The Winters(21)

“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.