Page 17 of Wildwood

I hear a creak in the doorway. Topher is standing there, two cups of coffee in hand.

“Thank you,” I say, walking over to him. I take a sip, savoring the nutty, slightly bitter taste, the comfort of the ritual.

“How was the rest of your sleep?”

“Fine,” I say, which I think is true. At least I have no memory of dreams from the latter part of the night.

“Today I’m going to try fiddling around with the old lawn mower your uncle had in the barn out back. See if I can get it running.”

I reach out and squeeze his hand. Since moving he’s been throwing himself into projects in a way I hadn’t anticipated. “Look at you, old man Topher.”

“Getting it in while I can,” he says. “Work starts Saturday and it’s going to be grueling. Let’s hope it’s short-lived.” He groans and runs a hand through his hair.

I’m not looking forward to it either. I’m not scared, I just don’t love the thought of nights spent alone, days essentially alone while he sleeps. I’ll probably start talking to myself.

Downstairs, I make myself a piece of toast with raspberry jam for breakfast and eat it standing up, looking out the kitchen window and out over the meadow. Hugo whines at my side, hoping for scraps. At least I’ll have him with me. I give him a piece of crust. It’s another beautiful day. We should go outside.

As I walk through the parlor toward the mudroom to get my shoes, I catch my toe on something hard and sharp. A hot, throbbing pain shoots through my foot. I curse under my breath, knowing what it is.

Sinking down on the floor, I lean over to inspect my foot. My big toe looks a little red but it’s not bleeding. Hugo gives me a look that is a combination of concern and impatience. I sweep my hand carefully across the floorboards until I find that, indeed, one of the old nails is rising up, just as Mr. Warnick had warned.

“You bastard,” I say to the nail and push myself up. I put on some shoes and go down into the basement. The basement is, unsurprisingly, my least favorite place in this house. It has a dirt floor and old stone walls that give off a dank, musty smell. The ceiling is a mess of ancient-looking wiring and ductwork. There are support beams that I suppose have been holding up this house for two hundred years, and while to some that might be a sign of strong craftsmanship, to me feels like tempting fate. Hugo doesn’t even come down here, but he stands guard at the top of the steps.

I walk quickly over to the tool counter to the right of the landing and rummage around for a hammer, trying to avert my eyes from the shadowy corners off the basement, where I’m suddenly afraid I’ll see something horrifying. Damn you, Madeline. I find a large, metal hammer and scurry back up the steps.

I hammer down the nail and then place the tool on a shelf in the mudroom, so I don’t have to go to the basement every time I need it. After all, you never know when you’ll need a hammer in an old house like this.

Chapter 15

I stand in front of the full-length mirror, scrutinizing my reflection. I’m wearing a long black dress, sandals, and a pair of diamond studs Topher had given me for my birthday. I’ve already changed my outfit twice. Tonight is dinner with the Brooks. It’s an impossible gathering to dress for. A dinner with wealthy strangers on the thousand-acre homestead. High heels or Birkenstocks? One could make a case for either.

“Is it too much?” I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.

Topher pops his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. “No. You look great. And you looked great before. You’ve got to relax—they are just people.” He smiles, which feels a little patronizing. I wonder if all this is easier for him because he simply has more confidence, or easier because he’s more removed. I somehow feel as though I’m representing my mother and my grandmother, and any misstep on my part will reflect on them.

I sigh and turn away from the mirror. I hate myself for caring this much. I certainly had plenty of wealthy peers at Brown, and at work. But in those situations, I found confidence in the fact that I had made it there, too, had literally been accepted as good enough by those institutions. And I had done so without leveraging connections or endowments. In some ways I even felt superior. But now I’m unemployed. And while I’m living on this large estate, I did not grow up here.

At five minutes to seven, we head over to the Brook estate. As we start up the long, winding gravel drive, I keep stumbling as I try to take in everything around me. The houses loom large above us, magnificent against the magenta sky. I hear a lowing noise, and to my left, I see two highland cows on the hillside. I’m surprised I’ve never noticed them before. They are so endearing looking, with their shaggy hair falling in almost rock band fashion into their eyes. To the right, a small stream runs down the hill, presumably meeting up with the river below. The smell of wildflowers mixes with the earthy scent of the cattle, and the air feels simultaneously fresh and heavy.

Up ahead, I notice the outline of a figure coming down the drive. It’s a man, tall, with light blond hair. He wears jeans and a button-up shirt.

“Hello!” he calls, lifting a hand in salute.

“Hi there!”

“I’m John Brook, Madeline’s husband. She sent me down to greet you.”

“So good to meet you. I’m Elinor. This is Topher.” We reach each other and exchange handshakes.

“We are so happy to have you guys over. Let me walk you up.” John turns and gestures for us to follow him up the drive. He talks easily as we walk.

“And that’s Fergus and Angus.”

“The cows?” I try not to sound out of breath. My legs are substantially shorter than John’s, and pregnancy has made me easily winded.

John laughs. “Yes. Wanted to honor their Scottish heritage.”

“I love it,” I say, laughing, and then something clicks in my brain. “But wait, did you say your last name was Brook?” As soon as the words are out, I’m not sure I should have sounded so surprised.