The Winters(19)
EIGHT
To go from constant heat to my first cold winter, from calm blue vistas to a jagged gray skyline, was a jarring experience that created some holes in this part of my story, which I blame on a small memory bank, granted to someone who was never meant to go through this much change. I don’t remember, for instance, exactly how many days we spent in New York City. Was it three or five? Or if Max had his car brought to him or if he’d left one parked at the airport. I do remember we drove ourselves to the hotel, the traffic moving like a slow funeral procession, the better to take in the impressive buildings, some familiar to me from movies yet as alien as anything I’d ever encountered. Did we run into that brash financier Max went to college with at that fancy restaurant with the pale pink ceiling or while in line at the Broadway show? I do remember the wife, thin and flinty, looking me up and down, no doubt comparing me to Rebekah, wondering how I did it, how did someone like me manage to land Max Winter. She was in a fur, the original animal unrecognizable from the way the coat was dyed and shaped. I was wearing my first real winter coat, a heavy camel wool one with a snug belt that cost as much as a used car. She told me she’d love to come out and see us after we settled, and Max answered for me, saying that would be nice, and that we’d be in touch, muttering “never” after they were finally out of earshot.
I loved navigating the crowds, those perpetual parades, and how Manhattan felt bigger than the Caymans even though it’s much smaller, the same way furnished rooms feel bigger than empty ones. But the idea that I was on a small island whose surrounding water might go unseen for days, weeks, or years was oddly disorienting. I had to remind myself that an ocean is right there, that its currents were made up of the same water I once swam in, just blacker and colder.
The morning we packed for Long Island, Max could tell I was nervous. Though he’d been intent on spoiling me in the city, I had only bought a few basics: a couple of pairs of jeans, some sweaters and sweatpants, a pair of boots, and other necessities, enough to fill my new suitcase. I wanted to avoid arriving at Asherley accompanied by a caravan of things.
“The only people who will be greeting us work for me. I pay them to like you, so what does it matter?”
He was kidding, but my need to make a good impression, to be liked by others, to satisfy their expectations, was as old as I was, instilled in me by people similarly afflicted. When your livelihood depends on the benevolence of tourists, it becomes a hard trait to shake.
These were my thoughts as we crossed the Queensboro Bridge that cold day, putting the protective canyons of Manhattan behind us. I had loved our time in New York. Far from feeling cowed by the noise and size, I had begun to feel nestled—carried, even. There was always something to look at, something new to do or eat, and there was freedom in the anonymity the crowds provided. You didn’t have to drag around your history. You could go a long time, I bet, without running into anyone you knew. That seemed like a gift to me. So as sad as I was to leave, I was buoyed by Max’s promise that I could take a car into the city as often as I liked, once I grew accustomed to driving on the other side of the road.
Asherley. I was almost as nervous to meet the house as I was to meet Dani. It had begun to occupy a mythical place in my mind so it was hard to believe I would actually see it, walk around inside it, and live in it. I still couldn’t picture myself getting past the gate—its walls and paintings, its furniture and carpets remained indistinct, blurring in my peripheral vision.
When we left at one o’clock, the sky was dun colored, only mildly forbidding. By the time we reached the outer boroughs, the dusting of flakes had turned to flurries. The clouds ahead were low and dark; we were driving into bad weather, not away from it. Max veered south to take the parkway.
“Might take a bit longer, but there’ll be less traffic,” he explained.
I nodded, grateful for any delay, hoping by the time we got there my nerves would be calmer, my fears dampened. I wanted to feel excited to begin our lives together. Instead I experienced a vague unspooling, as though I’d tied a string to something in the city to help me find my way back, but the farther out we drove, Max pointing out Islip, Patchogue, Shirley, East Quogue, the more untethered I felt. Max seemed confident, happy to be going home, but I could sense the icy road just beneath the veneer of snow and the effort the tires were making to grab and hold the curves.
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.