Page 33 of Happy Wife

“Somerset family?” I look between Este and the TV. “I didn’t give anyone that picture. I’ve never even seen it.”

“Oh. Well, I mean…” Este looks back at the TV. “You’re not hisonlyfamily.”

It dawns on me. “If Constance gave them this photo, so help me…”

The photo disappears, and Kristy turns to her male counterpart, who says, “Now, for the sad update on a story we covered the other day. The driver of the vehicle that crashed on Via Tuscany has died from injuries he suffered during the crash.”

“Authorities have identified the man as Dean Morrison,” Kristy says. “Mr. Morrison had been in the hospital since the accident and earlier today succumbed to his injuries. While the crash is still under investigation, our thoughts are with the family at this time.”

“Wait, Dean’s the one who crashed into Carol’s fence?” I gasp, thunderstruck.

“Who is Dean?” Este frowns.

Dean Morrison.

I instinctually pull out my phone and open my call log.

(863) 555-0142

I’ve been calling the number periodically over the last twenty-four hours, hoping like hell someone would magically pick up. My stomach sinks. Now I know no one is going to.

I look at Este, completely at a loss for words.

“Nora, honey, are you okay?”

The only clue I might have about where Will went is now linked to a dead man. I want to tell her everything. The words almost fly out of my mouth, but I bite my lip to keep them in.

How would I even begin to explain? What is even happening? Will’s missing and Dean’s dead. What does that mean?

A frantic knock at the door smacks me back into reality, and I start at the sound.

“I’ll get it.” Este touches a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“I came as soon as I could,” the person on the other side of the door says eagerly. Her face is almost obscured by the giant gift basket she’s gripping, but I’d know that chipper voice anywhere. Autumn. She enters with a frenzied burst of energy and chatter. “I was in Jacksonville for work—a baby shower, of all things. My God, you poor thing. And Will! Oh, it’s all so awful.” Rushing past me, she makes her way toward the kitchen.

Este rolls her eyes at Autumn from the couch. “Oh. It’s you.”

Autumn ignores Este, hoisting the basket onto the island. “I brought some fresh flowers to brighten up the space, some snacks—it’s so hard to remember to eat but you have to keep your strength—chamomile tea to soothe anxiety, Carole Radziwill’s book about the summer everyone she loved died. Sad, but somehow inspiring…and…” She digs toward the bottom of the basket to produce a floral notebook. “A journal from Rifle Paper.”

Autumn visits the flagship Rifle Paper store on New England Avenue the way some people go to church—often and with solemn reverence. For her, it’s a perfect sanctuary of jewel-toned flower graphics, peacock throw pillows, and quirky greeting cards.

Este’s off the couch and picking over provisions in the basket with a dismissive scowl. “Who died?” Her tone is glib.

Well, Dean for starters.

The thought makes my heart beat faster, the sound of my own blood pressure spiking dulls the conversation around me.

“Este,” Autumn hisses, shooting a pointed glare in her direction. “Nora needs our support right now.”

Este rolls her eyes. “We’re not sitting shivah, Autumn.”

This is when I realize Autumn is dressed in all black.

“Can you please both stop talking?” I say, trying not to sound wounded.

Autumn opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something, but then closes it. When she speaks again, it’s in a calming, sweet voice, “I’m going to make some fresh iced tea.” She pulls a Harney & Sons tea box and Meyer lemons out of the basket. “Have I told you about my lemon tree? I know everyone is obsessed with their chicken coops, but lemon trees are so much more useful. You can use lemons to clean, for skin care…” She busies herself with the teakettle on the stove.

Este puts a finger gun to her temple and says to me in a hushed voice, “I could not possibly care less. Can we send young Martha Stewart on her way now?”