Page 20 of Wildwood

“It’s fine,” she says. “I’m used to it.” She smiles curtly and goes back to eating.

Topher asks Joan what she’s working on, and the conversation continues on. But I can feel Julian watching me, and I swear I can see the faint upturn of a smirk on his face. I think he enjoyed seeing me flounder in front of his wife.

We have after-dinner drinks in the parlor, a massive room with rose-colored walls and enough art to outfit a small museum. Julian immediately pours Topher a whiskey and leads him to a set of club chairs by the fire. So I join Stuart and Isabelle, who sit huddled together on a love seat, sipping icy vodka martinis with tiny onions. The topic of skiing had come up, and Stuart is regaling us with stories of his younger years. Apparently, he once flew an Olympic skier to Banff, where Stuart’s alma mater was having a reunion. Not wanting to be shown up by his classmates, Stuart hired the gold medalist to give him one-on-one lessons for a week.

“Best money I ever spent.” He winks at me, his martini precariously raised in a toast to himself.

I laugh good-naturedly but make a mental note to share this story with Topher later. Even though I genuinely like the Brooks, or most of them at least, it doesn’t mean I’m above sharing ridiculous stories like this with my husband. The wealthy have no idea how rich they are.

I clear my throat, preparing to change the topic. “Stuart, I know you knew my uncle. But I was wondering, did you know my grandmother much, as well? Her name is Mathilde.”

Stuart nods his head. “Sure, sure. I knew Mathilde. We all grew up together, practically. She, Ezra, my brothers and cousins and me. We caused a fair bit of trouble for our parents, let me tell you.” He leans in, conspiratorially.

I smile, picturing them running wild, like Tom, Anna, and I did. Bare feet, tanned summer skin.

“How is she?” he asks, both he and Isabelle peering at me with almost identical expressions.

“Oh. Um. Not great,” I say, through the lump that’s suddenly in my throat. “She has Alzheimer’s. Her memory is . . .” My voice trails off.

“I know, such a terrible disease to watch someone go through,” Madeline says, sitting down next to me and handing me a peppermint tea.

“I’m just so happy you are here,” she continues and proceeds to tell me about all the things we have to look forward to, living in Newfield Village. The harvest party in the fall, maple sugaring in the spring.

“It’s incredible your family has been here so long,” I say. “To have such history here.”

“It’s your history too,” Madeline says, smiling.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I say slowly. It doesn’t feel like my history. I don’t know the Bishop lore, I don’t know the names of those who pioneered here, long ago, nor the ones who built Wildwood into what it became. Those who flourished in the boom of a young country. I identify as the daughter of an immigrant. My father came here from China as a teenager. He worked nose to the grindstone in school and at his family’s restaurant. He navigated a foreign land to become something. Someone who could support a family. Who saved every penny to send his daughter to a top university.

“You are like family,” she says, seeming to read my mind. “Our ancestors go back hundreds of years. If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

It’s so tempting, in this moment, to want to lean into this. To just become Elinor Bishop, daughter of a founding family, friend to American royalty. But something feels unsettling about that, as well. When Madeline looks at me, does she truly see me as one of her kind? Do I even want her to?

“Actually, there is one thing that would be helpful. Do you know if your family or mine documented the history of the area?”

Madeline seems to consider this a moment before replying, “Not officially, unfortunately. Much of what I know is simply just from family stories, old photographs, old newspaper articles. I have been meaning to compile it all into an official record. Maybe in retirement. Any reason in particular?”

I smile and clear my throat. “I’m just really curious about the area. I hadn’t seen my uncle since I was a child, and since my parents are gone, I would just love to learn more about the family history.”

“Well, I’d be happy to share some old photographs with you sometime and give you the history as I’ve heard it.”

“That would be wonderful.” I smile, feeling one step closer to learning about my family.

After a while, I feel the pregnancy fatigue hit fast. It’s amazing how tired I get these days. I feel like I could sleep fifteen hours a day and still feel exhausted. Topher and Julian, still apparently invested in conversation, are standing in front of a large wood cabinet, so I walk up to tap my husband on the back.

“Topher, we should probably get go—” As he turns around, I see that he’s holding a gun. A revolver. It’s shiny and black and looks almost retro. Assassin-like. I can’t help but recoil a bit. I hate guns. A hunting rifle is one thing, but a handgun? Topher gives me a childishly happy smile.

“Look how gorgeous this is. Julian just got it.”

“It’s a Manurhin MR73. Originally designed for the French Gendarmerie. Do you know much about guns, Elinor?”

“No, can’t say that I do. I don’t mind hunting rifles. I think we saw you in the woods when we first came to see Wildwood. Do you hunt frequently?”

He smiles, eyes slightly narrowed. “Yes, Elinor, I am an avid hunter. All the Brooks are.”

“He’s more than avid.” John appears beside Julian and slaps his back. “He is the animal whisperer. You should see him out there in the woods, in his element; it’s a thing of beauty. The deer flock to him. He helped me get that stag just last year.”

John points up to a mounted eight-point buck, the horns long and curved, the eyes blank and glassy.