The Winters(32)

Cawing ospreys circled overhead, smelling my sandwich. I tossed some of the crusts into the switchgrass, even though I knew they’d be too cautious to land. I could see their fat nests pocking the still-barren parts of forest. There’d be eggs soon. When the birds were strong enough to leave the nests they’d make their way back down to the Caribbean for the winter. But not me. I live here now, I thought, finishing my sandwich. This is my home and this is the land I’d come to know, and these are the birds I’d recognize and the trees I’d learn to identify.

Gus, up early, too, spotted me from the barn. I waved only to be polite, something he interpreted as a summons. As he walked towards me, I felt dread. What would I talk to him about? I hopped off the woodpile to greet him. He glanced nervously over at Asherley. I followed his gaze to the top of the turret, where a shade dropped like an eyelid shutting. I wondered if she’d been sleeping in Rebekah’s room regularly, against Max’s wishes. I turned back to Gus, determined not to let her ruin my day.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” I said. “I was only waving good morning.”

“I thought maybe you wanted to get into the boathouse. I have the key.”

“Oh yes, I do, as a matter of fact,” I said, eager to get out from beneath Dani’s spying eyes.

I followed him inside and he felt along the wall for the light switch. I wandered over to the boats, and it occurred to me what I could do to occupy my time.

I pointed to the Aquarama. “Can that boat be propped up?”

“The slip has a cover. I can just lower it down onto some blocks. But that’s an antique. It was Mr. Winter’s father’s.”

“Yes, and the hull hasn’t been refinished since the middle of the century. Can there be heat in here, too?”

“Mrs. Winter just used the fireplace if it was chilly. She didn’t come down here much in the winter.”

“I see,” I said, bristling. He must have sensed I’d never started a proper fire before, because he promptly disappeared upstairs and returned carrying an electric heater.

“Perfect. Thank you,” I said. “Also, do you know if Max—if Mr. Winter—has any reefing tools?”

Gus disappeared again, this time through a door behind the bar, and bumped around in a storage area. I removed my ring and placed it on a shelf beside the boat, the one with no name. My father once told me it was bad luck for a boat to remain nameless. A boat, like a person, needed a name, he said, or else it was cursed to drift forever.

Gus returned carrying a dusty briefcase, lifting its lid as if he were a game-show model, showing off an array of shipwright tools that would look, to someone unschooled in basic boat refurbishment, like a finicky set of weapons. I picked up the reefing hook, used to pull old caulking out from between planks. Its C-blade was still sharp, its handle worn and burnished. There were elegant bits and smaller blades, too, that, because they’d been stored properly, glinted in the light.

“They’re very well taken care of,” I said.

“These were Mr. Winter’s grandfather’s tools,” he said, with a note of pride.

“Well, I think it’s time they were used again. Thank you, Gus. You’ve been very helpful,” I said, giving him a prompt to go back to what he was doing. But he hovered still.

“Do you want me to start today?”

“No! No. I’m going to do it. I will refinish the boat. I just need to go into town for some supplies.”

He looked perplexed.

“I know how to strip a boat. It used to be part of my job.” I asked if there was a vehicle I could take into town. He pulled keys from his pocket, describing the truck I had seen him use to take Dani to Claire’s. He offered to take me, but I was desperate to do something purposeful, even if it was just to drive twenty minutes to the hardware store in East Hampton.

I left him to the task of grounding the boat and made my way directly to the garage. As I passed by the side of the house, Asherley maintained its gravitational pull on my body, the turret like a heavy eye that followed me as I walked. I succeeded in not looking up, exhaling when I entered the garage and was again out of view of Dani and the house. Strange that I didn’t feel as menaced inside the house as I did when I was outside looking at it, walking around it, regarding it. Perhaps it was the gray sky against the gray stones and the dirty glass of the greenhouse, but the nip in the air sent a chill to my marrow. Things would be different in the full flush of spring, I told myself, when it got warmer and greener. It’s hard to feel lonely or frightened in the summer, when I would get back out on the water, and in my element. I was determined that by then Dani and I would have become better friends. We could take the big sailboat out. I could be her crew. She would show me her favorite nooks along the banks. We’d putter up secret inlets, looking for robins’ nests and beaver dams. She’d tell me stories about Rebekah that I’d welcome without feeling threatened or jealous. Eventually they’d be replaced with our own stories, the things we did together as a family. If Max and I had children, Dani would take them under her wing, snapping pictures of them sleeping or running, teaching them how to sail, too, and posting pictures to show her friends what a perfect big sister she was. I had to believe these things were possible. I had to be able to envision this kind of future for us.

I backed out of the garage carefully, thrilling to the feeling of independence that driving anything always gave me. It was the first time in weeks that ease crept into my body. I was embarking on an errand alone to fetch supplies to start a project of my choosing. I didn’t need to go to an event at the library to feel purposeful. I could find my own projects. This drive was an opportunity to reorient myself, to get a feel for driving on the right side of the road, and to remind myself there were things I could do here to fit in beyond loving Max Winter.