The Winters(27)

We bundled up and headed out back through the breezeway off the kitchen. When we passed the door that led to the greenhouse, I couldn’t help but try the handle. It was locked, so I peered through the dirty glass. Everything inside looked slightly ransacked, as if it’d been abandoned in a hurry. Tipped-over chairs, rows of misaligned tables covered with dried bags of dirt and stacks of green plastic starter pots scattered throughout. Along the highest wall were the remnants of dead rosebushes, now whacked back to stumps.

“Rebekah had two green thumbs. Do you garden at all?” She caught herself before I could answer. “What am I saying? You were born on a boat, for God’s sake! You must sail then.”

“A little. I mostly operated fishing boats. Small yachts and such. Will the greenhouse stay shut up like this?”

“I don’t know. I hope not. It’s an astounding feat of architecture, I’ll give it that. And you don’t rip something like this down just because you’re sad. But Max seems intent to lock it up and leave it to rot. Do you want me to talk to him?”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

Or reason.

The air had a snap to it, the new snow quite deep in spots. Louisa had a natural athleticism, her legs all sinew and muscle in the manner of women who grew up on acreages, surrounded by horses and water. She was nearly twice my age, yet keeping up with her left me feeling breathless and ungainly in my new boots.

“You know, when Max called and told me he’d met someone special, I didn’t think he was ready. But that’s often when it happens, isn’t it? When you least expect it, there is love.”

“I’m still stunned. I really never thought that something like this would happen to someone like me.” I wanted to add that I still didn’t believe it was happening, that a little over a month ago I was dropping fish carcasses off Rum Point Beach and cutting my own hair. But to say this out loud would be to conjure my recent past, which I worried would resurface and cancel out all this good fortune.

“What do you mean, someone like me?” she asked with a laugh. “You’re perfectly primed for this sort of thing. You’re young, open-hearted. And lovely to look at.”

“Ha. Thank you. Lovely is a nice word for not exactly the bombshell people expect Max to be with. Especially after Rebekah,” I said. “I think I’ve already disappointed Dani. She’s used to having a glamorous mother.”

“Has she been that bad?”

“I wouldn’t describe it like that. She’s just—I’d find it difficult to be welcoming, too, if I were her.”

“You can’t let Dani interfere with what you have with Max. She’ll come around eventually. She’s got a lot of good qualities, you know. She’s gutsy, vivacious, has a big appetite for life. I’ve always said she’s fascinating and frustrating by equal measure. Besides, bombshells are overrated. I can see what Max sees in you. I know my brother. He brought you home for a reason.”

She sounded sincere, which made me blush. I quickly changed the subject.

“Does Dani do that often, run away like she did from Paris?”

“Well, technically she’s not running away. She’s usually running back to Asherley. She’s flagged cabs in Manhattan and convinced them to drive her out here, and she has the number of every water taxi company up and down the Eastern Seaboard. She’s quite handy with a boat, too. Maybe that’s an interest you two can cultivate. She’s a hell of a sailor. Just like Rebekah. Proves talent isn’t always genetic. Interesting how that works. I once knew of a child who, despite also being adopted, had the identical gait of—” Louisa stopped and placed a hand on my forearm. “Are you all right?”

“I—I didn’t know. Did you say Dani was adopted?”

“Yes. Max didn’t tell you?”

“But . . . the resemblance between her and Rebekah.”

“An illusion. Pull back the hair and there is no resemblance. She dyes and cuts it to look just like Rebekah. Has since she was eleven. Far too young to start but Rebekah never said no to her. None of us has, sadly. But anyway, Max has never thought of her as less than his own flesh and blood. That’s probably why he hadn’t mentioned it. From the day they brought her home, I don’t think I knew a more wanted thing in my life than that baby . . .”

It didn’t matter. Of course it didn’t matter. But why hadn’t Max told me? I didn’t have a chance to ask Louisa more questions, because we’d reached the barn, where, centered on the lintel, there was an ornate R.

Inside, we stomped the snow from our boots and I was hit with the smell of animals and damp hay, a nauseating sweet fecundity that reminded me of both life and death. Around a corner scurried the pale fluffy cat I had seen in the house the night before. The way its flesh swung beneath it indicated to me that it might be a she and that she might even be pregnant. Gus soon followed, rubbing an eye.

“Sorry to bother you, Gus,” Louisa said. “It’s always tricky to know when to come by when one lives where one works.”

He barely looked at me, offering another shy nod while wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Where are you keeping Isabel these days?” She turned to me. “Such a gentle thing. I wish Dani would take up riding her again. When’s she moving, Gus?”