Chapter 5
THE WEEK HAS GONE BY IN A BLUR. THE SUN HAS SHONE EVERY DAY, chasing away the dark corners in the house. And the wind has gone, so the windows have stopped rattling, the house stopped groaning, and I’ve settled in comfortably.
I’ve been writing every day and jogging around the lake every morning, enjoying the solitude and working out the details of my novel in the process. It’s coming more into focus, the characters gaining more life, and I’m feeling better about it than I have in a long time.
Maybe Alex’s support is giving me the confidence I’ve always struggled with.
And, so far, no phone calls except one from Ruth inviting me to dinner tonight and one from Alex making sure I’m settled and don’t need anything.
I saw him on TV yesterday on a talk show discussing his new book, which releases soon.
I still can’t believe that he and I are related, let alone father and daughter.
I do know he’s not a saint. He left my mother alone and pregnant when she was still a teenager.
But I don’t have anyone else, and I wonder if by inviting me into his life, he’s trying to make up for what he did to her when he was young.
The lake road runs in a loop, and two trips around give me the miles that make up my usual morning run.
The air is chilly, and my breath makes clouds of steam as I push through the second loop.
A breeze has come up and the trees rustle on the banks of the lake, where deep blue water laps the shore.
The fragrance of pine mingles with the scent of rotting leaves and the dead things that usher in autumn.
Cheshire Lake still feels foreign after living in towns my whole life, but I’m slowly finding a sense of peace here in nature that I’d only read about in literature like Thoreau’s essays.
There’s something soothing here amongst the towering trees, benign in the daylight if a little inscrutable in the shadows at night.
As I round a bend, I see Ruth, her arm through Simon’s, walking slowly toward me. They’re bundled up in sensible jackets, a tweed newsboy’s cap on Simon’s head, while Ruth sports a colorful scarf over her silver hair like an old-school movie star.
I stop as I near them. “Good morning.” I wave.
Ruth’s cheeks are red. She smiles around white, even teeth. “Hello, Emma. We’ve been missing our morning walk lately. Simon’s arthritis has been acting up, but we thought we’d attempt it today.”
“It’s a nice day.” I look up at the sun, which is trying to peek out from a light cloud cover. “Despite the cold.”
“Yes.”
Simon blinks behind his glasses, leans on his cane with one withered hand, and points a trembling finger at me with the other. “What did you say your name was?”
“Emma, dear,” Ruth answers. “You met her the other day,” she says firmly.
Ruth’s forehead furrows. “We better get home. My nephew Larry is coming in from New York today to spend the weekend.” She glances at her husband.
“Simon gets a kick out of him. Anyway”—she puts her hand on my arm—“don’t forget dinner tonight. Six o’clock.”
“I’ll be there and thank you.” They move off. I lean over, stretch my calves before continuing my run.
Ruth wants me to meet all the Cheshire Lake neighbors, so at five o’clock, I close my laptop and get ready for the evening.
I’m anxious. A dinner party with strangers is near the top of my list of things I avoid like the plague, a remnant of my mother’s suspicions of people that I’ve never completely shaken.
And while the week has gone well, smoothly enough, I’m still settling in, getting used to being alone in the big house.
But I can’t say no, not to Ruth, who’s been so kind.
So, I head upstairs and slip out of my jeans and faded hoodie, and get into nicer clothes, my old work attire, dark pants and a blue sweater.
I free my long hair from its ponytail, brush it out, and rub a little blush into my cheeks.
I assess myself in the mirror; satisfied, I head next door.
The lights are all on and welcoming at the Harwoods’ house.
I hand Ruth a clutch of fall flowers I’d picked up in town yesterday.
Laughter echoes from the dining room, where people are standing near the formally set table.
I want to slip into my usual observer mode.
Groups of people instill in me a desire to be that proverbial fly on the wall, my writer mode, my friends say.
But I step forward, paste a smile on my face.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Ruth asks, walking toward the sideboard where bottles are sitting next to fine stemware.
“Yes, please. Red if you have it.”
“Of course.”
A fortyish couple laugh at something a dark-haired man said. They notice me and turn. Ruth comes up beside me and hands me a glass.
“Everyone, this is Emma Shrader. She’s a relative of Alex’s and is staying at Spencer House. I think I mentioned that, but just in case. Emma, this is Noah Cole, he lives on your other side.”
Noah extends his hand. “Nice to meet you.” He is probably midthirties. Dark hair, a little long, curling over his collar, close-cut facial hair, a tad professorial looking, but a nice smile for all that.
Aubrey and Dale introduce themselves. She’s bubbly and pretty with a shoulder-length blond bob. He’s blond, too. They look more like siblings than husband and wife.
Simon enters the room. His gray hair is neatly combed back and gelled, as if wisps might try to break free. He’s wearing an oxford shirt and a little bow tie.
Ruth glances toward the hallway as a man, fiftyish, walks through the doorway close behind Simon. “Well, now everyone’s here. This is my nephew, Larry,” she announces. “Most of you know him already.”
Larry is wide with a stomach that leans over the belt buckle of his black slacks. He’s stocky and reminds me of a bulldog. His nose is red, his hair a wiry gray and sparse. “Hello, everybody.” He waves.
“Shall we get started?” Ruth asks.
We take our seats. The multilayered chandelier glistens overhead reflecting off the white china. I find myself sitting next to Noah with Larry on my other side. Aubrey and Dale sit across from me. Ruth heads toward the kitchen.
“Need help?” Aubrey calls.
“No, thank you. I’ve got Jeffrey.”
A young man, early twenties maybe, eyes downcast, enters with a platter of rolls.
He’s dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans as if he’d just come inside from chopping wood.
He sets the rolls on the table and quickly follows Ruth back into the kitchen, as if he’s afraid someone will engage him in a conversation.
“So, Emma,” Noah says. “What brings you to our little enclave?”
I sip water from a cut-glass tumbler and clear my throat.
“I was living in Albany, but my mother died recently, and I decided that I needed a change. Alex offered me the house and I thought it would be a good place to consider my options.” And hide from my ex-husband and the men who are after us.
And I don’t mention that I’m actually attempting to write a novel in Alex Spencer’s own house. I fidget with my napkin.
“Sorry about your mom, but this is a good place to unwind, ‘consider your options,’” Noah says.
“Yes. It’s so peaceful here.”
Simon nods absently, his eyes on me as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“I know I like to come up here and kick back from time to time,” Larry says, his accent clearly New York City. “I like to visit my old buddy here.” He taps Simon’s arm. “And Auntie too, of course.” Larry reaches for a roll.
“It’s a beautiful area, remote and pristine for the most part,” Noah says. “I’m usually here on the weekend if you need anything. I stay in Boston during the week, although I’ve been thinking of selling my townhouse and moving up here permanently. I’m getting tired of the traffic.”
Aubrey laughs playfully. “You’ve been saying that for two years, Noah.”
“Yeah, I know.” He throws her a stern look. Then softens it with a smile.
Ruth and Jeffrey return with serving plates of steaming food.
“Nice spread, Ruth,” Dale says.
Ruth smiles and takes her place at the head of the table. “Thank you, Jeffrey.” The young man retreats to the kitchen. A rare London broil takes center stage, accompanied by rosemary potatoes, broccolini, and a salad. It looks like Ruth does more than bake.
The conversation starts around the weather as if this disparate group of people have little in common or too much that they don’t want to talk about.
I learn that the Thompsons are a business team as well as husband and wife.
He’s a residential property developer and she’s a real-estate agent.
Larry heaps food on his plate and periodically pauses mid-chew to compliment Ruth.
Noah sits quietly at my side, adding a short comment or two occasionally, but letting the others dominate the discussion.
“So, Ruth, have you thought any more about our offer?” Dale says, slicing into his London broil.
Her gaze shoots to Simon, who struggles to cut his food. “I’ve told you, Dale, that Jeffrey can live in the cottage as long as he wants. It’s in the will. We won’t sell it out from under him.” Her lips purse.
I wonder about Jeffrey. He quickly darted from the room as soon as Ruth thanked him for his help. There was no offer to join us, but it seemed to me that Jeffrey had no desire to stay anyway, as if he couldn’t get away from everyone fast enough.
Aubrey sets her fork on the table. “With the money you’d make from the sale, Jeffrey could live anywhere he wants.”
“So you can build four McMansions on that acre? No thank you. Jeffrey is quite content where he is.”
“Just think about it, Ruth.” Dale shakes his head. “You and Simon aren’t getting any younger. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a few million in the bank account? Health care costs are out of sight.”
Larry’s small, round eyes cut in Ruth’s direction.
“Money is not an issue,” Ruth states. “Besides, Simon’s lived here his whole life. I don’t intend to go changing things up on him now. And we don’t want to look out on our lake and see a bunch of ugly new homes crowding out the trees and wildlife.”
“Who did she say she was?” Simon’s voice is unnaturally loud, cutting through the conversation. He’s looking at me.
Ruth pats his arm. “Emma, dear. Alex’s relative.”
He shakes his head. “No. That other woman who was here.”
“No other woman was here, Simon.”
Aubrey bites her lips, shifts her eyes to her husband, whose gaze meets hers.
“At the house. At Alex’s.” Simon scratches his head. “She came to see Alex.” He points at me with his knife.
Ruth’s lips thin and she smiles at me before turning to her husband. “You’re thinking of the woman who came to interview Alex the last time he was here. She had long brown hair, too. No, this is Emma.” Ruth takes the knife from his hand. “Let me cut that for you.”
“So, Emma, how long are you staying?” Noah asks, breaking the odd tension that had descended around the table.
I clear my throat. “I’m not sure. I’m working on a project, and I’ll see how it goes.
” And I’ve got an interview lined up in Portland, so we’ll see about that, too.
If I’m staying in New England, I’ll need a job before too long.
The money from the sale of my mother’s house isn’t going to last forever.
Thinking about this possible new life steadies me, takes me away from this table, these people.
“What is it? Your project?”
I feel heat rush to my face. “Well … some writing I’ve been working on.”
“Runs in the family then,” he says.
I listen with relief as the conversation switches back to the weather and the coming winter. Ruth is talking to a new company about plowing the lake road, the old company having not been up to snuff.
I sit quietly and listen to the sometimes-stilted conversation while the wind rattles the glass in the old windows. It feels like the nice weather we had all week might be moving out.