Page 7 of Wildwood

“The pièce de résistance,” says Mr. Warnick. “This mural was painted by Rufus Porter, an itinerant painter who traveled across the country painting images of towns and landscapes on the walls of old, grand homes. It really is a treasure.” He looks around appreciatively.

“El, do you remember this?”

Visceral memories seemed to come untethered from some place deep in my mind. I remember sneaking up to this room with Tom and Anna to pretend we were deer or bears in the forest. I also remember feeling, as I do right now, that the mural was eerie. It was supposed to be peaceful, I assume, but something about the trees, with their faded, muted colors and their twisted branches made me feel as though something was lurking just out of sight. How did I not remember this before?

“Yes . . . I do . . . I . . .” I say walking up to inspect the wall, my voice faltering, searching for something that doesn’t make me sound too uncultured, too millennial. “It’s clearly a remarkable piece of history.”

“I know, it’s a bit much. Ezra didn’t even sleep in this room, so perhaps it was too much for him too. He told me you should paint over it.” Mr. Warnick sounds a bit disbelieving at this.

“Seriously?” I hardly can say I knew my great-uncle, but from the reverence he clearly placed on heirlooms, it seems crazy he’d suggest painting over a mural of historical significance. “Isn’t it protected by some historical society or something?”

“Nope. You are free to do what you want with it. That said, you’d first need to move that little trinket by the wall.”

He’s pointing to an enormous, dark wooden wardrobe. It’s the only other piece of furniture in the room, aside from a four-poster bed, and looks as though it weighs a thousand pounds.

“Better hit the gym.” I wink at Topher as I walk past him out of the room. “Let’s see the rest of the upstairs.”

We tour the rest of the floor, a long, tilting hallway of bedrooms and closets, yet my mind keeps returning to The Forest of the Dead, and I wonder how great of a crime it would be to paint over the Rufus Porter mural with a can of Benjamin Moore.

Chapter 5

The kitchen table has a large knot on one end. I sit now, tracing my finger around the smooth, curving wood, just as I did when I was a kid, eating scrambled eggs in this same place.

“From Newfield’s finest,” says Mr. Warnick, handing out pastries he brought from a local bakery. I take a mammoth-size cinnamon roll, heaped with frosting.

“I read up on Newfield Village after I got your phone call. The area was first settled in the l770s?” I take a bite from the cinnamon roll. It’s delicious. Sweet and spicy.

Mr. Warnick nods while swallowing his bite, wiping nonexistent crumbs from his pale hands. “Yes. The Village dates itself to 1771, but there’s not a ton by way of official records. It’s hard to get an accurate picture, as most of the land is private property and has been for hundreds of years.”

“So that means my ancestors on the Bishop side were the actual first settlers here?”

“Among the first settlers, correct. It makes you not quite a Mayflower family, but close to it around here.” He smiles. “I’m afraid I don’t have much greater detail than that, but the town historical society would. Your neighbors, by the way, are the Brook family, and they’ve also been here since the beginning. They are something of town legends.”

I smile, curious. “How so?”

“Well, first of all, they are one of the country’s oldest wool producers. They both breed the sheep and process the wool itself. They still employ a large number of Newfield residents at the mill and have always been one of the area’s biggest employers.”

“That’s wonderful,” I say.

“Oh, but there’s more,” says Mr. Warnick, relishing, I think, in being the bearer of gossip. “Are you familiar with the Kardashians?”

I choke back a laugh. That was quite literally the last thing I would have expected Mr. Warnick to ask.

“Um . . . yes?”

“The Brooks also produce cashmere and one of their products is some sort of hooded scarf thing. Kim Kardashian was spotted wearing one and it was all over Instagram and uh . . . um . . .” Mr. Warnick casts about looking frustrated.

“TikTok?” I supply.

“Yes!” He gives a little triumphant clap. “TikTok!”

Topher and I exchange quick smiles. There is no way this buttoned-up, white-haired man has actually been on TikTok. I’ve barely been on TikTok.

Mr. Warnick glances at his watch and clears his throat, a little awkwardly. “Care to see your uncle’s headstone?”

“Of course.” I give a small, solemn smile, though I’d rather sit talking about the Brooks. While I don’t own a single piece of cashmere, I am curious about this family that has lived in Newfield as long as my own.

“We can go out the side, through the conservatory.” He leads us back through the large living room and down through a dark hall, at the end of which is a glass door. He opens it and I am met with the thick smell of plants.