The Night Strangers - Chris Bohjalian [40]
“Well, if you change your mind, his shoulders are pretty broad. He’s pretty resourceful.”
“Good to know. Thank you.”
“Tell me: How is Emily enjoying Littleton? The second floor of a little brick building beside a bicycle shop and a bank must feel like a very big change from a top floor of a skyscraper in Philadelphia.”
Has Emily told Reseda this, too? Has she told her that her old firm dominated the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth floors of a building on Chestnut Street? Or is this conjecture on the part of the real estate agent? “It is a change,” you say, “but she finds the pace very pleasant.”
“And I’m sure the drive in to work—the commute—is a lot more civilized.”
You nod agreeably. “It is. And a lot shorter. About fifteen minutes, door to door. Can I ask you something else?”
“Absolutely,” she says.
You turn around in your chair because you remember Holly is there and what you are about to ask feels … private. Holly is at her desk and moving her mouse as she stares at her computer screen. But she senses you are gazing at her, and so she looks up and grins. Instantly you turn your attention back to Reseda.
“Hewitt Dunmore’s twin brother,” you begin awkwardly, unsure precisely how to broach the subject. “Sawyer, I think his name was. He took his own life, right?”
“That is what people say.”
“How? Why? What do you know about his death?”
“Well, I didn’t know Sawyer. I wasn’t even born when he died. But Anise knew him. She knew the whole family.”
“Is there anything you can tell me?”
She shrugs and shakes her head, her face growing a little sad. “Teenage or pre-teenage depression, I assume. He was what, twelve or thirteen? Back then, it wasn’t really understood or treated.”
“And the … means?”
“He bled to death.”
“He slashed his wrists?”
“Something like that. But, honestly, my sense is that it was more complicated. Anise might know the details.”
Honestly. The word sounds insincere to you. Deceitful, maybe. How could she not recall the way a local boy had killed himself, even if it was before she was born? Wouldn’t it be a part of the lore of this small village, the sagas and stories and secrets that everyone shared? But, perhaps, you are being unfair; perhaps it really isn’t discussed around here. New England reticence. Propriety. And it was a long, long time ago.
“You must be looking forward to spring,” she says suddenly, her voice lightening. “It might be my favorite season. I love it—although I understand that for many people around here spring is a very mixed bag: mud and more mud. Lots of gray days. I tell you, crocuses this far north must have a death wish. No sooner do they poke their pretty little heads through the grass than they get hammered with eight inches of very wet snow. But there will also be some absolutely glorious days. Just wonderful! And there is sugaring to look forward to. I don’t sugar myself. But I have friends who do. You must bring your twins to a sugarhouse. I think they would love it: Sugar on snow, the aroma of maple. The samples. No child can resist a sugarhouse!”
“We will. Anyone’s sugarhouse in particular?”
“I think you should stop by the Milliers’. Claude and Lavender Millier. It will be weeks before there’s a sugar run. Or it might be a month. You never know. But I’ll introduce you between now and then.”
“Thank you. Do they have children?”
“Grown. But I know their son will scoot up from Salem for a few days to help with the boiling. He’s a doctor. A pediatrician. He’s part of a beautiful practice in a big old barn of a house with fantastic views of the ocean.”
“Anyone with a sugarhouse