Drowning Instinct(41)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

I followed him as he plunged into the woods. The trail was mushy, the mud squelching beneath our shoes, and treacherous with slick leaves. The sleet and rain were so heavy it was like trying to see through a sheet of steel. Ahead, I could just make out the lake through breaks in the trees, but I knew from experience we were still a good three miles out. Then Mr. Anderson veered right, away from the house, and I realized he was heading down the thin ribbon of that path I‘d noticed earlier in the week.

―It‘s not far!‖ Mr. Anderson called over his shoulder. ―Another half mile!‖

A few moments later, the trees parted and the cottage— a two-story Cape with cedar shingles—appeared in a small clearing. The screen door gave with a loud squall and then we were ducking under the porch and out of the rain.

―That‘s better,‖ Mr. Anderson huffed. ―Just let me . . .‖ He knelt, dug around in a gray and blue wide-mouth jug and came up with an old-fashioned iron key. ―I don‘t know why I bother. No one ever comes here but me,‖ he said as he fitted the key into the lock.

The latch gave with a loud, solid thunk and then Mr. Anderson was pushing inside and feeling along the wall for the light switch. ―Come on. There are towels inside and a shower.

Just give me a second and . . .‖

―What is this—‖ I began and then stopped as the lights popped on. The cabin was like something out of a fairy tale: light hardwood, a scatter of fur rugs, a leather sofa facing a stone fireplace and windows looking down at the lake. To the left was the kitchen, complete with wood stove, rustic wooden table, and two straight-back chairs. A wrought-iron staircase wound to an open loft. To the right and leading off the living room was a door, open just a crack. I caught a glimpse of bookshelves and the corner of a table.

―Wow. This is great.‖

―Yeah, I like it.‖ Mr. Anderson was shucking out of his running jacket. Rainwater streamed from his hair to soak his shirt. ―I guess you‘d call this my home away from home, with all the comforts and none of the hassles. The original place was a hunting cabin, just this room and the kitchen with a bathroom and bunks where the porch is now. When I took over the house, I redid the whole thing. This is where I come to read and think and listen to music, write. Sometimes I hunker down for a couple of days, just to get away. I spent a lot of time here, actually, even in the winter. It‘s quiet.‖ He grinned. ―Well, now, anyway. The old cabin used to have a corrugated tin roof. Sounded like I was in pan of Jiffy Pop.‖

―It‘s beautiful,‖ I said. I hadn‘t moved from the front mat where I was making an impressive puddle. ―I‘m going to get your floor wet.‖

―Hang on.‖ Mr. Anderson pulled off his shoes, peeled out of his socks and padded, dripping and barefoot, to a bench. Lifting the seat, he reached in and pulled out an armload of towels. ―Here,‖ he said, shaking out a large beach towel. ―Shower‘s upstairs in the loft, to your right. There are some dry clothes in the closet that ought to fit. I‘ll get a fire started and make us some tea.‖

I didn‘t need convincing. Now that I was out of the rain, the cold really had its claws in me, and I couldn‘t stop shaking. The loft was huge with another fireplace and a small sitting area with a fur rug, game table, and two upholstered chairs. Further back was a four-poster bed with a patchwork quilt and a rainbow of throw pillows. Below, I heard Mr.

Anderson moving around, heard the dull thud of cabinet doors, the rattle of pots. The hardwood floor creaked when I walked across and I was suddenly self-conscious, knowing that Mr. Anderson could hear everything. I wondered if he gave that a second thought and then decided I was being stupid.

The bathroom was off the loft, down a short hall with a closet on either side, and it was all white: white tile, white pedestal sink, a glare-white shower stall. There was a mirror over the sink. I looked drowned, my hair lank and stringy, my lips blue. Even my scars looked shriveled. My skin was so cold it got these red blotches and started to itch and then ache under the hot water. Still, I got out before I wanted to. In the closet, I‘d found a flannel shirt that was only a size too large and pulled on a pair of sweatpants that puddled around my ankles, but they were better than nothing. I didn‘t want to leave the bathroom; the air was toasty and moist and I was still shaking. Gathering my running clothes into my towel, I steeled myself and opened the door, wincing as a ball of cold air broke over my face. ―Your turn,‖ I called.

―Coming.‖ I heard Mr. Anderson‘s footsteps and then saw his head as he mounted the stairs. His eyes ran down my body, taking in my clothes. ―You still look pretty cold.

Was that all you could find?‖

―I-I‘m ok-k-okay,‖ I said, and then laughed. My lips were trembling with cold.

―M-maybe n-not.‖

―Go downstairs. The fire‘s going and I made a pot of tea. There‘s a blanket you can use, too, and if you dig in that bench, there are some nice warm socks. I‘ll be down in a few minutes.‖

Downstairs, Sinatra was crooning softly about flying to the moon. A fire crackled and there were plates of cheese and crackers, nuts and dried fruit on a coffee table. A pot of tea and two mugs, sugar, some cream.

I also noticed that the door to Mr. Anderson‘s study was half-open, as if he‘d slipped in for a moment and forgotten to pull the door shut. Or, maybe, wasn‘t worried about anything I might see. Look at it another way, this might even have been an invitation.

Maybe.

I listened for a moment, heard the water still running and then eased into his study.

Just a quick peek.

c

A bay, plate-glass window, with a window seat and cushions, took up the far wall.

Because the cabin was on a rise, I could see both the forest and the lake. His house was visible, too, though just barely because of the trees and that steel sheet of rain still coming down strong. Even so, I could make out the deck along the back, and he‘d left a light on in the kitchen.

The other three walls were faced with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and held an expensive-looking sound system and lots of books: hardbacks and expensive leather-bound editions with gold lettering, along with paperbacks. The shelves also held a collection of fossils and rocks—crystals, mostly—and glass paperweights like the ones we‘d seen at the museum. There was one other chair, a comfortable burgundy leather with a matching ottoman, with a Tiffany-style floor lamp to the right. A glass perfume bottle squatted on a small dark table right alongside and I spotted a small stack of coasters for Mr. Anderson‘s mug or glass.

His desk faced the window. A laptop squatted dead center; a small printer sat alongside and to the left. The laptop‘s screen was dark, but the power light glowed green.