The Winters(22)

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 lead 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 voice broke my spell. I was certain now that it was coming from the door the cat had disappeared behind. I pushed it open past a crack. I could smell cigarette smoke coming from the top of the spiral stairs winding inside the turret. There was another door at the top and it was open, too, a white light coming from inside. Careful to keep to the runner, I climbed the stairs, stopping to listen every few steps. There it was again, a woman’s voice, muffled and low. Perhaps it was Katya taking a break. I stepped on a tread that creaked so loudly it brought me to a halt. I held my breath and listened. The murmuring stopped. I heard footsteps. As they neared the door, I froze with that childlike belief that stillness could make a person invisible. The door opened and there stood a tall female figure holding a burning cigarette, the other hand shielding her eyes to peer down into the blackness where I stood, pressed against the wall, trying to be small. The brightness of the room behind her shone through her flimsy nightgown, darkening her small nipples and blacking out her face. I was squinting up at the haloed form of Rebekah herself.