Wren Wood

By Carol Wakefield

Maggie Wynne, a recently separated mother with two young children was about to embark on her new life in a new home, in a new town. The attractive colonial style townhouse Maggie had moved to at 66 Wren Pathway stood at the end of a row of six. That should have been the first warning that her life at Wren Wood was not going to be normal. There would be more to follow.

The year is 1980. Author Carol Wakefield spins a tale of a town with a secret – a secret buried thirty years ago in the foreboding woods that border the estate behind the house and that haunts the residents of the nearby town of Haughton.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol Wakefield
• Release date: Feb 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777490812

Carol Wakefield

As far as biographies go, I am probably like you, the reader - a suburban housewife, who loves a good read to pass some spare time. If you want to know my whole story, go to www.carolwakefield.com but the short version is I live a pretty ordinary life in Richmond Hill, Ontario, with my husband and son and a whole lot of cats and I love to write about adventures that I hope I never experience for real (except for the fact that I really wish I could do the things Catt does).

Book preview

Prologue

1980

The house stood at the end of a row of six. Its outward appearance gave the impression of quaint colonialism, an architectural feature most developers had discovered could sell more homes than good construction. Flower boxes blossomed with geraniums, pansies or impatiens at each front window; sun glinted off multi-paned, shuttered windows. Brass coach lamps adorned each frontispiece. It was charming. All that was missing was a cobblestone track instead of the neatly paved roadway that ended in a cul-de-sac near encroaching woods.

Here we are, said the agent, key in lock. Number six. This was our model suite.

It’s lovely, agreed Maggie. She followed the agent into the bright foyer. Ahead, a long hallway stretched into an expanse that must be the living room. To her right, she could see the first few steps of the stairs before they turned the corner, going up. All the mouldings and doors were fashioned in pseudo colonial style.

Yes, I thought you’d like it, continued the agent. The kitchen is through here.

She led Maggie into a room to the left. The kitchen was large and squarish, one wall brick, the other three, including the cupboards, bleached pine. Light flooded through the window over the sink, sparkling across the refrigerator at one end of a long pale granite counter, the range at the opposite end. The colour of the countertop was reflected in the tiles of the floor and backsplash.

It comes complete with fridge, stove and pantry. You’re very lucky you called when you did. These places have sold so quickly you might have missed out. In fact, this is the last one left.

I see. Maggie felt the first nudge of discomfort. She didn’t like being pushed, even though she could see the woman was perfectly right. She’d known as soon as she’d seen the house, almost as though she’d known even before she’d seen it, as though it was something she’d dreamed. — I beg your pardon?

I was just mentioning that your heating is gas… She stopped, peered at Maggie, her glasses giving her an owlish look. Are you alright?

Oh, yes, Maggie quickly smiled, embarrassed. Of course. I guess I was just admiring the kitchen.

"Yes, it is beautiful. She stopped and gave Maggie a cursory glance. It felt just a touch cold. Well, Mrs. Wynne, let’s go through to the dining room."

Maggie followed her, feeling chagrined. No, more like scolded, as though she was an errant child. To be fair, she hadn’t been paying attention. She shook her head. She hurried to catch up.

The dining room was formed from the smaller end of the L-shaped room at the back of the house. There was nothing extraordinary about it, apart from the chandelier that hung from the center of the ceiling. It was shaped from black wrought iron, five tongues extending from a central shaft, each with what appeared to be a bizarre, distorted gargoyle protruding from the outer ends. Flame-like, tapered bulbs reached upward from the open mouths of the gargoyles.

Maggie shivered.

Yes, that is quite unusual, remarked the agent. "And it might surprise you to know that all fixtures come with the house! I don’t think you’ll ever see another chandelier quite like that one."

No. Nor would she want to. It would have to go.

And this is your living room. The agent had already moved into the room, and stood silhouetted against the large window to one side of the fireplace. For a fleeting moment, she seemed the image of something not quite natural, something not quite right, and then the sun dimmed briefly and the impression was gone.

Maggie couldn’t quite put her finger on her sudden unease. She shook her head again. What’s the matter with me today? She smiled apologetically.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Parmenter. What was that?

The agent glanced at Maggie, her expression unreadable. I apologize, Mrs. Wynne. I suppose I’m moving a little too quickly for you. I imagine you were just wondering how your things might fit in here, is that right?

Maggie smiled gratefully and turned towards the fireplace. The mantle was solid oak and beautifully polished. On the far side of the room stood an oak Dutchman door and, through the oval bevelled glass panel at the top, Maggie could see a small, partially fenced backyard, and beyond it, a wood. Mrs. Parmenter was talking about the fireplace.

…and the mantle is an exact replica of the one that used to be in the old Wren mansion. Of course, you’re aware that this development, this row in fact, sits on the site of that old house?

No, said Maggie. No, I don’t believe I’d heard that.

Well, my dear, Mrs. Parmenter went on, "you did know that Nathaniel Wren was the original settler in this area?"

Mm…yes. Maggie recalled a brief memory. What that had to do with these town homes, she didn’t understand.

Well, when his last heir – heiress, I guess I should say – Mary Wren died, the executor sold the estate to developers, with the stipulation that the architecture maintain the integrity of the original colonial style. I think, if Mary Wren was alive today, she would have to agree that Wren Wood certainly fits that description, don’t you?

If Mary Wren was alive today, Wren Wood wouldn’t even be here. The words rang harshly in her head. Maggie gasped inwardly. Now, why did I think that? She became aware the agent was regarding her strangely.

It certainly seems to, Mrs. Parmenter. She smiled brightly. The woman continued to observe her, indecision, and something else Maggie couldn’t determine, on her face. Maggie turned towards the stairs. I think she would be very pleased. Could I see the upstairs now?

Somewhat mollified, the agent led the way upstairs. A handsome oak banister wound its way up and around two corners and gave way onto a narrow landing.

This is your master bedroom, explained Mrs. Parmenter, opening the door onto a large rectangular room with shuttered windows down the entire length. You have a walk-in closet at the end, an ensuite bathroom, and plenty of light. These houses have large bedrooms, though they compromised on the hall space. And each room has its own temperature control.

She indicated a round control panel near the light switch.

Maggie walked into the middle of the room and immediately felt at home. It’s charming. Do all the rooms have shutters on the windows?

Oh, yes. Would you care to see the other bedrooms first, or the main bathroom?

Bedrooms, please.

Well, remarked Mrs. Parmenter, as she led the way down the hall, I can assure you that there is plenty of room for your children. She peered over her glasses. You did say you had children, didn’t you?

Yes. Two.

Ah. She showed Maggie into a slightly smaller room at the end of the hall. Well, both of these other bedrooms are at the back of the house, so the children won’t be disturbed by traffic noise. I know how important that is to young mothers. She smiled at Maggie and moved towards the window, opening one of the shutters. See, you can look out onto the woods and pretend you’re right out in the country. And, being the end unit, there’s plenty of privacy – you’ll never know you’re living in a townhouse! What do you think, dear?

Maggie stood looking out the window. Mrs. Parmenter was right. It was ideal for Danny and Jessie. The woods started about twenty feet from the end of the backyard, and stretched out until the land rose sharply. Trees lined the far granite ridge and spilled haphazardly down the incline, becoming thicker as they approached the development. Beyond, Maggie could see smoke spiralling skyward from the industrial park on the outskirts of the city. So close, yet it felt like another world. Maggie shivered inwardly again. What was with her today? She shook her head.

You’re very close to Upton, Mrs. Parmenter said, as if reading her thoughts. And, of course, shopping, schools and transit routes.

Yes, Maggie agreed, her attention caught by a glimmer in the woods. Excuse me, Mrs. Parmenter, is that a river back there? She pointed.

Why, there is a small creek. She glanced at Maggie. Ah! But don’t worry, dear, it’s perfectly safe, if it’s your children you’re thinking about. The creek is only a foot deep at most. She laughed. I think every child who’s ever grown up in this village has fallen into that creek at one time or another. But you mustn’t worry – children don’t shrink!

But hadn’t she heard that you could drown in an inch of water? Maggie suppressed a twinge of doubt. Surely she was being silly. Or overly protective. Yes. Yes, you’re right, of course.

The house was perfect, almost too perfect, if there was such a thing. She could hardly believe her good fortune.

…I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s a bargain, the agent continued when they found themselves back on the ground floor. She beamed at Maggie. And, if you don’t mind me saying so, it fits you. What do you think?

Maggie stood in the center of the living room. In the brilliant sunlight streaming through the windows, the house seemed alive, and expectant. Waiting. Waiting for people.

She turned slowly around in a circle, and then faced Mrs. Parmenter.

Yes. Yes, it does.

Chapter ONE

"Mom! Where’s the bathroom stuff? I need a towel. Mom?"

Maggie stood on a kitchen chair, surrounded by boxes, some open and spilling their contents onto the tile floor, others waiting patiently for her to get to them. Every available space was occupied by something – a toaster, blender, pots and pans, boxes of nails, many newspaper wrapped plates and bowls. Even the sink was full of oddments. Unhung plants crowded the top of the refrigerator, and a box of mugs and glasses vied for space on the range with an assortment of cookbooks, pot holders and the kitchen clock.

Mom! A dark haired boy of seven, appeared at the kitchen door, hands dripping, shirt sodden. Hey, Mom, I need –

Yes, I know, Danny. A towel. Maggie looked around her futilely. Look, I don’t know where anything is yet, okay? Why don’t you just wipe them on your pants?

But you always tell us not to.

I know, Maggie smiled, viewing his soggy shirt. But, today I don’t think it’ll make much difference.

Hmm…well, okay, he agreed, wiping his hands with exaggerated motions on his jeans. He grinned at her. So, does this mean if we don’t find them by bedtime, we don’t have to have a bath?

I wouldn’t go that far.

O-o-oh, he complained briefly. Then he started to open a box labelled ‘dishes’. Hey, Mom, can I help you?

Did you finish unpacking your room?

Well, not yet. He regarded her earnestly. How about if I help you, you can help me?

Sorry, Dan, your room, your responsibility.

"Aw-w-w, Mo-om."

Off you go, then.

Aw… Danny turned down the hall cluttered with boxes. The doorbell rang. He ran to answer it, climbing over more boxes and rolled up carpets.

Maggie stepped down from the chair and worked her way over towards the door, but Danny got there first.

The caller was a young woman with frizzy reddish hair and bright green eyes. She was dressed in a sweatshirt and blue jeans, and held a cake plate in her hands.

Hi! I’m Lizzie Marlowe. I live next door. Welcome to the neighbourhood! She grinned. How are you doing? Getting settled?

Hey, Mom, there’s a lady h–!

Yes, I can see, Danny. She rescued the cake plate from his slippery hands. Thank you. I’m Maggie Wynne. And this is Danny. Come on in, if you can squeeze by everything. I’m in the kitchen.

Do you have any kids? Danny asked, manoeuvring his way across the top of the rolled up living room rug. He slipped and caught himself on a box.

Danny! Maggie yelped.

Yes, I’ve got a daughter about your age, Danny. Lizzie grinned. Maybe you can play with her later.

"A girl? Danny sneered as he ran from the room. Yuck! Jessie can play with her. I’m no sissy!"

Jessie is upstairs, Maggie explained, rolling her eyes at her son. She’s almost nine. Next month. How old is your daughter, Lizzie? She looked wildly around the kitchen and finally set the cake on top of the box of glasses on the range.

Jane will be nine in December. She viewed the shambles and started to climb over the boxes. Need some help?

Enter at your own risk. Maggie looked at the kitchen in despair. "Somewhere, underneath all this, I really do have a kitchen."

Hey, don’t worry. We all went through this. By the end of the week, you’ll forget it ever looked like this.

Thanks, Maggie said hopelessly, but, by the end of the week, I’ll be ready for the loony bin.

Not if I have anything to say about it. Lizzie seized a box of dishes. I’m a world champion mover – nine times in ten years – I’ll wash these while you unpack them, and you can tell me where they go.

Maggie stared at her. "Nine moves?"

Yeah, but this is the last. She grinned. I’m here for life.

Maggie laughed. Wow! I couldn’t even contemplate another move like this again, so I guess that makes two of us!

* * *

By the end of the afternoon, the kitchen was shaping up. All of the boxes had been unpacked, the dishes washed, dried and put away in the cupboards; the pots and pans stored in the stove drawer; the kitchen clock on the wall over the sink. Lizzie finished stuffing the last bits of packing paper into the recycle box and stood back to survey their efforts.

I think you need a plant hanging right in front of the window, she said, pointing. Surveying the plants on top of the fridge, she picked out an ivy and held it up.

Mind?

Oh, not at all, Maggie said. It looks great. And so does the kitchen. She looked around. Thanks so much. I couldn’t have done it without you.

Sure you could. It just would’ve taken you longer, Lizzie said. "And it wouldn’t look this good. I have style."

They both laughed.

And if I can remember where I put the coffee, would you like a cup?

You don’t have to twist my arm, Lizzie agreed. I think we’ve earned it. And, she cupped her mouth with her hand, and pointed, whispering, it’s in that cupboard over there. I’ll call the kids. We might as well have some of this terrific cake too.

The four of them sat on the kitchen floor, plates spread out in front of them.

Wow! This is neat! exclaimed Danny. Just like a picnic. Can we eat like this all the time, Mom?

Jessie answered for her mother. "Don’t be silly, Danny. It would get boring if we had to eat on the floor all the time. Can Jane come over and play with me later, Mrs. Marlowe?"

Oh, I’m sorry, Jessie, said Lizzie, picking some crumbs off the floor. Jane’s out for the day with her dad. Maybe tomorrow would be better.

Jessie’s face clouded. Oh. She bit her lip. Mom, may I be excused?

She got up and made her way up the stairs without waiting for an answer. Lizzie watched her, perturbed.

Did I say something wrong?

No, it’s okay, Lizzie, Maggie said hurriedly. Danny, please go wash your hands and face.

Aw, Mom.

"Danny!"

But there’s still no towels.

Maggie grabbed a tea towel. Use this. Scat now, okay?

Reluctantly, Danny went. "You just want to talk about Jessie. I don’t care."

There was a brief silence in the kitchen. The clock ticked. Maggie bit her lip.

Look, I’m sorry about that. I should have warned you. Jessie’s a bit upset about her father. Actually, her father and me.

Hey, you don’t have to –

No, it’s okay, Maggie said firmly. We’re separated. Jessie is understandably upset. But, she sighed, it’s something we all have to get used to.

Lizzie stared at her intently for several seconds. When she spoke, it was in a low steady voice.Excuse me if I’m wrong, but it seems Jessie isn’t the only one upset.

Chapter TWO

Michael Wynne was thirty-six, tall, dark-haired and good looking. The ultimate fortune teller’s prophecy. He had sailed through life without a hitch: top grades at school, a profession he loved and excelled at. Promotion had followed promotion until he had taken the chance to go on his own, open his own business, be master of his own destiny. His life was almost perfect – a dream come true. Except for one thing. His marriage.

Somewhere along the line, the dream had gone awry, turned into, if not a nightmare, at very least an uninvited catastrophe. He loved his wife and family, he did. They just needed to understand that he had to work longer and harder than ever before and, if that meant giving up a few things, missing certain events, rarely being home, well, it couldn’t be helped. One day, one day soon, this would all be behind them. They could be a family again.

The song, Cat’s in the Cradle flashed through his mind. No, he wanted to shout. It isn’t like that. It isn’t.

It was.

He knew this deep in his heart, when he saw the hurt in their eyes; the hurt that changed to dismay, and then to distrust, and finally to acceptance that there would be no change. No going back.

Finally, time had run out for Michael and Maggie.

Now, as he guided his Mercedes through the winding streets of Wren Wood, he was conscious of an almost imperceptible sensation of nervousness growing in the pit of his stomach. It had been almost two months since he had last seen Maggie, since that last terrible night when he had come home, late as usual, to nothing. In that split second, after he had walked through the door, called, Hello, up the stairs and waited for a reply that never came, never would come again, he had realized a feeling of loss he had never anticipated and could never accept. It sat like a stone in his heart.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t know how to go about getting something he wanted.

For the first time, he was scared.

He located 66 Wren Pathway, and left his car in one of the visitor parking spaces. A meandering flagstone path led the way through the development, six rows of six town homes, each identical from the outside apart from the variety of flowers in the boxes under the windows. He could see Maggie’s house with no difficulty, an end unit backing onto a wooded area. A boy’s bicycle leaned up against one of the posts of the front porch, a couple of Star Wars toys lay half hidden by geraniums in the flower box. He rang the doorbell.

He heard muffled footsteps, then the door was flung open and Danny hurled himself at Michael’s legs.

Dad!

Hi, Danny! Michael hugged him tightly. Too tightly? How did he know what was appropriate? What he should be doing? Was it okay to hug? His throat choked up and he let go. Danny gave him a funny look and then turned back inside.

Hey, Mom! Mom, Dad’s here!

Michael looked up to see Maggie coming down the hall. She stopped in mid-step when she saw him. She wore an old flannel shirt and a pair of faded jeans. Her long, honey coloured hair was pulled loosely back into a ponytail. She looked all of fifteen. Michael thought she had never looked more beautiful. He felt a tightness in his chest as he straightened up. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Maggie?

Hello, Michael, Maggie smiled and gestured to Danny. Danny, go tell Jessie that Daddy’s here.

Sure!

They waited until they could hear his footsteps in the upper hall. Maggie blushed and held the door open.

Um…hello. Come on in… She gestured awkwardly. Coffee?

Oh, sure, thanks. He followed her through the hallway into the kitchen and watched as she filled the kettle and set it on the range. He’d seen her do this a thousand times – no more like thousands of times – but this time felt like the first. His throat still ached.

Instant okay?

Sure.

It seemed to be the only word he could say and even then, it sounded harshly alien to his ears. He wasn’t sure of anything.

As Maggie busied herself putting coffee and sugar into mugs, Michael watched her deft movements. He felt self conscious, at a loss for words, a situation new to him. Lately, there had been a lot of situations new to him. He felt like a voyeur in his own life. If only…if only was not good enough.

So, where are you taking the kids today? Her smile seemed strained as she held out the coffee. Or was that just his imagination? Funny, because he didn’t seem to have much imagination these days. Another thing lost and gone? Careful, it’s hot.

Thanks, Maggie. He took the mug carefully. His tongue felt like lead. He shoved the words past it. They sounded lame even to him. I thought maybe a movie. What do you think?

Sounds fine.

There was another awkward silence. Michael stood in the doorway, staring into the dining room. A pine buffet and hutch stood against the near wall and, in the middle of the room was an oval pine table surrounded by ladder back chairs.

Good God! Where did that grotesque chandelier come from?

Maggie laughed, but the sound was brittle. Be polite, she commanded herself. He’s right. It is ugly. I know what you mean. It came with the house. I’ve been meaning to replace it, but… She shrugged.