I opened one of the good ones. I hope that’s okay.”

“Why have it if you don’t drink it?” I swirl the glass a little. “That’s what Will says.” Said. I can’t go past tense yet. “Holding on to expensive wine is a waste. Buy it and drink it.”

“Smart man.”

I swirl the wine again, watching it rise and fall against the glass globe. The gentle swirl of maroon is…

Mesmerizing. Like Will.

I stop and down two-thirds of the glass.

“At least make me feel a little better and enjoy it? It’s a 2003.”

I stifle a giggle so I don’t spit wine all over the white cloud Restoration Hardware couch Will and I picked out after we got married. He said he wanted me to feel like this house belonged to both of us. Now it’s only mine.

I’m a widow, Marcus. This isn’t funny.

It’s like the flip of a light switch. Something about laughing or feeling anything other than soul-crushing dread or fear feels like I’m cheating. On Will? No. Maybe more like I’m gaming grief.

Will is dead and I’m cracking jokes with Marcus?

The guilt seeps into my bones until I start to shiver and ache. I sit up and put my wine down, and instantly I feel a wild squall of anger move in.

“Why are you here, Marcus?” I ask quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you here with me, at my house?”

Marcus shifts a little and sits up, confused. “Because it’s what you do for your friends. Especially given the circumstances.”

“But we’re not friends. We were never friends.”

I don’t know why I am saying any of this, but I can’t stop myself. My brain and my heart are no longer in sync—they no longer have any connection to each other.

“Nora, what are you talking about?”

“You and I—We’re…something else. Something terrible and wrong.”

“What?”

“Will is barely dead and you’re here cooking me dinner and plying me with wine—”

“I’m not… plying you with anything. I’m not—”

“I’m not some pity case for you to take on. I’m not some poor little interloper widow who can’t handle her own shit. Okay?”

Marcus stands up, shakes his head. “Nora, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything other than trying to help out a little. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now.”

“You’re right. You can’t.”

“Okay, that’s my cue.” Marcus takes his wineglass to the sink and washes it.

Even with me shitting on him, he can’t help but be a chef. Never leave the kitchen undone. It’s always ready for the next meal, the next masterpiece.

Marcus heads for the front door. He stops and turns back to me. “I never meant anything other than a show of kindness, Nora. I’m sorry for what’s happened. For everything that’s hurt you.” And with that so-sincere-it-rips-my-heart-out sentiment, he leaves.

The door closes, and I’m left in total silence.

I have no idea what just happened. No idea why I said what I said.

I can feel a wave of emotional destruction building in my throat, but I’m not ready for it.

I can’t lean into this pain. If I do, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to pull myself out of it.

I down the rest of my wine, scoop up the bottle, and head upstairs to my room.

In the back of my mind, though, I know there’s no amount of shouting I can do at Marcus to undo everything that’s wrong. And there’s not enough Malbec in the world to wash away the fact that someone killed my husband.