Gabrielle, who we called Gator, was the youngest. Her husband, Richie, did credit card payment processing for huge retail and restaurant chains. They lived in Greenwich and had a boat.
My mother had no shame about encouraging her daughters to marry for “lifestyle.” It’s not that she didn’t believe in love, she told us. It’s just “foolish” to fall in love with a man who can’t take care of you. Because, as she put it, If you don’t love your lifestyle, inevitably you will fall out of love with your man. She told us this because she genuinely believed it. And based on the choices they had made, it appeared my sisters believed it, too.
But I was the middle child, so I had to do things my way. I had a romantic vision of finding a man with potential and shepherding him toward greatness. I wanted a man who wasn’t fully cooked, so that when he bloomed into a magnificent soufflé, I could take credit for helping him rise. I confess my ego was wrapped up in this fantasy. But I also wasn’t attracted to the kind of man whose idea of creating was using money to make more money. I needed someone with more interesting abilities than that.
My mother warned me that marrying Andy might not turn out like I had hoped. It’s not that she didn’t like him, she just wasn’t a fan of unnecessary risks. She reminded me there were plenty of “established” men to love, and even schemed to introduce me to some.
But in the end, I followed my ego and my heart. Mine was the only wedding of the three where my mom cried. And I was the only granddaughter who got a diamond—and we all knew it wasn’t because I was grandma’s favorite.
So now, as predicted, we were dangling out on a ledge. But my husband was smart. And my kids didn’t need concert tickets or a trip to Disneyland to be entertained.
“Suddenly, the princess spied something strange and magical,” Andy said. “It was big and red and had three times as many wheels as any chariot she had ever seen.”
“A fire truck!” Tatum bellowed, and we all laughed.
“That’s right! A fire truck,” Andy confirmed. As the girls hung on his every word, something stirred deep in my belly. It had been a long time, but I recognized it as desire.
And I knew—even though times were tough—I had made the right choice.
CHAPTER 32
I had to find out how he died.
Holly said that he’d been killed, and that it was her landlord who did it. I decided not to tell her who her landlord was, at least not yet. The idea that Jack Kimball was a murderer seemed positively insane. And if it was true, did I even want to know? My husband had just signed a life-changing contract with him. If I was smart, I would just keep my mouth shut and forget all about it.
But I couldn’t.
So how was I going to find out how Holly’s husband had died? I didn’t even know his name. Solving puzzles was my husband’s superpower. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell him what Holly had just told me, not with a million-dollar contract on the line. I would have to find out for myself.
I recalled the day when Andy found out Holly was a widow. He had started sleuthing, but I had interrupted and so he stopped. I’m not the jealous type, but Holly was a bombshell, and he likely—rightfully—felt self-conscious taking an interest in her past. I trusted he had abandoned the investigation. Under normal circumstances, any wife would be relieved. But now I wished I’d let him finish the job.
I remembered that he’d been on Savannah’s Instagram, so that’s where I started. Andy had told me Holly’s husband died about three months ago, so I logged on to his daughter’s page and started scrolling backward. After enduring countless mind-numbing selfies, I finally got to her post of May 20 announcing the death of her dad.
I scrolled through the flurry of condolence messages. It was a sea of hearts （Thinking of you） and hug emojis （Sending hugs）。 I was about to give up when I saw a post from someone called Byline_By_Jed:
We honor your dad in this week’s paper, Jed wrote. Hope I got the deets right, hang in there. He included a link. My heartbeat quickened as I clicked.
And there it was. An obituary for the departed Gabriel Monroe Kendrick in the Valley High Times, Savannah’s Van Nuys high school newspaper. There was a picture of the happy family, arms around each other, smiling at the camera. They were dressed up—maybe some sort of concert? Was Savannah in the chorus? The band? Savannah’s hair looked professionally blown out. Holly was in a black wrap dress. The departed husband wore a dress shirt but no tie.
I read the article, savoring every word so as not to miss any details. Our cherished classmate Savannah Kendrick lost her father in a tragic accident last week. The article was dated May 24. Four days after Savannah’s post. The timeline made sense, but there was one discrepancy—Jed wrote that it was an accident, but Holly implied something far more nefarious. I continued reading.