Page 41 of Wildwood

“Topher, you look like you have a good eye; would you mind grabbing a photo of the three of us?”

Madeline reaches into the folds of her dress and produces a slim phone.

“Oh, sure.”

Madeline stands between Kyle and me, positions her body ever so slightly at an angle and smiles broadly.

“Everyone say ‘harvest fest’!” Madeline laughs and throws her head back in a way that tells me she knows exactly how she’ll look in this photo.

“Harvest fest!” Kyle and I chorus. I smile stupidly and my husband snaps the picture.

* * *

An hour later, Topher is chatting easily with a few men our age. Their laughter mingles with the peppy sounds of fiddle and mandolin from the live bluegrass quartet. There are women my age, but I’m not interested in meeting them. I have struck up conversations with several of the silver- and white-haired guests. People have, for the most part, seemed delighted to chat with me. They are intrigued by any flatlander moving into a small town in Vermont, eager to share their own stories of the big cities they visited or lived in for a stint, equally eager to share why Newfield is superior in the end. At first, I tried delicately asking how certain it is that Newfield Village was settled in 1771. To this I was largely met with shrugs of “as far as we know, yes.” I tried asking another group if there were any historic logs on murders and executions. A man with red muttonchops holding a beer stein slung his arm around me and chortled, “How’s that for a conversation starter! My god, aren’t you a morbid one?” I need a new tactic.

Now I wander over to an older couple, who have taken up residence in front of a fountain, which upon closer inspection, appears to contain a sparkly, bubbly liquid.

The older man holds a glass under a stream of liquid and fills it. His face is ruddy.

“It’s a little excessive, isn’t it?” his wife asks me. But she fills her glass as well. “It’s hard cider. Want to fill up?”

“No, thank you, I’m pregnant. Allegedly this is nonalcoholic mead.” I take a sip and smile. There actually is a pleasantly fuzzy feeling in my head.

“I’m Elinor,” I say. “My husband and I just moved in next door.”

“I’m Lucy Acton. This is Simon.”

Simon raises his glass by way of introduction and then drains it in nearly one go.

“Do either of you know an Alice Clark?” I ask. “I’m hoping to meet her and was wondering if she’d be here tonight.”

“Alice . . .” Lucy’s eyes flick back and forth as she thinks.

“She lives right down the street from here.”

“Ah right.” Lucy nods. “Yes, I know who she is though I don’t personally know her. I think she occasionally sells products at the farmers’ market. Goat cheese maybe. She’s a bit strange, I think. Can’t imagine her at a party if I’m being honest.”

“Oh. Darn. Thanks anyway.” I sip my drink, frustrated.

“Well, tell us your story, Elinor.” Lucy smiles, leaning against the fountain.

I tell them about inheriting Wildwood, convincing my husband to move up here.

“What about you both?” I quickly scan over the people at party, wondering where said husband is, before settling my eyes back on Lucy Acton.

She tells me they are Newfield born and raised, and that she is a former sociology professor at the University of Vermont. My breath catches, and I try not to look too pleased to hear this. I ask a few conversational questions. What was her focus? Gender dynamics. Even better. Was she more focused on research or teaching? Teaching. I can’t believe I’ve been given such a natural entry point.

“Did you ever study mass hysteria?”

“Yes.” She gives me a curious smile.

“Did you get into the Salem witch trials?”

“Of course. That’s one of the best examples of gender-based mass hysteria.”

I could practically kiss Lucy Acton right now.

“That’s so interesting.” I shake my head, beaming like a maniac. “I’ve always been fascinated by the witch trials. I used to live in Massachusetts, after all. I’ve been curious to learn about witch trials in Vermont. I’m a writer and would love to do a piece on local lore. Is it right that there was just one trial, Widow Turner?” It comes out in a rush, and I take a deep breath and try to smile casually.