Chapter 3
In the car, we eat breakfast sandwiches and listen to podcasts as the city gradually gives way to Boston suburbs, bleak stretches of highways and off-ramps, and finally, to mountain vistas. Though I haven’t been to Newfield since childhood, the drive feels familiar.
I’ve dozed off to sleep when I feel Topher tapping my knee.
“I think this is it.” He veers off a highway exit.
Instantly awake, I lean forward in my seat, futilely trying to get a faster glimpse of the town. Off the exit, we turn left onto Main Street. There are sidewalks on both sides of the street, which is lined with tall oak trees.
“This is beautiful,” I say, as Topher crawls down the street.
“It’s gorgeous,” he agrees.
Newfield could be in an advertisement for Vermont tourism. An old brick elementary school can be seen on the right. Children in rainboots are playing in a grassy expanse in front of the school, stomping in puddles from what must be early summer showers, laughter audible through the car windows.
“You could always change the emergency medicine course,” I venture. “Become the town doctor. Make sure the kids all have their shots.”
Topher smiles and nods. “Yep. People would call me ‘Doc’ when they run into me at the general store.”
I laugh and feel my heart lift. Maybe he could warm to this idea. We both peer out the windows as we continue down the street.
On the left-hand side is the library, which is housed in a historic old colonial home.
Past that is a small coffee shop called Elevation Brews, and past that is a large brick Georgian, with black shutters and ivy crawling up the sides, the front signage declaring it the Newfield Inn.
The homes that line Main Street all look historic and immaculately maintained, with understated, yet expensive cars sitting in the driveways.
The town is postcard pretty. And affluent.
A confusing mix of emotions swirl in my belly.
Excitement. Awe. And confusion. This is a nice town.
My grandmother was always so frugal, so practical.
And that’s how she raised my mom, in a modest little home in upstate New York.
So this part of their background feels slightly jarring.
But maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Maybe back in the day Newfield was a simple farming town.
“Okay, so we should be about twenty-five minutes out from the house, right?” Topher asks, once we have passed the commercial stretch.
“Yes. In an area called Newfield Village.”
Of course I had googled Newfield, desperate to learn what I could about this mysterious place that may become our home.
I learned that Wildwood is technically in an area of town called Newfield Village, which lies fifteen miles from the center of town.
Newfield Village was its own, albeit very small, township, with its own one-room schoolhouse, church, and blacksmith.
The church, which doesn’t appear to actually host services anymore, and its adjoining cemetery remain, though the schoolhouse and blacksmith have long since been reduced to old foundations and are scattered on what is now private property.
As we drive, the houses become more dispersed, and the quaint charm of downtown Newfield gives way to pastoral beauty.
The road meanders up through rolling hills, with old, but meticulously maintained homes dotting the landscape.
One, on the left, is a vibrant yellow colonial, with slate-gray shutters, surrounded by a rambling stone wall.
A stately red barn stands beyond the house, and past that, fields eventually give way to woods.
“Like a little toy,” I say, under my breath, and pretend to lift the yellow house between my thumb and forefinger.
“What?” Topher glances quickly at me, careful to keep his eyes on the road, but looking amused.
“They look like little toys. Or like those wooden figurines of houses that people used to decorate their mantels with. They look so perfect, like they aren’t real homes.”
And it’s true. The passing scenes are beautiful, yet somehow don’t seem real, which is unsettling.
I’m not sure if it’s simply because I live in a city and this feels so antithetical to my daily surroundings, or if there is something inherently foreboding about rural landscapes, from the vulnerability that comes with space.
I remember now, driving up here as a child, in the back seat of my parents’ Oldsmobile.
I’d sleep most of the drive but would always wake up for this final leg.
During the day, it was okay. But sometimes we arrived at night, and I remember the sky feeling so dark that it could swallow us up.
It wasn’t until we reached the glow of Wildwood, Ezra’s and Mathilde’s silhouettes waving from the front porch, that I’d be able to breathe normally again.
Following the GPS, Topher eases the brakes and turns onto the dirt road that will eventually lead to Newfield Village.
Now the road gently curves uphill, and the bucolic landscape is replaced by dense forest on either side of the road.
Through the tall evergreens, I catch glimpses of squirrels scurrying up tree trunks and glittering flashes of streams. My brain flashes to that last drive with my parents.
The pines whipping by. My mother sitting next to me.
It suddenly dawns on me that we must have been driving much faster than advisable on country roads.
“Better carry bear spray if you walk this stretch at night,” says Topher, and I happily turn my focus to the present.
After a while the woods become less dense on the left side of the road, with sunlight illuminating the meadow-like floor.
It looks maintained, like a cross between woods and lawn, and there are yellow Posted property signs nailed to a few trees.
We slow down by one tree and see the name Brook scrawled on the sign.
About ten yards in, a man is walking with a rifle slung over his shoulder, confirming my assumption that these are hunting grounds for the land’s owners.
But unlike what I expect from a hunter, he’s not dressed in camo, but in a tweed jacket and tall boots like a British lord.
As we drive past, the man nods his head in our direction.
He appears to be in his midthirties and with curly dark hair, a broad build, and cheeks flushed either from the heat or from the sport.
He looks simultaneously out of place yet entirely appropriate at the same time.
“That man was raised on old money,” says Topher, echoing my thoughts.
I smile. “I bet he’s only ever had organic milk from cows frolicking in rolling green pastures.”
“And now he has a glass of fifty-year scotch before retiring to bed.”
“His hunting coat costs more than our car.”
Topher glances down at the GPS screen, which shows us approaching Wildwood in less than a mile. “And it looks like he could very well be a neighbor. We’re nearly there.”
The hunting ground gradually gives way to pasture and on the left-hand side we pass a private, gravel road called Cold Brook Drive.
A stone wall begins as the hunting woods transition to green grass and stretches along the length of the property.
The drive leads up a hill and midway up, splits off into three separate driveways leading to three imposing homes atop the hill.
Topher lets out a low whistle. “I’ll bet our friend lives in one of those,” he says, slowing the car a bit to get a better look at the houses.
But I’m no longer interested in those homes, or the cemetery or the abandoned, but well-maintained church we pass next.
My eye is fixated on the destination flag on our GPS, the flag we are fast approaching, which tells us that the sweeping property to our right is Wildwood.
I lick my lips, hungry for the first view.