Page 13 of Wildwood

“I don’t actually know. Ezra left it at my office back in the spring, when the doctors told him he was terminal. He left a note, saying to give it to you. I called him to ask what it goes to, but he never called back. I kept meaning to stop by but—” His voice breaks and he smiles uncomfortably. “I’m so sorry. I just didn’t get around to it. I thought I had more time.”

I shake my head. “Please don’t apologize. You’ve clearly been so good to my family.” I glance down at the key and force a smile. “It will just be a little mystery finding out where it goes.” The key is heavy and solid in my hand, too large to be a duplicate of the house key or belong to a safe-deposit box.

He nods. “Okay then,” he says and tips his hat, exuding an old-fashioned formality.

I watch him disappear into the drizzle and realize I’m clenching the key in my fist, as though I’m scared someone will take it. Because the key feels important, and not just because of the sturdiness of it. It must go to something important if Ezra made a point to leave it for me. And I intend to find out what that is.

Chapter 11

It is a gorgeous summer day, the air buttery and warm. Topher and I are sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, and eating scrambled eggs and toast. It is our one-week anniversary at Wildwood, and the skies have finally cleared.

“I know I should feel guilty about drinking coffee, but I don’t,” I say, yawning. “I’ve been sleeping so deeply since being here, I think I’d be a zombie if I didn’t.” It’s true, ever since moving in, I’ve been sleeping deeply, and with vivid dreams. I can’t remember them once I’ve woken, but I wake with that sense of something visceral having just happened.

“It’s that country air,” says Topher. “I’ve been sleeping like the dead too.”

He pushes his chair back and stands to clear the table. “But all the literature I’ve seen says a cup a day is fine. Don’t worry about it. Hey, I’m off to Home Depot to pick up some items. Want to come?”

Topher hasn’t shaved since moving in and he’s worn nothing but T-shirts for the past week. It’s quite a change from the grown-up chinos and button-up shirts he normally wore commuting to the hospital. He looks good, like he is finally letting himself relax for the first time in a long time. I reach out to take his hand.

He smiles and asks, “Is that a yes?”

Normally I wouldn’t mind a trip to Home Depot, but I am dying to get out and explore the property. “No thanks. If you don’t mind, I’m going to hang out here and walk through the orchard and into the woods a bit. We used to play there as kids. I remember this stone foundation where we used to play games.”

“Fine, but don’t be upset if I come home with a trunk full of power tools. Not my fault if you aren’t there to rein me in.”

“Just don’t come back with a tractor.”

“Can’t promise that.” He smiles and heads toward the front door.

After breakfast, I take a quick, piping hot shower, pull on a pair of leggings and a loose top, strap on my Garmin, and run my fingers through my damp hair.

As I scrutinize myself in the floor-length mirror in the bedroom, I am struck by the image of me against the backdrop of the mural. I’m hardly the height of fashion, but still, I look anachronistic against the nineteenth-century painting.

Before heading downstairs, I grab the key from my underwear drawer, where I’ve been keeping it, along with a few of the journals. Thus far I’ve been unsuccessful in finding out where the key goes. I spent a solid two hours the other day wandering through the house, fitting the key into anything that resembled a keyhole. It doesn’t go to the basement, not to the many cupboards and closets, not to any of the wooden chests, of which there are six and mainly contain blankets and linens. Maybe it goes to one of the outbuildings. If I have enough energy, I’ll explore those. But my priority is the woods.

Once out in the driveway, I veer right toward the orchard. The grass is a vibrant green thanks to the week of rain, and in need of mowing. The blades come up to my shins as I meander through the fruit trees. There are peaches, pears, and apples, all nearing ripeness. I realize that I have no idea if these trees require fertilizer or pruning. As I have multiple times since moving in, I feel a wave of panic over the enormity of this property, and the work that will go along with it.

We’ve told ourselves we’ll go easy this summer. Mow the lawn closest to the house, maybe mow a few paths we think we’ll use, weed if the perennial gardens begin to look too unwieldy.

Once past the trees, I enter the woods and walk slowly over the pine-needle-covered forest floor, ensuring that I can always see the road on my left fifteen yards away. I navigate over moss-covered rocks and the farther in I go, the more familiar the woods become, each step feeling more and more like one I’ve taken before. After walking for ten minutes, I come to a clearing and upon an old foundation. One whole side is fully deteriorated and the other three are crumbling, and overgrown with roots and ferns, but it is undeniably the remains of a very old structure.

“Oh my god,” I say to no one. I wasn’t sure if the foundation was a figment of my imagination, but here it is.

I ease myself down one of the side walls and slowly walk the perimeter, one hand dragging across the cool, moss-covered stones. The crumbling walls had been the perfect backdrop for childhood games with Tom and Anna. We used to pretend the foundation was a fort, taking turns being defenders and invaders. It also formed the perfect boundary for blind-man’s buff. We had tiptoed within the small square space, squealing with delight anytime someone narrowly missed the blind man’s eager, outstretched hands, always calling out “wall!” before the person could hit the wall. I can’t believe it’s really here.

I am lost in thought, when I hear the sharp crack of a twig snapping, followed by the almost audible sound of stillness, like someone holding their breath. A few yards off, something catches my eye. A mother deer and her fawn stand a few yards away, the mother’s front leg bent gracefully and frozen in midair. The deer stare back at me with liquid, black eyes. I expect them to run off, white tails flashing, but instead they regard me for a few moments and then slowly walk off, tawny coats almost immediately disappearing into forest. Just a deer, I think to myself, smiling. But then I hear the crack of twigs again, from the direction the deer had come from, followed by something akin to laughter.

“Hello?” I call, heart suddenly a hair faster than a moment ago.

A bird takes off from somewhere in the forest, and I hear the flurry of wings.

“Hello?”

But nothing is there.

It’s just the sounds of the forest, you city girl.

From here I turn right and head away from the road, deeper into the woods. I lose track of time as I walk, but I’m not worried about getting lost. I know that at some point I’ll hit the river.