Page 19 of Wildwood

“We did, when I was much younger.”

“Do you mind me asking why you stopped coming up?”

“Oh.” I’m taken aback for a moment. The question feels a tad intrusive, but then again, I guess it’s normal for her to be curious. Her neighbor dies and his long-lost grandniece suddenly moves in.

“To be honest, I think there was some sort of disagreement between my grandmother and her brother. They hadn’t spoken for nearly twenty years. I never knew what happened.” I take a breath before continuing. “And I guess I’ll never know. My grandmother has Alzheimer’s and doesn’t even recognize me anymore, and both my parents have passed away.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Madeline stops walking and looks at me with such empathy that I feel my gut contract. I have so few people I’m close to these days, I realize. She takes my hand. “That’s all . . . well, it’s fucking terrible. I’m so, so sorry.” Hearing her swear makes me smile internally.

When we are introduced to Julian and Joan, I am struck by how different they are from each other, yet also how similar. Julian is a presence. He is physically large, all torso and lean muscle, and exhibits an alpha male masculinity. Joan, on the other hand, is a waif of a woman and lingers behind her husband, looking like she’d rather be elsewhere. It’s not out of shyness, but she almost looks disinterested by her surroundings.

“Sorry we are late.” Julian gives a booming laugh as he steps forward to shake our hands. “And this is my lovely wife, Joan.”

“Hi there.” She doesn’t extend a hand to shake, but stands, one arm wrapped around her waist, as if warding off any sort of physical contact.

Despite their physical differences, there is a coldness to both of them, unlike the rest of the Brook family. And they are clearly the odd family out as far as Cold Brook Drive goes. Their house stands in stark contrast to the old traditional homes of Madeline and John and Stuart and Isabelle. And their interactions with the others feel more formal. Whereas Stuart and Isabelle look at home, Julian and Joan look as though they, too, are guests. I think of how complicated my own family dynamics were, as small as my family was. What on earth must it be like to have generations upon generations of extended families living on the same plot of land? What grudges and grievances must have been formed and been forgiven over the years? Or, more likely, left to fester and grow? It’s hard to even figure out how they are all related. Neither can they, apparently.

“So, you are all cousins of some sort, right?” I asked in the kitchen.

There was a moment’s pause and the Brooks all looked at one another, in almost a bewildered fashion, and laughed.

“Second cousins? Third cousins? First cousins once removed?” John said, shaking his head. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”

When it’s time for dinner, we sit at a long wooden table, illuminated by nearly a dozen white pillar candles. Blown glass apples surround the center candle and are scattered along the table. In the candlelight, the apples seem to glow. Artfully placed among these are platters of grilled steak, cedar-plank salmon, salads of fresh corn and basil, grilled asparagus, loaves of grainy bread. My mouth waters as we take our seats. Bottles of wine are passed around. John names which bottle is from which vineyard. There is a Montecarlo Rosso from Tuscany. A Grenache and Chardonnay from small vineyards in Santa Barbara. A Bourgogne Blanc from a tiny village in France. Topher isn’t a wine guy, but he readily accepts each pour offered to him. He chats easily, his face growing flushed over the course of the meal. The Brooks ask about his work at the hospital, where he went to medical school. He’s good in social situations. I’m usually grateful for this quality in him, but tonight it grates on me a little. I want to be the one making a good impression, but for some reason I’m struggling to enter the conversation.

Julian is now asking Topher how he’s adjusting to taking care of all the property. “Must be quite a change for someone like you,” he says with a wink, before taking a long drink from his whiskey glass. I can’t tell if there’s a jab in the statement.

“Oh, it’s definitely a change, not going to lie. But I’m enjoying tackling different projects. It’s a nice change from the hospital life.” Topher answers easily, not noticing or not caring about the “someone like you.”

“And what about you, Elinor? What do you do for work?” asks John.

“I was in financial technology, but now I’m taking some time off. It seemed like the right time, with the move and the baby.” It’s a vague answer, but essentially the truth.

“You won’t regret it,” says Madeline. “Honestly, I wish I had taken more time with my kids.”

“Thank you,” I say earnestly. It’s hard to not like Madeline. Even though she clearly lives on another planet as most, a planet where everyone walks around wearing cashmere tank tops in the summer, she’s still been so warm and welcoming to Topher and me. I had assumed all the Brooks would be insufferable rich people, yet they’ve been the opposite.

“But you’ve achieved so much. I have to admit, I spent some time on the Cold Brook Wool and Cashmere website, and your family’s company . . . what a legacy.” I look at her admiringly.

“Do you follow Madeline on Instagram?” asks John. “She’s quite the influencer.”

Madeline rolls her eyes. “I’m too old to be an influencer, dear.” But she clearly looks pleased with the comment.

“Her cashmere line has revolutionized the company,” continues John. “She’s even got celebrities wearing her products.”

I can’t help but notice Julian’s face twitch. He has the aura of a man who is used to being the center of attention, with his muscular build and easy confidence. Joan catches me watching and there’s a distinct lack of friendliness in her eyes. Now that I think about it, she’s barely spoken during the meal.

“What about you guys?” I ask, looking at Julian and Joan. “Julian, I know you have an architecture firm. Joan, do you work?” As soon as I ask the question, I wish I had phrased it differently.

“I’m the architect. It’s my firm.” She answers without lifting her gaze, cutting her steak with precise, graceful movements.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I assumed . . .” Fuck, what had I assumed?

“Julian’s the chief operating officer at Wool and Cashmere.”

If she hadn’t liked me before, she certainly doesn’t now. How on earth did I get that wrong?

“Oh, right. I did know that, sorry. Baby brain.” I make some vague gesture to suggest my stupidity.