“A library,” Block says. “On the campus of American University.”
30
NOW
Gwen sits at the kitchen counter, filling out the paperwork from the insurance company when she hears someone ring the bell. She peers through the peephole to make sure it isn’t a reporter and sees Aimee. Relieved, she opens the door, only to have Aimee push past her into the foyer.
“Did you know?”
“Know what?” Gwen asks, taken aback by Aimee’s brusqueness. She closes the door and leans against it.
“Don’t lie to me. Don’t protect him. Tell me.” The ice in Aimee’s voice scares her. She’s never seen her friend angry before. “Were you in on this, too?”
“Was I what?”
“The whole drive over here, I kept thinking that if Gwen knew, she would tell me. We’re such good friends. She wouldn’t be able to keep this from me, would she?” Aimee lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Come to my house, eat my food, hang out with my family—she couldn’t pull off that kind of duplicity.”
Before Gwen can say anything, Barb enters the foyer, wearing navy slacks, a pale-blue crewneck sweater, and her signature double string of pearls. She looks like she’s heading out to an afternoon at the museum with her gardening club.
“Hello, I’m Barb Buckley.” Barb walks toward them, her hand extended. “Gwendolyn’s mother.”
Aimee’s posture softens, and she uncrosses her arms to shake hands with Barb. “Oh, hi. I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Aimee. I live next door.”
“I know all about you.” Barb snaps her fingers. “You’re the landscaper. Boy, would I like to pick your brain. I have a black lace elderberry that isn’t black. Do you have any idea why?”
“Mom, please,” Gwen says. “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”
Barb laughs. “That was probably rude of me. You must get sick of folks pestering you with their plant questions.”
Aimee smiles stiffly. Gwen sees her struggling to overcome her anger long enough to answer politely. “Maybe it’s not getting enough sun. To get that dark, black color, elderberry needs full sun.”
“Well, aren’t you clever,” Barb says. “It is in a pretty shady spot. I’ll move it before the winter comes. Well, I’m off to the mall with the boys. They’ll both need suits.” Barb looks directly at Aimee. “For Anton’s funeral. Those poor boys, they’ve been through so much. We don’t want them to suffer any more than they have.”
Aimee shrinks back under Barb’s gaze.
“Thank you, Mom,” Gwen says.
“Of course. We must all put the interests of those two boys first right now. I’m sure you two ladies would agree.”
A low throbbing starts at the base of Gwen’s skull. A headache is imminent. She waits for her mother and the kids to leave, wondering how much she overheard of what Aimee was saying. The message her mother delivered was clear—do whatever it takes to protect Anton’s legacy. Barb would say it was for Rafi and George, but Gwen knows that isn’t the whole story. Becoming the subject of gossip and curiosity among her country club set would be Barb’s idea of hell.
Once Barb and the boys are out the door, Gwen turns to Aimee. “Do you want some coffee? I’m getting a headache and some caffeine might help.”
“No. I didn’t come here for coffee.”
“Well, I need some.” Gwen heads to the kitchen, Aimee right behind her, and sticks a mug under the Nespresso machine. “You sure you don’t want some?” She turns to see Aimee standing there, glaring at her.
“Forget the damn coffee, Gwen. I need to know what’s going on. Last Friday night, when Anton got so drunk, and he came to me in the laundry room? Remember? He saidyou deserve to know. At the time, I had no idea what he was talking about. Because I had no context, no clues. And I thought maybe it was just Anton being drunk and rambling.”
“He was drunk.” Gwen nods. “Very.”
“I want you to think about our friendship,” Aimee says. “It’s only been one year, but what did we both say? That we knew immediately we were destined to be friends. That we just clicked. That we were so lucky to have found each other. And how hard it was in your thirties, in your forties, to make real friends. Now look me in the eye, Gwen, please.”
Gwen raises her head and looks at Aimee. Aimee’s freckled face is red with anger, her brown eyes narrowed.
“I just found out that someone was blackmailing Scott, and that they communicated via email sent from a library at American University,” Aimee says, her gaze unwavering. “Where Anton worked. I think the person blackmailing Scott was Anton.” She pauses a beat. “Gwen, am I right?”
The question is an arrow that shoots straight through Gwen, nailing her to the wall. She can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t look away from Aimee’s face. In her silence, her stillness, Gwen’s complicity is laid bare. If she imagined that she might be able to lie to Aimee, to pretend she didn’t know, she had only been fooling herself. Now that the time has come, she is defenseless against her friend’s plea for the truth.