dramas and musicals. “Oh, I hope you’re not regretting the move already. We’re all so happy to have you here. You and Emily and your beautiful twins.”
“No, not at all. It’s a wonderful house. I didn’t mean to suggest I had any regrets. I think Emily and I will be very comfortable there. I think the girls already are adjusting quite well. Especially Hallie. She loves that greenhouse.”
“That’s important. Is she sleeping well? Are you all sleeping well?”
You recall Hallie’s bad dream that first Sunday night. You recall a second she had more recently. You wonder simultaneously whether a couple of bad dreams would suggest your child is not sleeping well and why the real estate agent would ask such a thing in the first place. Has she heard something from someone? Did Emily mention something to another attorney in her firm who mentioned it to Reseda? Did Hallie tell her teacher in school, who, in turn, told this real estate agent? Is the town really that small? Is it possible that people really talk that much?
“We’re all sleeping fine,” you respond, which is, more or less, the case with your daughters and your wife. A couple of nightmares, you decide firmly, does not constitute sleeping badly. And while you yourself haven’t slept well in six months, your nightmares and flashbacks are really none of her business. Besides, you don’t want to appear any more damaged to Reseda than you already must.
“But right now you and Emily are only… comfortable,” she murmurs, repeating one of the words that you used, and you detect a slight sniff of disappointment. No, not disappointment: disapproval.
“Sometimes, happy is asking a lot.” You say this with no particular stoicism in your tone; it’s a glib throwaway.
“Oh, I hope that’s not true. Personally, I don’t think it is. I understand what you’ve been through. But I would like to believe that happiness is a perfectly reasonable expectation here.”
“Perhaps.”
“Have you taken the door off?” she asks, her eyes growing a little more probing, a little more intense.
“It would demand a lot of effort.”
“Have you talked to Hewitt?”
“About the door?”
She nods.
“Nope.”
“You should,” she says.
“Probably.”
“Or…”
“Yes?” You realize for the first time that there is a scent in the office that is reminiscent of lavender. Burned lavender. As if it were incense. You have inhaled a small, lovely dollop of Reseda’s perfume.
“You could ask Gerard up to the house and have him just rip that door down. That would be easier than removing all those bolts.”
You pause for just a moment before responding, because you don’t believe you have mentioned the bolts. But then you get it: “Anise must have told you about the bolts.”
And for just about the same amount of time that you paused, so does Reseda. Her face remains waxen, unmoving. Then: “Yes. She did.”
“Who’s Gerard?”
“Anise’s son-and a very nice young man. A little quiet, a little intimidating even. He’s a weight lifter. Belongs to the health club in Littleton. He will probably be the one haying your fields this summer. He’s big and tall and very, very strong, and I’m sure he could rip that door right off its hinges.”
You contemplate this notion. The advantage is that you would learn what’s behind the door pretty quickly. The disadvantage is that you would be in violation of an unspoken rural code: You are an able-bodied man and you are having another able-bodied man handle a household chore that you should be capable of managing on your own. You could take an ax to that door as well as this Gerard. You are not that old and infirm. And so you tell Reseda, “Thank you. I think I can handle this one. Maybe I should just rip the door off myself.”
“Well, if you change your mind, his shoulders are pretty broad. He’s pretty resourceful.”
“Good to know. Thank you.”
“Tell me: How is Emily enjoying Littleton? The second floor of a little brick building beside a bicycle shop and a bank must feel like a very big change from a top floor of a skyscraper in Philadelphia.”
Has Emily told Reseda this, too? Has she told her that her old firm dominated the twenty-fifth and twenty- sixth floors of a building on Chestnut Street? Or is this conjecture on the part of the real estate agent? “It is a change,” you say, “but she finds the pace very pleasant.”
“And I’m sure the drive in to work-the commute-is a lot more civilized.”
You nod agreeably. “It is. And a lot shorter. About fifteen minutes, door to door. Can I ask you something else?”
“Absolutely,” she says.
You turn around in your chair because you remember Holly is there and what you are about to ask feels… private. Holly is at her desk and moving her mouse as she stares at her computer screen. But she senses you are gazing at her, and so she looks up and grins. Instantly you turn your attention back to Reseda.
“Hewitt Dunmore’s twin brother,” you begin awkwardly, unsure precisely how to broach the subject. “Sawyer, I think his name was. He took his own life, right?”
“That is what people say.”
“How? Why? What do you know about his death?”
“Well, I didn’t know Sawyer. I wasn’t even born when he died. But Anise knew him. She knew the whole family.”
“Is there anything you can tell me?”
She shrugs and shakes her head, her face growing a little sad. “Teenage or pre-teenage depression, I assume. He was what, twelve or thirteen? Back then, it wasn’t really understood or treated.”
“And the… means?”
“He bled to death.”
“He slashed his wrists?”
“Something like that. But, honestly, my sense is that it was more complicated. Anise might know the details.”
Honestly. The word sounds insincere to you. Deceitful, maybe. How could she not recall the way a local boy had killed himself, even if it was before she was born? Wouldn’t it be a part of the lore of this small village, the sagas and stories and secrets that everyone shared? But, perhaps, you are being unfair; perhaps it really isn’t discussed around here. New England reticence. Propriety. And it was a long, long time ago.
“You must be looking forward to spring,” she says suddenly, her voice lightening. “It might be my favorite season. I love it-although I understand that for many people around here spring is a very mixed bag: mud and more mud. Lots of gray days. I tell you, crocuses this far north must have a death wish. No sooner do they poke their pretty little heads through the grass than they get hammered with eight inches of very wet snow. But there will also be some absolutely glorious days. Just wonderful! And there is sugaring to look forward to. I don’t sugar myself. But I have friends who do. You must bring your twins to a sugarhouse. I think they would love it: Sugar on snow, the aroma of maple. The samples. No child can resist a sugarhouse!”
“We will. Anyone’s sugarhouse in particular?”
“I think you should stop by the Milliers’. Claude and Lavender Millier. It will be weeks before there’s a sugar run. Or it might be a month. You never know. But I’ll introduce you between now and then.”
“Thank you. Do they have children?”
“Grown. But I know their son will scoot up from Salem for a few days to help with the boiling. He’s a doctor. A pediatrician. He’s part of a beautiful practice in a big old barn of a house with fantastic views of the ocean.”
“Anyone with a sugarhouse and children roughly Hallie and Garnet’s age?”
“Of course. I’ll just have to think a moment. I hear they’re doing very well in school.”
“You hear a lot,” you say, a reflex, and wish instantly that you could take the remark back. It isn’t like you. It’s just that everyone always seemed to be talking about you back in Pennsylvania this past autumn and winter, and now everyone seems to be talking about your whole family here in New Hampshire.
