She entered the long hall that led to her studio, determined to fill the day with Emerson and Thoreau and Alcott, last names that needed no firsts, names that shaped her entire world. She stopped herself in front of the Edith Wharton room, the safe haven reserved for one of Bill’s daughters. I could just take a look, she thought. That wouldn’t disturb a thing.
Inside, the room was simultaneously spare and glorious: surrounded by calm gray walls, there was a massive bed, intricate swirling flowers carved into its wooden headboard, covered with a rich display of bedding, serene lavender colors, stripes and flowers, a half dozen pillows arranged neatly as icing, a few with sparkling beads as a fringe; and a magnificent oak desk—an antique, Christina imagined—with thick claw legs, and a busty carriage, so long it almost stretched the length of the room. On a gentle brass nightstand sat a framed photograph of a younger Bill, arms wrapped around his two daughters, the one with a sweet and simple freckled face, sleepy eyes, straight pretty hair curved around her delicate chin, was wearing a graduation robe; the other, rounder, with a dark stare and set, determined lips, had her hand in one end of a mass of long dark curls, as if she were about to twist a handful, as if she were holding on to it for dear life. And then, nothing else in the room, just a spray of gorgeous sunlight through the windows, and a heavy, healthy persimmon tree, its rich green fruits clinging upward, lingering outside the window.
Christina pictured him picking out each piece of furniture, considering the color scheme, how it might match his daughter’s mood or sensibility. He gave her a desk worthy of royalty, thought Christina. It was better than what he had given her, as it should be. She suddenly swelled with a thick feeling in her stomach, a warm and pleasant wave that crashed, then nestled nicely into her.
She closed the door, smiling, flushed with emotion, then turned to the May Sarton room. Inside, the room was much darker, though not grim, just wanting, waiting for the sunset. And then there was the bed, the same beautiful bed, and the bedding, pink this time, but the patterns were the same, the pillows dripping with beads arranged almost identically, the same brass nightstand, this one with a nick on top, perhaps from a careless delivery man, the same picture frame, the same secret smile paired with a serious one, surrounding a deliriously happy and, on further inspection, potentially deluded Bill, and the exact same desk, no heirloom, no antique-store find. She opened a few of the drawers. A receipt from Pottery Barn sat in one. She rubbed her hand on top of it. It felt slick and new. It smelled like fresh paint.
The swell inside of her dissolved like salt in water. One pinch, and then it was gone.
THE PATH to the peak was marked with strips of yellow tape, reminding Christina of trees turned into tributes for missing soldiers. Kong had taken an early, commanding lead, so they were walking at a brisk pace, but every so often, Christina would spot a yellow flag and think of men in uniform, making stirring speeches before heading into battle. What if this were a forest of soldiers? What if I were crossing enemy lines right now?
Kong quickened his pace, jerking her forward, as if he knew she was daydreaming. He sniffed the earth as he walked, but in a busy and self-important way, so that it appeared as nothing more than a glance at the world around him. As the trail grew steeper, his tongue dropped from his mouth, and he began to pant loudly. He didn’t slow, though, skipping all of his usual stops at the promontories. He wouldn’t rest until he reached the peak.
Christina tumbled after him, calling his name, begging for him to slow down. She tugged on his leash, finally digging her heels in the ground, and he stopped. “Let’s just stand here for a second,” said Christina, and she breathed deeply. “Come on, you bastard. Yes. Just stand still.” She stared at the trunks of the trees, and then lifted her head to gaze at the nest of leaves suspended above her. The woods were silent, except for the sounds of her breath and that of the dog, and general forest noise: tiny bugs buzzing, the wind in the leaves, an occasional chirp of a bird.
And then there was a crunch of leaves, footsteps perhaps, off in the bushes behind her. She heard another rustle, turned, and saw a group of birds taking off quickly in the sky, their delicate wings fluttering in fear. Her heart began to pump even faster. Kong stood, and crossed behind her. He didn’t pull on the leash, but he stood there, alert. He sniffed at the air, and then he inched forward. He looked back at Christina. There was another crash of foot to leaves, and then, slowly, another. Kong let out a bark, and then there was a mad moment, where Christina could have sworn she saw a deer, but it was just for a second. It was definitely an animal, though, off in the trees, and it had heard Kong, and it was scared. Kong pulled on his leash, but the noise drew farther away, until the footsteps became one with the other sounds of the forest, and they knew they were alone again.