After becoming mesmerized by a particular exhibition while gallery-hopping in Chelsea (a favorite, free activity) and revisiting the exhibit numerous times, Shaw claimed an unfamiliar certainty: He knew what he needed to do. He channeled his energy into painting somewhat surreal versions of things he’d photographed. Cityscapes had attracted him at first, a blend of gritty realism with a touch of unexpected whimsy. Sophisticated and polished, they made his previous efforts look like doodles. But his real desire was to turn his eye on the natural world. Had it just been a matter of his needing more space—which he certainly did if he wanted to continue painting anything larger than the lid of a shoebox—Orla might not have been convinced to make such a rural move. But he needed nature now the way she’d once needed a metropolis with the heart of a diva.
They’d visited the land for the first time six months ago; his brother, Walker, had alerted them to it soon after they started talking about what they might do and where they might do it. Neither of them had particularly liked it; the old wooden farmhouse was a mess and more cramped than Orla had desired. They hadn’t even bothered to show it to the kids then, not considering it a real contender, though they’d poked around the nearby, undeniably quaint town of Saranac Lake Village. The only thing Shaw had really sparked to was the tree: a giant evergreen fifty yards behind the nothing of a house, its massive trunk rocketing upward from the middle of the earth, surrounded by smaller trees, like attendants in waiting.
While the real estate agent made phone calls in his car, Orla and Shaw had strolled back to the tree, Shaw attuned to its siren call, a glow on his face.
“I saw a tree like this once, a bit north of here, when I was camping with my dad. Was just a kid, maybe nine—Bean’s age. I told my dad I could feel it. I felt something. Maybe it was the first time I realized, or thought about, how there were things in the natural world that outlived us, that saw history and maybe recorded time in their own way. My brother just teased me—par for the course back then. But my dad said something really weird—so weird that I always remembered it, and Walker shut up, no witty comebacks.”
“What did he say?” Orla slipped her hand into his. Shaw’s father had died of pancreatic cancer years ago, and she often wished she’d gotten to know him better.
“That sometimes when you’re out in the world—he meant the mountains, the forests; he’d always lived here—you recognize the other parts of your soul.” Shaw looked at her then, still pondering those words. “I had no idea what he meant, but after that, every time I went into the woods I was looking…for something.”
“For parts of yourself.”
“Maybe.”
“Your dad taught you…to see how we’re part of something bigger. I like that.”
“How we’re connected.” He’d held her face in his hands and kissed her. Orla got light-headed, giggly, like they’d gone back in time and were newly in love.
Just as they’d reached for the tree, fascinated by the ancient bark, the real estate agent’s voice cut through the air. They hurried back.
Orla thought that had been the end of it, an interesting possibility and a pleasant visit. But after they got home, Shaw began reporting a recurring dream: Orla and the kids living on that land. Blossoming. And visions of himself in the room off the living room, conjuring his masterpieces. They resumed talking about it. The surrounding trees had been so beautiful in the spring, a tapestry of bursting green, with that special tree off in the distance.
“It’s like it’s our guardian,” Shaw had said. “I see it, towering, in my dreams.”
And his work improved and evolved, incorporating more and more wild greenery even though they hadn’t yet left the city. As his process and his vision solidified, he became more convinced.
“It’s calling to me. I think it’s my muse.” The ancient tree began to invade his work, peeking over the tops of buildings.
Orla had never been called by nature, but she believed him. It was a new thrill—for both of them—to see him find himself by losing himself in the creation of his paintings. Orla liked how the land reminded Shaw of his father and the philosophical lessons of his youth. When they checked back in with the real estate agent three months later, the price had dropped. The house had been empty for a while; out-of-state relatives were anxious to sell. They put in a lowball offer, and when it was accepted, a trajectory was set in motion.
2
Are all the windows in now, Papa?” Eleanor Queen asked from the back seat, sounding as concerned as usual.
“Double-paned. Keep the wind out.” Shaw grinned at his daughter in the rearview mirror. He’d become more animated in recent months—noticeable when they’d first committed to the move, but it had increased over the previous three weeks as he grew eager to settle into his new studio. Sometimes his enthusiasm manifested in him pacing or speaking too quickly or tapping his fingers or foot. Gradually her mellow husband was becoming more manic; Orla wasn’t sure she liked it.
Though the kids hadn’t seen the house before they’d left the city, they’d monitored the renovations via day-trips while they all stayed at Walker’s. It had been fun bunking up with the other Bennett gang. Shaw had an effortless camaraderie with his brother, and his sister-in-law, Julie, was so nice. Orla (a Bennett by marriage, even if she’d kept her last name, Moreau) had enjoyed their buoyant conversations and domesticity. The boys, too, had been surprisingly accommodating. Twelve-year-old Derek hadn’t minded giving up his room for Shaw and Orla, and fourteen-year-old Jamie had welcomed all the younger kids into his. Eleanor Queen and Tycho giggled at night as they shared a single inflatable mattress, head to toe and toe to head. Even though the children were cousins, Orla had considered it remarkable that the boys had been so quick to entertain a nine-year-old and a four-year-old for days on end. Good kids. They’d shuttled back and forth in various configurations of adults and offspring to get the new-old house ready.
Her daughter’s voice brought her back to the present. “And we won’t be cold?” Eleanor Queen asked, her voice full of worry.
The road was wet and black. The trees bare and black. Streaks of icy snow shot in horizontal bullets past the windows.
“Brand-new furnace,” Shaw said with a grin. “Thousands of dollars!”
“That’ll keep everything cozy-warm,” Orla said, turning to soothe her daughter. “And we got the chimney cleaned for the wood-burning stove, so that’s all ready too. I can already see you snuggled up in front of it, reading a book.”
Eleanor Queen started to smile. But then the pelting snow, a full-on blizzard now, caught her attention again and her little brow furrowed.
Shaw was as proud of the damn furnace as another man might be of a fancy Italian motorcycle. “This is the heart of the house,” he’d said as they stood in the basement watching its installation. “The heart of our new home.”
But for Orla, the cost of everything was becoming a concern. The house and property. The SUV. The furnace and windows. The new generator, in case the electricity went out—even their water, brought up by a pump linked to a deep well, depended on electricity. And the day-to-day things they needed to keep everything and everyone up and running, alive and healthy. They’d paid cash for as much as they could, but she kept a watchful eye on their reserves.