The Cabin - Jasinda Wilder Page 0,44

cabin, so I figure it’s empty for now. Whoever owns the rest of this property is not here. It’s natural to assume his wife would own it, but seeing as he gave this part to me, and a year after his death, I don’t like to hold on to that assumption. No matter, either way. I’m here for me.

I see no other cabins on the lake, just these two.

Finally, it’s late enough in the morning that the bank ought to be open, so I head into town with the lockbox key in my pocket. The town is minuscule—a crossing of two local highways, with a gas station, a church, a bank, a post office, a bait and tackle shop, an army and navy surplus, a tiny supermarket, a general store, a couple cafes, a couple bars, and one sit-down restaurant a quarter mile outside town on a different little lake. I don’t even know the name of the town, as the address of the cabin is not the same as the nearby town. Doesn’t matter.

I head into the bank. The teller is an elderly woman with bouffant white hair, half-moon glasses, and a necklace made from chunky beads of red plastic.

She smiles maternally at me. “Hello, dear. I don’t recognize you, which means you must be new here.” She extends her hand, and I shake her hand gently; her fingers are tiny and cold and wrinkled. “I’m Mrs. Forniss.”

“Nathan Fischer,” I say, offering her a smile. “I am new. Just got in last night. One of those two cabins down on the lake, about fifteen minutes from here.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh. Oh my. I heard someone bought the old Rupinksy property. Glad of it, as we all are. The Rupinsky family partly founded this town, but when Michael passed away back in, oh, twenty-ten, twenty-eleven? The property went into the care of an estate run by some cousin out in California, I guess, and those beautiful cabins were left empty for years. There was talk about the man who bought it. He’s a writer, I heard. Is that you?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m a carpenter.”

“Oh, I see.” She’s clearly waiting for me to elaborate, but when I don’t, she clears her throat. “Well. What can I do for you, Nathan? Open an account?”

I set the key on the counter between us. “I’ve been told there’s a lockbox here in my name.”

She pushes away from the counter, stands up. “I’ll go look.”

She’s gone about five minutes or so, and returns with a lockbox. “Can I see your ID, please?” I show it to her, and she sets the box on the counter. “Would you like a private room?”

I shake my head. Unlock the lockbox. Within is a single paperback book.

The title is Redemption’s Song, by Adrian Bell.

Huh. That’s not a title I’ve ever seen. I pull out my phone and search; no book by that name by Adrian Bell exists.

I lift the book out—there’s nothing else. Just the book. Oh, wait…there’s another note on that legal pad paper, tucked into the first page.

I close the box, slide it toward the teller, smiling. “Thanks.”

“Will that be all, Mr. Fischer?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Thanks.”

I tuck the book under my arm and head out to my truck.

Drive back to the cabin—back home.

Sit on the front porch with the book in hand.

Finally, I take out the note.

Nathan,

This is the last one. The last note you’ll get from me. No point dragging this out anymore.

This book is my final story. No one has ever read it. It will never be published. It will make zero dollars.

I wrote it for you.

And for Nadia.

It’s a story about moving on. About finding love after loss. It’s me asking the question, how do you move on when your heart’s true love has died? And then attempting to answer that question.

I’m no Great American Novelist—I just tell romance stories. But I think this is my best work. My opus.

Read it. Please read it, Nathan. Read it, and hear the song in it. Hear what I’m trying to say to you. To Nadia.

Don’t show it to her. Not yet. She’s not ready.

You’re here for her, Nathan. I’m sorry if this feels presumptuous of me. But it’s the only thing I can do.

These are my last words, the final words I shall ever write. This is where I write THE END on my life. I have a few more weeks yet, perhaps months, but I shall spend them with her.

I wish I had