We drove for hours. Eventually the parkway joined together to form a narrower road, with trucks rushing past us, slapping dirty snow at our car in the tailwinds. I kept anticipating the exits, this is the turnoff, no this must be it, but Max drove on and on, oblivious to my mounting anxiety. I made small talk about a white blocky gas station with a hand-painted mural that reminded me of home, Max squeezing my hand then quickly returning it to the wheel. By Southampton, a chill set in, one that went down to the bone. I pulled my coat tighter under my chin.
“Want the heat up?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you, Max.”
The road narrowed yet again as we cut up from East Hampton, four lanes becoming two, both completely engulfed in snow. He navigated by following the tire grooves made by a car a distance ahead, its red taillights fading and brightening depending on our speed. Old trees weighted with snow offered us some respite from the blizzard, but they also took away the day’s remaining light. It was only four o’clock but it was already dark.
We finally broke out of the forested part of the drive and came upon an open road that seemed to come to a dead end at the beach. There, instead of stopping, Max sped up. We were heading straight into the water.
“Max! Stop!” I screamed, bracing for impact.
“Whoa! It’s okay!” Max said, guiding my torso back against the seat as the car made a sudden transition from bumpy to smooth, the road becoming the causeway that connected Long Island to Winter’s Island. My hand remained over my heart.
“Did you think I was going to drive us into the bay?”
“No . . . I couldn’t see the road.”
Beyond the windshield, water churned and splashed angrily against the stone shoulders of the raised road. Max glanced over at me, mindful now of my nerves. He slowed as we exited the causeway and pulled up to a set of iron gates, easily ten feet high, with thick pickets spiked at the top, Asherley forged in an ornate cutout. Thinner pickets of descending size extended fifty feet to the left and right of the gates, blending into the black trees. The fence didn’t circumnavigate the island, Max told me. White-tailed deer lived there, and beavers and swans, but the gate kept cars from making easy passage to the house, unless you walked, braving the rocky shores before traversing the forest and its thick undergrowth. Max hit a button under his seat and the gates swung open, shoving great wings of snow out of their way.
“Looks like Gus got the plow out in time,” Max said as he inched the car along another densely forested mile before Asherley. Now there was little to see out the window, just the dark shadows of tree trunks lining our narrow path. There were no streetlights, no porch lights flickering through the trees, indicating life nearby should our car skid off the road. I’d been prepared for Asherley to be secluded, but the near blackness made it feel even more remote. My fears took on a different flavor now, more primal. I thought of Rebekah careening around the narrow bends and I understood how dangerous this drive would be at high speeds, and how a fire could flatten several acres before anyone spotted the smoke. If something happened out here, who would know?
At a final bend, Max made a hard right and we abruptly left the forest and drove into a smattering of fat snowflakes the trees had been shielding us from. Before us lay acres of rolling expanse, which, reflected off the dusk sky, painted the snow a pale indigo. In the distance I spotted Asherley, its massive silhouette pocked with a dozen blazing windows. This must have been the vantage point from which Max took the picture he had shown me on the boat so many weeks ago, the day he took one of me. It occurred to me then that he hadn’t taken another one, not even in New York.
“Home,” Max said.
We inched into the long oval drive, and I sunk a little as the entirety of Asherley emerged, its windows glowing orange with lights or fires, giving the house the appearance of a ghostly barge closing in on us.
Because the snow and glass were the same milky-blue color, the greenhouse, at first, was camouflaged. Now here it was, too, looking as though a strange starship had crashed neatly into the side of the stone porch. This isn’t a place where a person lives, I thought; here you reign. And in that moment, wearing wool socks, jeans, and a comfy flannel shirt, I couldn’t have felt less regal. Max shut off the car and my ears pounded with my own heartbeat. When I saw celebrities in the Caymans I was always struck by how plain and diminutive many were without the accoutrements of fame. This was the opposite sensation.
“Ready?”
I nodded and swallowed, my eyes trailing up the side of the highest turret, where a low light glowed from within. Out of the front door a man came running towards us, using a coat as a shield against the snow blowing off the eaves.
“Ah, Elias!” Max exclaimed. “My left- and right-hand man.”
Elias came around to open my door. We yelled our introductions over the weather.
“Take her,” said Max. “I’ll put the car away.”
I ducked under Elias’s temporary tarp and we scrambled up the porch steps together, through the double doors, twice as high as me, and into a wall of warm air laced with the velvety smell of roses wafting from a massive bouquet of red ones on a table near the staircase. There Elias introduced me to a young man named Gus who had thick brows and was wearing a heavy coat. When I stuck out my hand, he ignored it in lieu of a brisk nod before running out the door to help Max.
“I hope I didn’t frighten him,” I said.
“He’s shy at first, but he’s a good guy,” Elias said, taking my coat and disappearing into the anteroom off the foyer.
From my earlier Internet searches, I knew an unsettling number of details that made Asherley so extraordinary, like the fact that the marble floor my boots were dripping onto had been sliced out of a quarry in the Hudson Valley, and Rebekah had them refurbished by an expert who used only diamond grit pads from Italy. I also knew that the rounded, hand-carved walls of the anteroom hid two tall cabinets that had been shipped from Brussels, one housing coats and boots and the other rifles and guns, some antique, some modern. I also recognized the stained-glass crescent window above the entry door, depicting a pack of dogs leaping after a dove that once hung in a sixteenth-century monastery. I thought knowing these facts from my snooping might tamp down my sense of fraudulence, but I was wrong. I stood stunned by a grandeur not truly captured in pictures.
Elias came bounding back into the foyer. “When Max told me about your engagement I was quite surprised. And, of course, thrilled.”
“Me, too,” I said, rubbing my hands together. I wasn’t cold. I just didn’t know where to put them. “What do I do with my boots?”
“Just leave them on that mat. Katya will take care of them.”
Elias was younger than I’d expected, with warm eyes and a lilting accent that made you lean closer for the words. Later I would learn that Max had met him in Buenos Aires twenty years prior, when he and Rebekah went to buy a horse. Elias had done the books for the breeders. The two men hit it off, and Max hired him away. With each passing year, more and more of Max’s investments and legal affairs fell under his command. And now he was Max’s chief of staff, often traveling with him to Albany, when not at the constituency office in East Hampton.
Max burst through the front door, with Gus behind him burdened with our bags, and at the same time a large, stern-looking woman of about sixty came in from a hallway wiping her hands on a tea towel. Her hair was pulled taut off her face with a headband, and the rest hung gray and limp around her ample shoulders.
“Katya!” Max hugged her like he was her long-lost son and introduced her to me as the CEO of Asherley, whose office was the kitchen. “It’s Sunday. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I heard the news,” she said, shrugging in my direction. “I wanted to make a roast.” She added that dinner wouldn’t be ready for another hour or so, but that she’d prepared something to tide us over in our rooms.
�
�Wonderful. Thank you,” Max said, and turned to me. “Go upstairs and warm up, my dear. I have to talk to Eli for a few minutes. Katya, mind showing her where?”
Max kissed my temple and launched me into her wake. I followed her up the wide staircase, keeping my stocking feet on the thick runner, pulling my sleeves down over my hands. The house was warm but I was cold for some reason, or maybe just hungry. A tall mullioned window split the stairs left and right at a landing. The walls were flanked by paintings on either side, Max’s ancestors, all men, all white and old.
“You must be tired,” Katya said, her climbing becoming effortful.
“A little. But I’m happy to be here.”
“How was the drive?”
“A bit frightening, to be honest. Lots of snow.”
I almost told her I’d never seen snow before New York, but I wasn’t sure whether it would endear me to her or alarm her.
“Where’s Dani?” she asked.
“Still in Paris. She gets here in a couple days, I hear. I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
Katya stopped on the stairs, her eyes wide. “You haven’t met each other yet?”
“No. She’s been in Paris this whole time and we’ve been in the Caymans. I thought you knew that.”
Her face seemed to soften, as though she was offering a preemptive dose of pity. “My, my.”
We reached the landing and I reflexively continued towards the stairs to the third floor.
“Your rooms are on this floor,” Katya said over her shoulder. She was already crossing the second-floor gallery. “The third floor is Dani’s domain.”
I pivoted and quickly followed. We passed a long oval table, shaped like a surfboard, a slash of dramatic white veining through its black marble surface. Centered on it was another massive spray of dark red roses, their heads as big as fists. The wainscoting gleamed in contrast to the matte red walls above it, which were festooned with still more paintings, this time landscapes, seascapes, horses, and dogs. A few women.
“The roses are beautiful.”
“Standing order from our florist,” Katya said. “We used to grow them here, but Mr. Winter closed up the greenhouse when Mrs. Winter died.” She spoke breezily, as though relaying this information to a gaggle of bored tourists. “Dani still likes having them around.”
Of course she does, I thought. There will be all sorts of these not-so-subtle reminders of Rebekah. Some will be incidental to the home, which was, after all, Rebekah’s life’s work. And some, like this, Dani will insist upon maintaining. I had to brace myself. Soon these reminders will become background scenery and I’ll begin to make my own mark. It will take time. That’s all.
At the end of the gallery Katya pressed open the high double doors, releasing a gust of warmer air. The only light in the room came from a roaring fireplace, whose mouth was as tall as me. The flames’ shadows danced across the enormous bed, its posts like telephone poles topped with burgundy velvet draping. These were definitely Max’s rooms. I could smell him in here.
Katya pointed through an archway to another dimly lit room beyond. “I’ve set out some finger food and there’s wine, too, in the sitting room. The dressing rooms are through there and then the bathroom’s just beyond that. Gus already dropped off your bag.”
“Thank you so much.”
She faced me squarely, her features softer since our initial introduction. “If you don’t need anything else I should get back to the kitchen and finish dinner. Give me an hour. I do hope you’ll be comfortable,” she said, “during your stay.”
“Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
After she left, I butted up against her last few words. This will all take time.
I looked around. Despite the enormous fireplace and the high ceilings, the rooms felt cozy, private. I sat on the bed to test the mattress before padding over the plush throw rugs that covered a herringbone-patterned floor, oak, well worn. In the sitting area two high-back chairs faced yet another, smaller, fire. Between the chairs was an oval table with a tray of various cheeses, fruit, and crackers. I plunked a black grape into my mouth—it turned out to be an olive—and continued through the second archway. I could see marble walls, a riot of black and white stripes, behind a glass divider—the same marble as was on the tabletop in the second-floor gallery. This was the bath area, which had modern details, sleek copper faucets, and plush white towels. To my right was a long corridor flanked by two walls of wooden doors, and my suitcase atop a center island waiting for me to empty it.
Katya’s words continued to vex me. To her I was a temporary guest enjoying a stay. She thought I was too young, too unformed, too meek to make this work. Was she in the kitchen right now whispering to someone, What is Max Winter doing with her? Not Elias. He didn’t seem the gossipy type. Maybe her audience was that young man, Gus. Yes, he’d given me an odd look, hadn’t he? Or she’s got the ear of some kitchen assistant, brought in especially to help prepare the roast. Imagine everything you own fitting into one little suitcase! I hear she was practically homeless. Lost her job, was going to get kicked out of her rooming house. Max rescued her from certain penury. We’ll see how long this lasts. He’ll get bored of her soon. I mean, what does she bring to the table? Not even good looks. I can’t believe he would pick someone like her. After Rebekah? And what will Dani make of her? Ha! Can’t wait to see that. He must be depressed. I’m telling you, she didn’t even say two words to me the whole time.
I shook my head against the noise. They don’t know me. They don’t know what we’re like alone. They don’t see how easily I make Max laugh. They don’t feel the air between us sweeten when we’re together, even in silence, especially in silence. We know so little about what truly bonds a couple together. We only see the handholding or hear the bickering and form our opinions from those loaded interactions. But we don’t know. Max and I, we fit together in every conceivable way. Didn’t we? They’ll soon see how our temperaments are perfectly calibrated. Where he is decisive and sometimes bombastic, I am willing to calmly weigh options. He’s set in his ways, and I have few “ways” that are permanent, which is normal for someone his age and mine. Not to say I wasn’t my own person. I knew my limits and abilities. And of course there was the sex we were having, which surprised even me with its intensity.
When Max quietly entered the bedroom he found me standing in front of the fire, my palms open to the flames. He smiled. I smiled back. The thought came to me that the last woman he might have made love to in this room was Rebekah. Did he tiptoe towards her like this, a finger over his lips? When he wordlessly removed my clothes and gently lifted me off the floor and carried me over to the bed, I wondered whether he had done this to her, thrown her backwards onto the comforter, her arms flung out like a cross. As his mouth slowly made its way from my ear to a nipple then down to my stomach, I thought, he did this to her, too, right here and not so long ago. Far from ruining my mood, these thoughts made me fiercer, clutch the blanket and a fist of his hair a little harder. I would never admit this, to him or anyone else, though. This was my secret, something that was just between her and me.
NINE
I woke from our accidental nap exhausted and breathless, as though I’d slept beneath a heavy boulder perched upon my chest. The fire was at a flicker. Max slept soundly next to me. I had no idea how long we had napped or what time it was. Looking out the window didn’t help; it was already dark when we arrived. I stretched, careful not to wake Max, and pulled on my clothes. I made the bold decision to make my way down to the kitchen alone, I was that famished.
In the gallery, the now dimmed sconces lent long shadows to the roses, their great heads lowing as I passed. My plan was to follow the sounds, since I had no idea how to get to the kitchen. But no sound came from downstairs. Instead I heard someone upstairs, on the third floor, talking. It was a lost stranger’s instinct to follow a voice, to try to find someone to l
ead me to where I wanted to go. But as I climbed the stairs to get closer, the voice suddenly became indistinct, like a low murmur that seemed to echo oddly.
At the landing I listened again. I felt something tickle my ankle and looked down. A large cream-colored Persian blinked up at me, its pupils dilated black and shiny. When I bent to pet it, it scurried past me, slinking through a door left ajar, its matted tail puffed out on high alert.
The third-floor gallery was smaller than the second. Though its walls were painted the same deep red, it had an entirely different feel, perhaps due to the dimmer light that curved off the vaulted ceiling. But it was more than that. The room was an homage, created for one person, Rebekah Winter. Instead of paintings, the walls were lined with dozens and dozens of framed photos of her, some small, some big, but each and every one was of Rebekah, smiling and not smiling, close up or far away, posing in front of something beautiful or old, in sunglasses or hats or both. Sometimes she was driving a car or riding a horse. There were several, too, of Rebekah and Dani, their bond evident. There were so many photos, craning my neck and turning to take them all in made me dizzy, a little sick. Everywhere I looked I saw long blond hair caught in the wind, too-white teeth and laughing mouths, perfect pale skin and flashing blue eyes. Rebekah looked nearly the same age in every photo, despite the passing of the years. Dani’s changes from infancy to what would have been just a couple of years ago told a different story, one of a child gradually turning into her mother, her hair becoming blonder and longer, until their tresses were identical in color, length, and style. At one end of the gallery was a picture of all three of them on the porch, Max’s arm around each of them. He looked so young, happy, and relaxed that it only highlighted the toll life had taken on him since Rebekah had died. At the end of this gauntlet of female perfection was another vase of black-red roses, which lent the entire gallery the feeling of a private memorial service.
The Winters Page 7