The Cabin - Jasinda Wilder Page 0,42

heart—all I can hear is Lisa’s voice.

Now you’re ready to heal, ain’tcha. Boy, you been wallowing in some fake-ass shit, and you know it. Time to move on, big ol’ lover boy.

“Okay, Lisa,” I whisper, my voice harsh and loud in the silence. “Okay. I hear you. I’ll try.”

The automatic headlights of my truck shut off, and I’m wrapped up in darkness. Now only the moon and stars shed light, and after a moment of standing in the darkness the night songs grow louder.

The sky is mammoth. Out here, in the mountains, an hour from the nearest real town, there are more stars than dark space between. Down low, the trees on the far end of the lake obscure the stars in spires and clumps, and there’s the faint chooonk-clop of waves against the dock posts.

I have the key in my pocket, and I fish it out. My shoes plonk on the old wooden steps, two of them. I click on the flashlight on my phone, a sudden burst of white light revealing an old brass door handle, the area around the lock scratched into faded graphite scribbles. The door is pine, with four panes of leaded glass, dust-clouded. My cell phone light reflects garishly off the glass. I unlock the door and twist the knob, push in. I fumble along the wall next to the door and find a light switch; a handmade chandelier turns on, made from braided silver strands and sections of stained glass. It’s an odd choice for lighting in a rustic fishing cabin, but it’s pretty, and a work of art, lovingly crafted.

I turn in a slow circle taking everything in.

On the back wall there’s an avocado-colored refrigerator and an antique gas range in a darker forest green. The counters, a few feet of them on either side of a porcelain farm sink, to the right of the door are slate, rough-hewn, probably locally quarried and handmade. The floors underneath are pine—they’re solid, squeak-free, restained within the past ten years and well cared for, but old, very old. Like much else I’m seeing, the floors are handcrafted, and by someone skilled in woodworking well before the time of electric saws and sanders.

The walls are bare log, with a few antique decorations: a Coca-Cola sign, some snowshoes, a two-man saw, an old fishing net. Over the door hangs a muzzleloader, the barrel octagonal, the stock made from a dark, polished hardwood.

“Nice,” I murmur. Not so much to myself as to the spirit of Adrian.

It’s clean, so someone’s been here to freshen up.

There’s a door on the back wall, left of the range, leading to the bedroom. The wall left of the front door is dominated by the fireplace, made from giant river stones and boulders, with a thick pine mantle over it. On the mantle is a small envelope, and within, a sheet from a legal pad, in Adrian’s handwriting.

I open it; it’s from Adrian.

Welcome home, Nathan.

This place was built in 1899 by a man named Roger Klupinsky. He was a craftsman, as I’m sure you can see. He built the whole place, top to bottom, with his own two hands. Quarried the stone for the counters, cut down and worked the trees for the walls and the floors, everything. His great-grandson did some retouching a decade or so ago, refinished the floor, put on the metal roof, updated the wiring and plumbing. The appliances are genuine antiques, but refurbished. The muzzleloader works, there’s powder and shot and all that stuff in the closet in the bedroom, I’m told.

The other key is for a lockbox at the bank in town. It’s in your name. Go get the contents of that box. Meet you there, partner!

Unsigned.

It’s like a scavenger hunt, eh, Adrian? All right, I’m game. I lost track of the hours it took to get here, and I’m wiped. Maybe I’ll even sleep.

The bedroom is tiny, just big enough for a queen bed, again handmade by the same hands. A newer mattress, though, and I spy bedding in a large zippered bag in the closet on the shelf. I make the bed, and then check out the bathroom. Tinier yet. Toilet, pedestal sink, mirrored medicine cabinet. Subway tile shower, a glass door, the enclosure barely big enough for someone my size. Thank god, though, the showerhead is hung high enough I won’t have to do the limbo to get under it.

Home.

Huh.

I collapse on the bed, barely kick off my shoes and climb under the blankets, fully