The Cabin - Jasinda Wilder Page 0,56
Tiffany lamp.
Left of the front door is the kitchen. The counters are thick butcher block, with a deep porcelain farm sink. The cabinets under the sink are painted a bohemian array of bright colors, no two colors or shades repeated, and no two cabinet pulls are the same, some being cut crystals, others brass knobs and others ceramic butterflies and delicately wrought designs of filigreed metal or oiled bronze. The cabinets above are white, open face, floating. On the shelves are blue-and-white china dishes. The faucet is oiled bronze, a high elegant arch with antique knobs on either side of the base. The stove is also an antique piece, while the refrigerator is stainless steel, French-doors over the freezer drawer, ultramodern.
The rear wall features a single open doorway, with a sliding barn door stained a dark reddish brown. Beyond, the bedroom. A king-size bed, four-poster, handmade. A tall bureau on one wall, heavy and dark wood with thick bronze pulls; a small, delicate white vanity opposite the bed, lined with Edison bulbs. A bathroom, all white subway tile and industrial fixtures and exposed piping, and a deep hammered-copper soaking tub.
The real draw, though, is the loft. It’s over the back of the cabin, accessible by a ladder-like stair. The space is deep, taking up the entire rear half of the cabin’s footprint, it’s been turned into a library. Shelves line the walls, worked into every little nook and angle, and there’s a large skylight in the metal roof to let in daylight. Instead of a couch or recliner is the largest beanbag chair I’ve ever seen, so big I could curl up on it. There’s a wicker basket beside the beanbag, filled with fleece blankets. The bookshelves are lined with books of all variety, everything from sweet romance and women’s lit and thrillers and horror to biographies and classics and collections of essays. Another floor lamp stands beside the beanbag chair, this one steampunk clockwork.
Every inch of this cabin was designed for me. It’s everything I’ve dreamed of remodeling our home into one day. I’ve talked about it for years; from the moment we bought the house, I talked about knocking out all the interior walls and installing thick exposed beams and making it a boho, industrial-chic wonderland of coziness and color and warmth. I talked about it, but we never got around to it. There was always another book to write, another signing tour, another book-to-movie project for him to oversee, another week of double shifts at the hospital and then vacations to Italy or Spain or Iceland, where we’d spend a week playing tourist in exchange for twelve hours of him signing books and taking photographs.
It makes my eyes sting. Did he have this cabin remodeled into this, for me? Or did he find it like this and know it was meant for me, perfect for me?
My knees wobble as I explore.
The fridge is stocked—everything is straight from my personal grocery list. Everything he knew I would buy is here, from my favorite brand of ice cream to my favorite cans of flavored sparkling water, low-GI pasta, no sugar added condiments. Our own pantry, fridge, and freezer back home have been, in effect, lifted and transported here.
I browse the cabinets: Le Creuset pots and pans, cast iron skillets, deep pasta boiling pots, stoneware omelet pans. Even my preferred brand of kitchen utensils are here. A cabinet full of hand-thrown mugs which he knew I’d love. One cabinet near the fridge opens up to reveal a hidden wine rack—filled with my favorite brands of red wine.
Another cabinet reveals dozens of bars of my favorite chocolate, Stevia sweetened and ultra-dark, sea-salt almond.
Adrian, god.
He did this for me.
How? When?
I head into the bedroom. The comforter is the exact same as the one we have at home, one I had imported from France at great expense, a rare indulgence for me. Thick, heavy, but breathable, velvety soft on the underside and wild with colorful arabesques on top. I run my hand over the comforter, and feel a million joyful, happy memories of Adrian and myself under this comforter bubble up inside. Folded on the foot end of the bed is my favorite blanket, a thick, fleecy, stretchy, soft, warm thing that I was only ever able to find on an obscure Etsy site. He found a duplicate, somehow. He knew how much I loved to wrap up in it and read, or watch TV with him. It’s a comfort item, that blanket.