Chapter 4
After a couple of turns, trees close in on both sides of the winding road, their branches dangling overhead, swaying with the wind.
No houses. No buildings. No evidence of people, and I feel alone here in the countryside.
I’ve lived my whole life in one town or another.
Despite my mother’s love of growing things, we’d never lived in the country.
Here the proliferation of trees, the lack of manmade structures, feels almost sinister against the darkening sky.
My eyes sweep the side of the road, looking for the entrance to the Cheshire Lake community.
Then I see the landmark Alex noted on the directions, an old, tilted billboard displaying a faded advertisement, a home-spun restaurant probably long closed.
Vines clutch the side of the billboard and look as if they would pull it down and wrestle it out of existence.
There’s a little opening in the woods just beyond it and I slam on my brakes, turn onto the gravel road. Rocks crunch under my tires and with thick woods on either side, I need to put on my headlights.
Gates appear up ahead. Tall, wrought iron spokes with pointed tops, like some medieval castle lies beyond them.
I stop and roll down my window. Dank, cold air invades the car.
I grab the paper from the center console and punch the number into a black metal box.
With a mechanical whir, the gates slowly swing open.
I take a deep breath. Something about driving through these gates feels like entering a new world, a permanent shift in my life.
Like I’m closing the door on who I used to be and starting as someone new, and the feeling is a little discomfiting, foreboding, like my old self is whispering to me to turn around, leave things the way they are.
I screw up my courage and drive through. The car jounces along the rutted, narrow road.
Rounding a bend, I see something lying in the dirt. A lump near the forest edge. A dead rabbit, his ears laid back. I shiver.
Eventually, the trees thin and the dark, still water of the lake appears up ahead.
The road nearly brings you to its shore before splitting, and the surface smooths to macadam.
Per Alex’s directions, I take a left turn.
Soon, three huge houses come into view, and I let go a breath.
Civilization. I pass the first one, which sits back among the trees, and turn into the driveway of the second house.
Chilly, pine-scented air greets me as I open my car door.
I pull my bags out of the trunk, pause, and look out at the shoreline.
Three docks are spaced evenly there with a small open boat tied to each one, like a matching set, bobbing gently, the water lapping quietly against their hulls.
There’s a small light atop a pole in front of a tall, glaringly white contemporary house across the lake.
It must be the newer house Alex spoke of.
I turn back to Spencer House, a towering Victorian with a wraparound porch studded with white gingerbread trim, like small bones gripping the edges of the house.
It’s hard to make out the color of the clapboards in the encroaching darkness, maybe gray.
Tall windows, like empty eyes, are situated across two floors, and there’s a small, round window in what looks to be an attic.
An ornate turret topped with a weathervane of a running rabbit rises into the murky sky.
Next door, the Harwoods’ house, I presume, is also a large Victorian, similar in build, but it looks more lived-in.
There are plants in pots along the porch railing, not quite frost bitten, but definitely waning.
Outlined in the porch light, two rocking chairs sway slightly in the breeze as if ghost people were sitting there.
I see movement in an upstairs window and wonder if someone is there, watching me. I turn away and clasp my arms together as a gust of cold air flutters under my jacket. Then I swing my laptop bag over my shoulder, grab my suitcases, and head to the Spencer front door.
It takes a minute of jangling the key and the cold knob to get the door open, but it finally swings inward with a sigh.
It’s warmer than I expected as I walk into the foyer.
The heat’s been turned on and there’s a light on down the hall.
I drop my bags on the floor, shut the door, and head toward the light.
The kitchen is distinctly old-fashioned, green painted cabinets and a farmhouse sink that looks original.
The appliances look like antiques, and I hope they work.
On an interior wall is a small door, chest high.
I pull at the handle and it squeaks as it slides up.
A dumbwaiter. I smile. Of course they have a dumbwaiter.
I close the little door and turn to the table.
There’s a note next to a pie sitting there.
Hello Emma,
Alex told us you’d be arriving tonight, so I took the liberty of stocking the fridge. Also, I wanted to leave you one of my famous wild blueberry pies. Please stop by if you need anything at all.
Welcome!
Ruth Harwood
P.S. The upstairs bedroom at the end of the hall has been made up for you.
The writing is a beautiful cursive, like they don’t teach in school anymore, and I’m touched by the kindness of a stranger.
I open the fridge, and despite looking like it came from a fifties movie set, it hums along and is plenty cold.
I find milk, eggs, cheese, bottled water, and other items I can use to put together something of a dinner.
But first, I explore the rest of the house, turning on lights as I move room to room.
In the dining room, a long mahogany table sits beneath a chandelier that glitters with dozens of crystal prisms. The breakfront cabinet holds a delicate china service fit for at least twenty people.
It all looks like something from a hundred years ago, and I wonder if the Spencers still gather here for holidays.
Through a wide, arched doorway, the front room windows look out across the road at the lake.
The furniture is heavy with carved wood accents and deep red velvet upholstery.
A fireplace dominates one wall and sits dark and cold.
There are bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound classics, and there’s a flat-screen nestled among them.
It looks out of place surrounded by old books and antiques.
There’s a door at the far end of the front room and when I walk through, there’s a spot of cold air like people claim they feel when a ghost floats by.
I know it’s the product of an old house, but I shiver just the same.
I flick on the light. This room is obviously Alex’s office.
A large antique desk sits in front of the windows, and office supplies, stacks of computer paper, a cup of pens, and paper clips on a little dish, cover the desktop.
I wheel back the chair and see a power cord snaking underneath.
There are bookshelves in here too, and Alex’s books are lined up on a middle shelf.
Nineteen books. All standing in shiny dust jackets, attesting to my father’s success.
I can’t help but be awed. I picture myself sitting at the big desk, my laptop in front of me, and my spirits rise.
I’ve been working on the same manuscript since college, and my goal is to finally finish it while I’m here at the lake.
I head back to the foyer and notice several portraits hanging in the hall.
The people in them stare back at me, their expressions serious, haughty even.
Some of the paintings look old, the people in them dressed from another era.
But the last one, nearest the staircase, is more modern.
A family group and I recognize a teenage Alex standing next to a stern, tall man who is obviously his father.
They look just alike, strong and powerful in dark blue suits and crisp white button-down shirts.
A woman sits below them on a red settee.
Her blond hair rests in curls on her shoulders.
Dressed in a filmy white gown, she looks as delicate as a flower, her arm around a young dark-haired girl, who sits beside her.
Alex’s sister? I’m anxious to meet everyone.
I sigh. This is my family, the one I’d so longed for as a kid.
On the wall opposite the portraits is a coat closet.
I shrug out of my jacket and hang it up.
There’s a grandfather clock standing alongside the closet, but it’s silent, its pendulum still.
I guess no one’s been here in a while to wind it.
Its moon and stars dial above the clock face look slightly faded and I wonder how old it is.
I grab my suitcases and start up the massive, curving staircase. The wood creaks beneath my feet as I wander down the dim hall, past closed doors. I try a couple of the knobs, but they’re locked. The last door on the right is open to a small bedroom. I feel for the light switch.
The bed is made up with a pink comforter.
The wallpaper is covered with faded rosebuds, and lace curtains hang at the windows, old-fashioned and feminine, and somehow sad, as if whoever lived in this room long ago has never left.
I set my suitcases down and cross the floor to one of the windows.
It looks out on the backyard, which is difficult to see in the encroaching darkness, but I can make out a tangle of trees.