Cloudwater called itself an “artists’ colony.” Situated in the heart of Adirondack State Park, it was tenanted at any one time by several dozen artists, writers, and researchers who came for one-to two-month stays in order to work on their individual projects: whether it be a painting, a novel, or a concerto. Each of the artists-in-residence had his or her private room in the vast lodge or—in the case of musicians and artists—the separate, secluded cottages scattered among the heavily wooded grounds. It was not a vacation spot—people who came here, came here to work, and rules were imposed to make sure things stayed that way. There was no cocktail hour, no structured activities save the occasional after-dinner lecture and the art movies shown on Saturday evenings. Visitors to an individual’s cottage were by invitation only. Lunches were private, served in one’s room or cabin, while breakfast and dinner were served in the lodge.
Climbing the steps and entering the building, Logan noticed a few people, in groups of two or three, walking through the soaring lobby, speaking among themselves in quiet tones. The ceiling was supported by pairs of huge curved beams, rising toward each other from opposite sides of the room, so that Logan felt almost as if he were inside the ribs of an inverted ship. Between these beams, and acting as crown molding, was a decorative, antlerlike fretwork of remarkable intricacy. Heads of bear, deer, and moose, apparently many decades old, were mounted on the walls, interspersed with prize fish on plaques, old photographs of the park, and paintings of the Hudson River School.
Stopping one group and inquiring as to the location of the dining room, Logan thanked them and was moving on when a voice sounded behind him. “Dr. Logan?”
He turned to see a tall, rather heavyset man in his early seventies, with a florid face and an almost leonine mane of snowy white hair. He smiled and extended one hand. “I’m Greg Hartshorn.”
Logan shook the hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
Logan had, of course, heard of Gregory Hartshorn. He’d been a prominent painter of the Lyrical Abstraction school who had founded a gallery in mid-1960s New York, where he made a fortune selling his and others’ paintings. He had put art aside about thirty years later in order to take on the position of Cloudwater’s resident director.
“I was just heading in to dinner,” Logan said.
“I hope you’ll find it excellent. Before you do, could I have a minute of your time?” And without waiting for an answer, Hartshorn steered Logan across the lobby and through an unmarked door into a cozy office, its walls crowded with sketches, watercolors, woodblock prints—but, Logan noticed, not a single one of Hartshorn’s own works.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Hartshorn said, gesturing Logan to a seat on a sofa before a desk crowded with paperwork.
“Have you given it up entirely?” Logan asked, indicating the art-covered walls.
Hartshorn chuckled. “I still do the odd study now and then. But they never seem to mature into finished works. It’s remarkable, really, how much administrative work there is to do at a place like Cloudwater.”
Logan nodded. He had an idea why Hartshorn had asked to speak to him, but he’d let the resident director bring it up himself.
Hartshorn took a seat behind the desk, interlaced his fingers on the scarred wooden surface, then leaned forward. “I’ll be brief, Jeremy—may I call you Jeremy?”
“Please.”
“I know your CV states you’re a professor of history at Yale. I also know you registered here as an historian. But…well, in recent years it seems you’ve become very well known for a more, shall we say, sensational line of work.”
Logan remained silent.
“I just—without prying, you understand—was curious how you planned to spend your time here at Cloudwater.”
“You mean, am I going to be involved in anything sensational?”
Hartshorn laughed a little self-consciously. “To be blunt, yes. As you know, for all its rustic charm, Cloudwater is devoted to creative work. Whether they are given grants or pay large sums of money, people come here specifically to pursue their muse in as undisturbed a fashion as possible. I like to think of time spent here as a kind of luxuriant monasticism.”
Logan had been planning to thank the resident director for assigning him the Thomas Cole cabin. Now, however, he realized this had not been done out of munificence—it had been to isolate him from the bulk of Cloudwater’s residents.
“If you’re wondering whether zombies are going to start walking the grounds, or spectral chains will rattle loudly in the night, you have nothing to fear,” he replied.
“That’s a relief. But I admit to being rather more concerned about camera crews and journalists.”
“If they come, it won’t be for me,” Logan said. “I’m here in precisely the capacity I stated on my application. For years, I’ve been trying to complete a monograph on heresy in the Middle Ages. Work, and various side projects, keep forestalling that. I’m hoping the peace and quiet of Cloudwater will provide the concentration I need, allow me to put the finishing touches on the paper.”
Hartshorn’s interlaced fingers seemed to relax slightly. “Thank you for being candid. Frankly, your application for a residence here became a matter of discussion for the board of directors. I spoke in your favor. I’m glad to hear I won’t regret doing so.”
Logan nodded.
“But surely you’ll understand my apprehension. For example, do you know a Randall Jessup?”
“Randall Jessup?” Logan frowned. “I went to Yale with somebody by that name.”
“Well, he’s a lieutenant ranger in New York’s Division of Forest Protection now. And he came by here earlier today, asking when you were expected.”
“How could he know I was coming to Cloudwater? I haven’t spoken with him in years.”
“And therein lies my concern. I don’t know how he got wind of it. But your visiting Cloudwater comes under the heading of local news. For all its size, the Adirondacks can sometimes feel like a small community. Somebody on our staff must have recognized your name, and told somebody else, who then told somebody else….You know how these things spread.”
Logan knew.
“But in any case, let’s say no more on the subject. I’m assured you’ve come here as a scholar and a historian—and I wish you the best of luck finishing your monograph. If there’s anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please let me know. And now, I won’t detain you any longer. The kitchen’s closing shortly.”
And with that, Hartshorn stood up and offered his hand once again.
4
The dining room was about what Logan had expected of an erstwhile Adirondack “Great Camp”: full of Mission-style furniture, Japanese screens, chandeliers of woven birch wood, display cases stuffed with geodes and Native American artifacts, and a cut-stone fireplace large enough to roast a horse in. It somehow managed to be both rustic and opulent at the same time. Mindful of what Hartshorn had told him, Logan chose an inconspicuous table in a far corner, receiving only a few curious stares. The food proved to be excellent—braised short ribs and pickled ramps that he paired with a sublime Chateauneuf-du-Pape—although due to the late hour the service was a trifle rushed, and it was a few minutes before ten when he made his way back out into the lobby and onto the broad, rambling front porch. He stopped there a moment, admiring the dome of stars overhead, the lake murmuring and lapping at the far end of the grand swath of lawn.
As he did so, someone sitting in one of the chairs that lined the porch stirred. “Jeremy?”
Logan turned toward the sound as the figure stood up and approached, a worn leather satchel in one hand. As the figure came into the light, Logan felt a slightly delayed shock of recognition. “Randall!”