Fairy Tale: Winter's Bite

Chapter 13: Memory Lane (Part 2)

By midmorning, Chris was navigating the streets of Westport with prudent impatience, past shops still busy with holiday commerce, luxury cars—stopping, parking, idling—and chic pedestrians, scarfed, coated, and hatted, strolling about in the light snow. The shopping bags, the smiles, handshakes and hugs, the jingle bells, and the music were all part of an unreachable illusion.

And for Chris to witness love and happiness on the morning after—it was a form of cruelty he had never experienced before.

He kept on, gained speed, and once the downtown shopping area was behind him, he turned into a residential neighborhood and brought the 4Runner to a crawl with a gasp of relief. "This is it, I believe."

Chris parked the car on the road in front of his aunt's house, just beyond the half-circle brick driveway, and watched Joe's eyes go wide in the window's reflection.

"That's not a house. It's an estate!" Joe bobbed his nose toward the Long Island Sound. "Wow, right on the water, too. Look!"

"Yeah, that's great," Chris said without really looking. He dragged the key from the ignition one notch at a time.

"Okay. I admit it. Even I'm a little intimidated," Joe confessed, acknowledging Chris's hesitancy and coming to terms with his own. "I mean, what do we even say? 'Good morning. We're your estranged nephews. And here are your grand-niece and grand-nephew; don't mind their wings. Oh, and this little princess here—she doesn't take up much space. Mind if we crash at your place while you cough up our colorful family history?'"

"Or how about, 'It would have been nice if you had come to your sister's funeral.'"

"No offense, Chris, why don't you let me do the talking? You can just smile and nod."

Chris gave Joe a sideways glance.

"All right, just nod, then."

Joe evaluated the mansion one last time and then opened the car door. "I feel kind of bad. We look like slobs wearing these college kids' clothes. It hardly seems appropriate considering the venue."

"Who cares?" Chris replied. "On second thought, maybe it's good that you care. You might actually fit in with the Wakefield side of the family."

With Cassie, Morgan, and Ryan tucked away in their pockets, the MacRae brothers stepped past the open gate and onto the driveway. The closer they moved to the house, the more luxurious it seemed. It had slate-gray siding with elaborate white trim around every window and door. There were white porches and balconies circulating around the house, with patio furniture covered and secured for the New England winter. For late December, it was a sight to see—powerfully dreary. The folds of gray in the sky, the surging black waves, the cracks of light breaking through the cloud cover, all highlighted by white froth as the turbulent sea crashed on the rocks below.

The view could only improve as the seasons changed. On a warm summer evening, with a storm coming in, the sunset on the horizon, this location could have easily been one of the most spectacular places to live on the East Coast.

They climbed upon the gleaming front porch, rang the doorbell, and waited for what felt like an eternity.

At long last, tentative footsteps approached. Chris and Joe exchanged one last desperate look that seemed to say, Is it too late to run screaming in the other direction?

A slight woman in her fifties wearing a trendy yoga outfit opened the door. "Can I help you?" she asked—curt and clipped—her arms crossed tight over her chest.

"Hi, my name is Joe, and this is—"

"Oh, my God!" she said, after taking a better look at them. "How could I not immediately recognize you? Christopher, right?"