A Week in the Woods (2 page)

It wasn't that Robert Chelmsley didn't care about his son's feelings, because he did. He cared deeply. He could see Mark was upset. But he also thought Mark was old enough now to understand that business is business and a promise is a promise. Plus he had the nagging fear that Mark wasn't learning to be tough enough to handle the enormous wealth and responsibility he would inherit one day.

With another shrug he said, “These schedules get set a full year in advance, Mark. One shot deal. And the people who own sixty-five percent of the company
have
to be there. And that's your mom and me.”

That's why Leon and Anya had been left in charge of the move.

Mark's mom always told everyone that Leon was their handyman, and she said that Anya was her housekeeper. Mark knew better. Leon and Anya were baby-sitters.
For him. The Russian couple had been hired five years ago, and since then his parents had been free to travel as much as they needed to, which was almost all the time.

Once it was clear there was nothing he could do to stop the move, Mark had declared that he wanted to take everything. All his stuff. He didn't want a new room in a new house. He wanted things to be the same. Same bed, same desk, same bookcases and curtains and carpets. Everything.

Mark's dad had shouted, “That's ridiculous!”

But his mom had patted her husband's arm and said to Mark, “Dear, I don't think that'll be a problem. That'll be just fine.” Then to her husband she said, “Don't you think that'll be all right, Robert?”

Nodding slowly and smiling ruefully, Mark's dad said, “Sure. Didn't mean to yell about it. Whatever's going to make everyone comfortable is fine with me.”

So Mark had spent his last week in Scarsdale sleeping in one of the third-floor guest suites, and a team of professional movers had disassembled Mark's room. They took everything.

And now that it was time to actually leave, all Mark and Anya and Leon needed to take were two computers, four or five boxes of food, and some clothes.

Anya called from the front hallway. “Mark? Please come down now. It's time to go.”

Mark called back, “In a second.” But he didn't move.

Mark's face felt hot and he swallowed to fight the lumpy feeling in his throat. He had lived here for almost three years, and he'd made a couple of good friends at Lawton Country Day School. He'd grown a couple of inches and had added some muscle to his wiry frame. Now he was leaving, right in the middle of fifth grade. Next year he'd have probably made it on to the sixth-grade lacrosse team. Maybe the soccer team, too.

Except it had already been decided that he would finish out fifth grade at a public school near the new house. In New Hampshire. And then next year he was going to start sixth grade at Runyon Academy. In New Hampshire.

Might as well be on the moon,
thought Mark.

Mark had been over all this before. Like, why move now, in the middle of February, with less than half of fifth grade left?

His dad had said, “Simple. I just bought a company up there near Lebanon, and I want to get the family moved in before the end of the first quarter. There'll be some nice tax breaks if we establish residency in New Hampshire.”

His mom had quickly said, “It's not that, sweetheart. You'll have just gotten back from the February vacation, and we've arranged to have the new house
ready then, and February's going to be the most convenient time for everyone, that's all. You can make a nice, clean break with your old school, and it'll give you a chance to settle into the area before you go off to summer camp.”

Settle into the area?
thought Mark.
Right, like some hick village is going to be my home sweet home. Once I start at Runyon Academy, I won't even
be
there for more than a couple weeks a year!

Mark had already checked the map by then. The new house was more than sixty miles north of Runyon Academy, much too far for driving to school and back every day. So from sixth grade on, Mark would have to be a boarding student. That had already been decided too.

“It'll be good for you, Mark—I know it was good for me. It'll help toughen you up a little.” That's what his dad had said about boarding school.

There hadn't been any discussion about that. Or about anything. Not with him. Because when it came to Mark Robert Chelmsley and his future, things weren't discussed. They were decided.

It was Leon calling him this time. “Mark? Come. Please. Snow is starting, and it's a long way. It is time now.”

Mark didn't answer.
He
had no reason to hurry. He walked slowly down the front staircase to the second floor and into his empty room.

Bare walls, bare hardwood floor, empty closet. He went to the window that faced the backyard and raised the shade for a last look. He pulled in a deep breath through his nose, trying to imprint the smell of this room, this house, these years, trying to burn it into his memory. They had been pretty good years, and he wanted to remember everything, exactly.

But he knew he wouldn't. In a year or so he wouldn't remember this home any better than he remembered the house in Santa Fe, or the big apartment in Paris, or the brownstone in Manhattan.

As he turned to leave, something on the floor caught his eye. It was a penny. He picked it up and looked at the date—same year he was born. He thought,
A lucky penny!
Then he laughed at himself for thinking something so stupid.
Right, because all the
lucky
kids get to leave a great school and all their friends and go live out in the middle of nowhere!
Mark pulled his arm back to toss the penny into his empty closet, then stopped.

He walked slowly around the edge of the room. He paused next to the tall iron radiator by the other window. Mark bent over, put his shoulder against the radiator, and pushed. It rocked just enough. Out loud, he said, “This'll do.” His voice sounded hollow in the empty room.

He pushed again, slid the penny under the front right leg of the radiator, then let it settle back. The penny was completely hidden.

It's like a time capsule,
he thought.
Proof that Mark Chelmsley lived the best three years of his life right here!

Then Mark ran out of his room and down the front staircase. He pulled the heavy front door shut with a thump, trotted over to where Leon waited for him, and jumped into the backseat of the Mercedes.

Leon shut Mark's door then climbed in the driver's side, fastened his seatbelt, and started the engine. Anya turned around in her seat to smile at Mark, but she knew better than to say anything. She knew what it was to leave things behind.

As the car swung the wide arc of the brick driveway and then turned onto the road, Mark didn't look back.

Next stop, New Hampshire.

Anya shook him gently. “Mark, we're here.”

Mark sat up in the backseat and looked around, groggy and confused. Then he climbed out, but he didn't follow Anya toward the door on the far side of the garage. Instead, he walked to the back of the car.

He stood on the concrete just inside the garage, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the late afternoon light. Looking around, Mark thought maybe they'd driven to a different planet. The storm that had promised one inch of snow for his old home had dropped eight inches onto his new one.

His eyes followed the deep tire tracks in the new snow. The twin ribbons marked the narrow roadway that stretched across a field and into a distant stand of pines. Closer to the house, the driveway ran between two fenced pastures, and every fifteen feet or so a pair
of tall sticks had been stuck into the ground on either side to help drivers when the snow got deep, like today. The snow had been plowed up high on both sides of the road, evidence of previous snowstorms.

Looking to his right, Mark saw the front of the original house. The Realtor's brochure had said the old part of the house had been finished in 1798. The new part had been finished about two weeks ago: five new bedrooms, four new bathrooms, a big family room, a full office suite, an exercise room, an indoor lap pool, and a three-car garage—plus a separate living area for Leon and Anya.

The new part of the house was almost three times larger than the original, but it didn't look that way. Except for the garage, the additions had been built onto the back of the house and extended downward along the slope of the land. The only way to see the true size of the place was to walk all the way around it.

A gust of wind swirled some powdery snow down from the roof of the garage. Mark shivered, and as if she'd seen him, Anya stuck her head out the mudroom door and called, “Too cold, Mark. Come get your coat and hat.”

Mark stood staring out at the snow another minute or two, then turned and walked slowly across the polished concrete floor to the back door.

When he came into the kitchen, Anya said, “I'm going to make us a quick supper. Your coat is in the
closet there behind you. Back inside in fifteen minutes, okay?”

Mark said, “I'm not going out,” and turned away from her to look around the room.

Like the house, the kitchen was part old and part new. On the old side, Leon had already built a fire. The huge fireplace was like a little room made of stone and mortar. Mark could have walked all the way into it. There was even a small granite bench built into one side of it. A heavy copper pot hung from an iron hook above the andirons, a reminder that this fireplace had once been the center of the kitchen.

Mark went out through a low doorway and wandered through the dining room, then a study, and a small sitting room. The ceilings were low, and the walls were painted in deep greens and blues. There were old-fashioned chairs and tables, with braided rugs covering the wide floorboards. All the lamps had bulbs shaped like candle flames. Everything tilted—floors, walls, and ceilings—and the rooms felt cramped and dark. The small windows didn't let in much light.

Mark studied the thick shutters to the right and left of each window. They weren't like the shutters in their family room in Scarsdale. These shutters were solid wood with broad iron hinges and sturdy latches. They weren't there to look nice or to give a little privacy. These shutters had been made to keep things out.

The old living room had another huge fireplace,
though not as deep as the one in the kitchen. This one was made of brick with a broad wooden mantel. Mark went to the tall cabinet built into the wall on the left side of the fireplace and pulled the door open. He'd read about this cupboard in the brochure that the real estate lady had sent to his parents.

It was a firewood bin, almost empty at the moment. Mark pushed on the back of the cupboard, and the panel swung inward, just as the brochure had said it would. In the dim light Mark could see the narrow staircase. It led up to a secret room, and people believed it had been used to shelter runaway slaves on the Underground Railroad.

Leaning forward and looking up into the gloom, Mark thought,
Plenty of time to explore tomorrow.
That was true, but Mark knew the real reason he didn't climb over the logs and go up the stairs: He didn't like to be alone in the dark. Mark pulled the panel shut, closed the cupboard door, and moved on.

The new part of the house didn't impress Mark. Sure, everything was gorgeous, every rug, every antique, every painting. Sure, everything was designed perfectly, from the octagonal sunroom to the home theater installation to the pink granite lap pool. Spacious rooms, beautiful materials, rich furnishings.

But Mark knew how easy it had been for his parents to write the big checks. He knew how easy it had
been for his mom to pick the best architects and designers and decorators. And since Mark knew that, it all seemed ordinary to him.

Except for the views. Mark had no defense against the beauty of nature. The house was perched in the middle of a large upland meadow with stunning views in every direction. The architect had made sure that each oversized window was placed for maximum impact.

At the landing on the staircase leading up to the bedrooms, Mark stopped to stare into the distance. The sky was clearing from west to east, and where there had been solid gray twenty minutes ago, now streaks of pink and gold spread along the underside of the clouds. The dark pines along the ridge, the tracery of leafless birch and maple trees, the rocky outcroppings—everything stood out in sharp relief against the blazing sky. And off to the east, the White Mountains lived up to their name. Standing still, Mark drew in a deep breath as if to taste the air, and he wished he had gone outside instead.

“Suppertime!”

Mark pulled his eyes away, the spell broken. “Coming!”

Tomato soup, grilled ham and cheese, peeled carrot sticks with ranch dip, chocolate milk, and fresh apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Anya knew all Mark's favorites, and she'd made sure to have them on hand for this first meal at his new home.

Leon took a loud sip of soup from a mug, then wiped at his moustache with a napkin. “So,” he said, “what do you think of the place? Pretty great, eh?”

Mark shrugged. “Yeah.”

Leon hadn't kept it a secret that he loved the whole idea of moving north. Mark's father had sent him up to the new house twice in the past month. Leon needed to learn all about the water system, the backup electrical generator, and the security system. The house even had its own water tower and sprinkler system because the nearest fire department was over ten miles away.

Leon gestured over his shoulder. “The mountains, you saw them?”

Mark nodded. “Uh-huh.”

Leon winked at Anya. “The White Mountains are not so nice as the Ural Mountains, but they'll do, don't you think? But I am not happy about the soil here. Bad. Very bad.”

Mark took another bite of his sandwich. He didn't know that much about Leon and Anya, but he knew they had lived in central Russia before coming to America. Anya had taught at a nursery school and Leon had worked on a potato farm. In Scarsdale Leon had taken over part of the side yard and planted a garden. From June to October he and Anya had enjoyed a steady harvest of homegrown vegetables.