Page 80 of Happy Wife

What is this charade? She knows what she accused me of. I know she has no alibi for the night Will died. We could have it out right here. But instead, we’re planning Will’s funeral with a level of decorum that would make the Social Register proud. This is next level, even for you, Winter Park.

Constance pulls away, righting herself, and the air between us settles into thick unpleasantness. I look to Gianna, realizing thatshe knows everything that has transpired between Constance and me in the past few days.

Does she know what I said?Probably. Constance must have asked Gianna to come as backup. Like a bodyguard or an enforcer.

“Shall we talk in the kitchen? I hope Autumn got my call to meet us here.” Gianna starts for the kitchen with an entitled air, like my house is just another property in her portfolio of real estate holdings.

And what if Autumn hadn’t? Were they just going to come here and surprise me? Funeral by ambush?

I know the answer is yes, which makes this all that much more exasperating.

Constance trails Gianna on their way to the kitchen, and I see it as my window of opportunity. Even though the last time that I saw her things were ugly, it occurs to me that there’s a chance she knows something about Dean Morrison. If he’s from Will’s hometown, maybe she met Dean in her past life with Will. Despite everything between us, it’s possible she has useful information.

“Did you know Dean Morrison?” I ask, and we both stop in the living room.

There’s a flicker of recognition in her eyes that she quickly covers.

“Only from on the news the other day.”

But she’s avoiding direct eye contact, which makes me want to pry more. “Will never talked about him?”

“Will knew him? How?” She frowns.

This is bad theater. If she had a day job, I’d tell her to keep it. Does she know Dean was a private investigator? Does she know Will trusted him?

Whatever she knows, she’s not sharing. I’m no better. I’m holding on to every scrap of information—hoarding it. But I’m considering what details I’d be willing to trade on to find the connection between Dean and Will dying so close together—it’s all just too coincidental—when Autumn calls from the kitchen. Gianna must be growing impatient.

As we come into the kitchen, Gianna is seated at the head of my breakfast table, priggishly waiting for us to gather.

Seated beside her, Este shoots me a look filled with disbeliefthat Gianna is making herself at home. I return a clandestine nod. Este smiles back at me as if to say “game on.” I try to signal my gratitude by way of best-friend telepathy.

As Constance and I take our seats, Este pops up to give Constance a hug that is mostly unreturned. “I’m so sorry for you and Mia. This is just awful.”

Constance looks at me, and I see the cracks in her polish today. “Yes, it is.” Her eyes are liquid, but she holds the tears at bay. I’m surprised by her grief—but maybe I shouldn’t be. For so long, she played the part of Will’s concerned first wife. Poised, if a little stiff. Now, her emotions appear closer to the surface. More real. I can’t figure out what to make of it. But I wonder if the house looks different to her, too, now that Will is gone.

“Good morning, ladies.” Autumn gives Constance a hug and Gianna an air-kiss. “Can I get you all something to drink?”

“No, nothing for us. Thank you. We should really dive in,” Gianna responds.

So, Autumn pulls an iPad out of her purse and sets it on the table. “I had some preliminary ideas for the florals at the church and the centerpieces at the club for the reception. Fritz and Gianna are going to host that for you, Nora.”

She powers up the iPad, and a funeral vision board is displayed.

A funeral vision board. I’ll never get over these people. Behold: Queer Eye for the Dead Guy.

I feel my blood pressure kick up a notch. “Oh, I’m perfectly happy to host—”

“Fritz and I insist,” Gianna says. “I’ve called Daisy at the club to make sure we can have the ballroom Tuesday. Constance called the church, and they can accommodate Tuesday as well. We thought that would be the appropriate amount of time to get things settled.”

We. The royal, Constance-and-Gianna “we.” I am so annoyed, and a little indignant. I want to ask what the rush is. Will is barely gone—my denial is still following me around like a thick fog. But I do my best to just play along when Autumn opens a file titled “Suggested Seating Chart” for the church.

“You did all of this already?”

Where have I been? Oh, only scraping myself off the floor.

Autumn’s cheeks flush, but I’m not sure if she’s embarrassed by my naïveté or by how much planning they’ve done without me. “Uh, well, I—”

“We knew how hard this would be for you to plan on your own,” Gianna says. “And since Constance and I have been in Winter Park for so long, we thought it’d be easier if we just took the reins.”

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