At Saranac Lake, he turned left onto Route 3, heading in the direction of Tupper Lake. Only the occasional car passed him now in the other direction, headlights winking in the humid forest air. He was not as familiar with this part of the park and—with an intense darkness closing in around him—he drove more slowly. About five miles farther on, his headlights illuminated a large, open gate cut into the thick spruce forest to his right. There was no signage on or beside the gate, merely a large metal symbol: a cumulus cloud hovering over a rippling watery surface.
He turned in, followed a bumpy, heavily rutted dirt road for perhaps two thousand feet—and then, suddenly, the forest parted to reveal a vast, weathered, three-storied structure of dark brown wood and rough-hewn stone. It sat beneath a massive, shingled A-frame roof in Swiss chalet style that went from the serried chimneys along its ridge vent almost all the way to the ground. Twig-work balconies ran along the entire second floor as well as the third, shorter floor, and from within the large, red-framed windows that stood in series, the welcome glow of countless lamps and fireplaces beckoned.
This was Cloudwater, Logan’s destination. But it had not always been known by that name. Sixty years before, it had been Rainshadow Lodge: one of the “Great Camps” built in the late nineteenth century as summer residences of the very rich along the lake shores of wild corners in upstate New York and New England. And Rainshadow Lodge, with its quintessential “Adirondack Rustic” architecture and huge cupolaed boathouse situated on Rainshadow Lake, had been one of the most famous and grandiose of all.
But all that had changed in 1954. Now its function was to serve as far more than just an oversized rustic summer playground for one of Manhattan’s wealthiest families. And Logan had driven all the way up from his Connecticut home to take full advantage of that new function.
Following a semicircular drive directly before the building, he parked the car, stepped out, ascended the steps—worn and incredibly wide—and walked past the lines of white-painted Adirondack chairs into the lobby. It was warm and welcoming, indirectly lit, with a mellow, golden, faintly hazy atmosphere redolent of wood smoke. He felt the oddly pleasing sensation of a fly sinking into amber.
A reception desk of cinnamon-colored wood, glowing from what appeared to be the application of fifty coats of lacquer, stood directly ahead. A middle-aged woman behind it looked up at his approach, smiled.
“I’m Jeremy Logan,” he told her. “Checking in.”
“Just a minute.” The woman consulted a tablet computer tucked behind the desk as if it were an anachronism to be kept hidden. “Ah, yes. Dr. Logan. You’ll be joining us for six weeks.”
“That’s right.”
“Very good.” She studied the tablet for a few more moments. “Dr. Jeremy Logan?” She looked up suddenly, recognition flashing in her eyes before being quickly suppressed. “But it says here ‘historian.’?”
“I am an historian. Among other things.”
After a moment, the woman nodded, then glanced back down at the tablet. “I see you’ve been booked into the Thomas Cole cabin. By Mr. Hartshorn himself. That cabin is usually reserved for musicians or artists—writers are always assigned rooms in the main lodge.”
“I’ll remember to thank him.”
“It’s just past the boathouse, not two minutes’ walk. I could show it to you now, and then you can park your car in the assigned lot and retrieve your bags.”
“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”
Turning around and unlocking a wooden cabinet behind her, she took a large key from one of several dozen brass pegs. Then, relocking the cabinet and coming out from behind the desk, she smiled once again, then led the way back outside and down the hard-packed dirt road to a nearby path into the woods, flanked by walkway lights in Tiffany-style glass. The perfume of pine was almost overpowering. Every fifty feet or so a smaller path diverged from the main one, heading either to the left or the right, each with a small carved signpost: ALBERT BIERSTADT, THOMAS MORAN, WILLIAM HART.
In short order, she turned down a final bend in the path, where the signboard read THOMAS COLE. Just ahead, half hidden among the trees, was a two-story Mission-style cabin, charmingly rusticated and yet of obviously modern construction, with a peeled-log facade and granite fieldstone foundation.
The woman handed him the key. “I’m sure you’ll find everything you need inside,” she said. She looked at her watch. “It’s almost eight. The kitchen closes at nine, so you’ll probably want to get settled in without delay.”
“Thank you,” Logan said. She smiled once again, then turned and retreated back down the pathway.
Hefting the key, Logan mounted the steps, then unlocked the front door and stepped in. Snapping on the bank of lights just within, he quickly took in the surroundings: wide-planked floorboards, antique rugs, a modern worktable with a Herman Miller Aeron chair set before it, built-in bookcases and cabinets of mahogany, a huge fireplace of rough stone, and a freestanding spiral staircase going up to a bedroom?/?sleeping loft above. Through a door in the far wall of the room, he could see a kitchen complete with microwave, Wolf stovetop, and refrigerated wine cellar. It was an aesthetically pleasing, yet highly functional, combination of old and new.
As he looked around, Logan allowed himself a slow, contented sigh. “Kit,” he told his wife, “I think this place is exactly right. And I’ve given myself six weeks. If I can’t finish it here, then I guess it may never get finished.”
Then, leaving the lights on, he exited the cabin to retrieve his luggage.
3
Twenty minutes later, Logan exited the cabin and went back down the path, the little guide lights illuminating the way like fairy lanterns in a forest. Coming out onto the wide central lawn, he approached the main building, then stopped once again to admire it. The sense of optimism that had come over him as he’d surveyed the cabin had not left.