Page 22 of Wildwood

Topher plans to comb through the toolshed that’s behind the house. Later in the afternoon, he’ll take a power nap before fueling up on coffee and heading out for his shift. Our day diverges from here, essentially for the next twenty-four hours. Even then he’ll be sleeping while I’m awake, our paths crossing ever so briefly in the afternoon before he heads out for the next shift. It’s only been a week of this, but it’s challenging. Mostly for him, of course, but also for me. It’s hard not working, not yet having a baby to occupy my time, not yet with a group of friends to have coffee with. But maybe that will change now. I think I’ll ask Madeline to take a walk sometime.

Chapter 18

The next month passes in the slow, meandering way summer passes when you are a kid. The days are hot. I cool down in the river, luxuriating in the plunge pool. On Topher’s days off, we have lunch on the back deck, take long walks on the dirt road, and pop into town for iced lattes at Elevation Brews. At night, we sit on the back porch, watching fireflies in the meadow, bats swooping for mosquitoes in the black sky. We talk about travel, about Vermont, about the Brooks. We add to the baby name list, we deduct from the baby name list. Right now, Sawyer and Brody are top for boys’ names. Isla and Mathilde for girls’ names. These times with Topher have an almost magical quality to them and I get a glimpse of what our life will be like up here. But they are too few and far between, and I feel a distance from him that I’ve never felt before.

The days after a night shift can be lonely. I flick through Ezra’s journals, from time to time, hoping that something will jump out, give me a picture of who he is and what he could have done. But so far, there’s nothing of note. His life appears to have been simple. Each day full of mundane but necessary tasks. It also appears he led a solitary life, with the exception of visits from Vera and Mathilde, and the summers my grandmother and I spent at Wildwood. Until we stopped coming. I found the journals from that period of time, when I would have been eight, nine, ten years old, hoping that he might have documented what happened. But nothing.

Sweltering heat. Collected the berries. Day one of bailing. Ted came by to help. Girls swam in the river.

Aside from that, there is little mention of friends or a social life, and far fewer references to the Brooks than I expected.

Hugo and I take regular walks, usually in the direction toward town, past the Goat Lady’s house. Sometimes I see an old green pickup truck in the driveway, and I wonder who lives there now or if it’s still her. I don’t know if she ever got married or had children.

Sometimes, when she can sneak away from work, Madeline joins and we chat about her work. She asks a lot of questions about my family, about what my mother’s relationship was like with Mathilde, how my mother seemed to view the family drama. It’s cathartic to talk about. Topher’s family is the prototypical family. Two parents, two kids, one dog. A healthy network of cousins, who wrought havoc as children at family gatherings and who now get pleasantly drunk on whiskey and wine at the holidays. No drama, no estrangement. Therefore, I don’t think he really gets it when I talk about my family. I don’t think he comprehends the dismay of suddenly not seeing a member of the family, of not knowing when someone is sick and passes away. Madeline seems to understand though. She also keeps promising to have me over to go through the family documents.

“Just give me some time to pull everything together,” she said.

I’m dying to do this, but I don’t want to be pushy.

“Sure,” I’d replied. “No problem at all.”

Today we are wandering through the fields behind her house. We’ve reached the sheep pen, and Madeline enters to inspect the wool.

“It’s almost time to shear these guys,” she says, standing with hands on hips, looking at her flock appreciatively. “They get so hot at the end of summer, and their wool grows fast so they’ll have plenty come winter.”

From where we stand, I have a view of all three of the Brook homes. Right now, my eyes rest on the farthest one out, Julian and Joan’s contemporary castle. The turret makes me uneasy, and I have the sudden sense that Joan is up there, watching us.

Joan. I essentially haven’t seen her since the dinner. I’d been hoping to run into her on a walk and clear whatever strange air exists between us. But she’s been like a ghost. I only catch brief glimpses of her, walking up Cold Brook Drive as I return from one of my walks. Sitting on an Adirondack chair on her front lawn late into the evening, with a perfect view of Wildwood below.

“Madeline,” I say slowly, pulling my gaze back to the Brook in front of me, a streak of mud on her face, making her look even more beautiful somehow, more wild. “I know this is a little awkward, but did I by any chance offend Joan at the dinner? I just haven’t really gotten an opportunity to talk to her; I was hoping I might run into her on a walk, but I haven’t seen her at all. I just hope we didn’t get off on the wrong foot . . .” I let my voice trail off as I’m not exactly sure how to phrase this.

She smiles and shakes her head, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “No, not at all. Joan can be a little touchy.”

“Touchy how?”

“Well. She’s always been a little standoffish with me too. To be frank, I think she feels like we disapprove of her because she’s not white and doesn’t come from money. I think she feels like an outsider. Which is completely ridiculous. I mean, you can certainly tell that’s not true.” I’m not sure if she’s referring to the fact that I’m half Chinese or simply suggesting that the idea of them being elitist is absurd.

I get an uncomfortable feeling in my gut, as I can understand how Joan would feel that way. I feel that way at times. As down-to-earth as Madeline tries to present herself, their wealth and legacy are all over the place. From the prize agriculture surrounding us, to the Range Rover in the driveway, to the casual way they speak about places like Vail and Positano. And I heard what Stuart said to Joan at the dinner. You aren’t really a Brook. But that doesn’t explain why she’d be abrasive to me. Unless she assumes I’m like the Brooks.

Madeline seems to read my mind. “If you felt she was standoffish with you, well, I probably shouldn’t be going around talking about this, but since you asked. Joan has had a series of miscarriages. She and Julian are devastated. I think knowing you are pregnant touches a nerve.”

“Oh.” That I can understand too. I think about gushing at the dinner, how smug I must have seemed about the ease with which we conceived.

“Yeah. I mean, obviously you didn’t do anything wrong. But if I were you, I’d keep a little distance from Joan. It’s probably too painful for her right now. Julian actually wants her to take time off from work because she’s been really struggling emotionally.”

“Sure. I understand.”

“Sometimes I think she regrets leaving New York,” Madeline says, with an almost sad smile on her face.

“Would they ever move back to the city?”

“Oh god, no!” Madeline laughs. “Julian’s been itching to come back ever since he left. He loves it here. I’m pretty sure he intends to die in that house or out in these woods.”

She glances toward the contemporary and shakes her head. “Besides, we really need him here at the company. We hope to go public soon.”

“Congratulations,” I say, marveling again at the sheer ambition of this family.

“Thank you.” Madeline’s eyes meet mine, and there’s an intensity in them that almost causes me to look away.