The Architecture of Snow

When I knocked on the door, the crow stopped cawing. The door shook. I waited, then knocked again, this time harder. The noise echoed. I knocked a third time.

“Mr. Wentworth?”

Leaves fell.

“Mr. Wentworth? My name’s Tom Neal. I work for March amp; Sons. I need to talk to you about a manuscript we think you sent.”

A breeze chilled my face.

I knocked a fourth time. “Mr. Wentworth?”

Finally, I took out a pen and a notepad. I thought about writing that Carver was dead, but that seemed a harsh way for Wentworth to get the news. So I gave him the name of the motel where I was staying and left my cell-phone number. Then I remembered that Wentworth didn’t have a phone. But if he sometimes left his compound, he could use a phone in town, I concluded. Or he could walk to the motel.

“I’m shoving a note under the gate!”

Back in the park, I sat on a bench and tried to enjoy the view, but the breeze got cooler. After an hour, I returned to Wentworth’s gate. A corner of my note remained visible under it.

“Mr. Wentworth, please, I need to talk to you! It’s important!”

Maybe he’s gone for a walk in the woods, I thought. Or maybe he isn’t even in town.

Hell, he might be in a hospital somewhere.

“Did you find him?”

In the tavern, I looked up from a glass of beer. “No.” Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a lie.

Becky Shafer stood next to me at the bar. Her green eyes were as hypnotic as on the previous evening. “I thought about our conversation last night. I came to apologize for being abrupt.”

“Hey, I’m from New York, remember? It’s impossible to be abrupt to me. Anyway, I can’t blame you for trying to protect someone who lives here.”

“May I sit down?”

“I welcome the company. Can I buy you a beer?”

“Rye and diet Coke.”

“Rye? I admire an honest drinker.”

She laughed as the bartender took my order. “Maybe it would be good for the town if Bob published another book. Who knows? It’s just that I don’t like to feel manipulated.”

“I’m so used to being manipulated, it feels normal.”

She gave me a questioning look.

“When I first became an editor, all I needed to worry about was helping an author write a good book. But now conglomerates own just about every publisher. They think of books as commodities. If authors don’t sell a hundred thousand copies, the head office doesn’t care about them, and editors who don’t find the next blockbuster are taking up space. Every morning, I go to March amp; Sons, wondering if I still work there.”

“I know what you mean.” Becky sipped her drink. “I’m also an attorney.” My surprised look made her nod. “Yep. Harvard Law School.”

“I’m impressed.”

“So was the Boston law firm that hired me. But I couldn’t bear how the senior partners pitted us against each other to see who generated the most fees. That’s why I ended here. I don’t earn much money, but I sure enjoy waking up each morning.”

“I don’t hear many people say that.”

“Stay here longer. Maybe you’ll be able to say it.”

Walking back to the motel, I again heard footsteps.

As on the previous night, they stopped when I turned toward the shadows. Their echo resumed when I moved on. Thinking of my broken car window, I increased speed. My cell phone rang, but I didn’t have time to answer it. Only after I hurried into my room and locked the door did I listen to the message, hoping it was from Wentworth.

But the voice belonged to my CEO. “You’re taking too long,” he told me.

“Mr. Wentworth?” At nine the next morning, amid a strong breeze, I pounded on his gate. “It’s really important that I talk to you about your manuscript! And Sam Carver! I need to talk to you about him! ”

I stared at the bottom of the gate. Part of my note still remained visible. A thought from yesterday struck me. Maybe he isn’t home. Maybe he’s in a hospital somewhere. Or maybe-a new thought struck harder-maybe he is home. Maybe he’s sick. Too sick to come to the gate.

“Mr. Wentworth?” I hammered the gate. “Are you all right?” I tried the knob, but it didn’t turn. “Mr. Wentworth, can you hear me? Is anything wrong? Do you need help?”

Perhaps there was another way in. Chilled by the strengthening breeze, I returned the way I had come and climbed back into the park. I followed the fence to a corner, then continued along the back, struggling through dense trees and undergrowth.

Indeed, there was another way in. Hidden among bushes, a gate shuddered as I pounded. “Mr. Wentworth?” I shoved a branch away and tried the knob, but it too wouldn’t turn. I rammed my shoulder against the gate, but it held firm. A tree grew next to the fence. I grabbed a branch and pulled myself up. Higher branches acted as steps. Buffeted by the wind, I straddled the fence, squirmed over, dangled, and dropped to a pile of soft leaves.

Immediately, I felt a difference. The wind stopped. Sounds were muted. The air became cushioned, as if a bubble enclosed the property. A buffer of some kind. No doubt, the tall fence caused the muffling effect. Or maybe it was because I’d entered sacred territory. As far as I knew, I was one of the few ever to set foot there. Although I breathed quickly, I felt a hush.

Apples hung on trees or lay on the ground amid leaves. A few raspberries remained on bushes. A vegetable garden contained the frost-browned remnants of tomato plants. Pumpkins and acorn squash bulged from vines. Continuing to be enveloped in a hush, I walked along a stone path. Ahead were a gazebo, a cottage, and a smaller building.

“Mr. Wentworth?”

When I rounded the gazebo and headed toward the cottage, I heard a door creak open. A man stepped out. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a sweater. He was slender, with slightly graying hair. He had dark intense eyes.

He had a pistol in his hand.

“Wait.” I jerked up my hands, thinking, My God, he’s been living alone for so long, he lost his mind. He’s going to shoot me.

“Walk to the front gate.”

“This isn’t what it looks like.” My chest cramped. “I thought you were ill. I came to see if I can help.”

“Stay ahead of me.”

“My name’s Tom Neal. I knocked on the gate.”

“Move.”

“I left a note. I’m an editor for March amp; Sons. Please. I need to talk to you about a manuscript I think you sent us. It was addressed to Sam Carver. He’s dead. I took over his duties. That’s why-”

“Stop,” the man said.

His command made the air feel stiller. Crows cawing, squirrels scampering along branches, leaves falling- everything seemed to halt.

“Sam’s dead?” The man frowned, as if the notion was unthinkable.

“A week ago Monday.”

Slowly, he lowered the gun. He had Wentworth’s sensitive features and soulful eyes. But Wentworth would be in his early eighties, and this man looked twenty years younger, his cheeks aglow.