Summertime Guests - Wendy Francis Page 0,87
person.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Later that evening
Riley watches the evening news from the comfort of her couch at home. She’s changed into her gray sweatpants and a Jessica Simpson T-shirt, which Tom loves for some reason that’s probably twisted up in teenage fantasies and other stuff Riley doesn’t care to know about. When the newscaster announces the story of the woman who jumped at the hotel today, she calls Tom in from their study, where he’s working. Though, how he can be getting any work done after the afternoon they’ve recently endured, she can’t imagine.
“The story’s on the five o’clock news,” Riley says, pointing to the TV, and Tom sits down next to her. On the screen, the hotel manager stands off to one side while the police commissioner addresses the reporters. Riley and Tom listen to his every word.
“What’s a ‘death investigation’ mean, I wonder?” she asks when the report wraps up. “Could it be a homicide, then? Like maybe someone pushed her? I kind of assumed she’d jumped.”
“I’m not sure,” Tom says. “I think it means it could go either way.”
“Ugh. It’s so awful. I can’t believe we were there.” She curls up closer to him and rests her head on his shoulder. “Do you think your poor mom will ever recover?”
After being questioned, they’d found Marilyn sitting in the hotel lobby with Gillian, the wedding coordinator. Riley had never seen her future mother-in-law looking so pale. “Hello, there,” Tom said, helping her to her feet. “Thanks for your help, Gillian. We’ll take it from here. Let’s get you home, Mom.”
After they’d arrived back at Newbury Street, Riley brewed Marilyn a cup of tea and sat down across from her at the dining-room table. The view out her in-laws’ second-story brownstone was gorgeous this time of year. The tree-lined street was bursting with bright green leaves, a stark contrast to the somber mood in the room. “That poor woman,” Marilyn said into her tea. “Do you think she had any family?”
“I don’t know.” Riley was being honest and wasn’t sure what Marilyn wanted to hear. Would it be worse if the woman had family because there would be people left to grieve? Or would it somehow be better if she didn’t? Her death an isolated incident without any ripple effect.
But everyone had family of one kind or another, didn’t they? Even if the woman hadn’t been old enough to have her own children, she was somebody’s daughter, probably someone’s sister or aunt or fiancée. “It’s so hard to understand why anyone would jump from the balcony of one of the most expensive hotels in Boston. Do you think she was trying to make some kind of statement? I mean, assuming it was a suicide.”
“Maybe she was on drugs,” Marilyn had said. Her mother-in-law-to-be was always preaching about the danger of drugs, which Riley had come to accept as part of her teacher’s quiver. Not that she’d talk about drugs with her second-graders (Riley hoped not!), but it fell onto her list of potential hazards, things wrong with the world.
Now Tom shifts on the couch and wraps his arms around Riley. “What are the odds that we’d be there for the whole thing? I mean, it’s pretty incredible when you think about it. We were sitting at the table closest to the window, too.”
“Do you think it’s a sign?” Riley traces little circles on his forearm with her finger. “You know, like we’re not supposed to get married?”
He tilts his head so that their eyes are level. “If anything, I think it’s a sign that we should get married as soon as possible.”
“Ha, right.” She rolls her eyes.
But he’s still staring at her. “No, I mean it, Ry. Seriously.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Do you mean we should elope to Vegas or something?”
“Maybe?” He shrugs. “Though, I don’t know that we even have to go that far. I hear a justice of the peace can tie the knot just as easily—and a lot more quickly.”
Riley can’t believe what she’s hearing. The news has switched over to a story about a train derailing on the Green Line, but she can’t focus on it at the moment because she thinks her fiancé might be suggesting that they get married within the month, maybe even next week. That they might be able to stop thinking about wedding invitations and eight-piece bands and meal tastings and all the other headaches that come with a guest list of two hundred.
“Are you serious?” She’s gauging his expression, trying to