Page 14 of The Spirit of Love
“To put it bluntly, yes.”
Sam studies me, a small smile turning bigger on his very smooth lips.
“Not that I have to explain myself on that particular front,” I continue, “but I don’t even know your last name, or where you’re from, or how many more hours you have yet to log to be an actual employee of this island, or if you like dogs, or have any allergies, or your favorite movie, or what your mother’s name is, or what kind of afterlife you believe in.”
“Afterlife?”
“Yes. Generally, this is a thing I would need to know about someone before…but none of that is happening. With us. Is what I’m trying to say.”
“I respect that.” Sam nods, his smile now a little teasing. “But you presume I’m the kind of man who’d just sleep with any gorgeous woman he rescues from certain death?”
“I—I don’t presume,” I stammer. “And you know, my death wasn’t exactlycertain—”
“That’s the word you take issue with? Notgorgeous?” he asks softly, seeming to take all of me in with a single nod until I feel warm inside. “It’s good when a gorgeous woman knows she’s gorgeous.”
“I didn’t say that—”
“You’re shivering,” he says, concerned. “How about we just go inside, dry off, and maybe have a cup of tea?”
“Okay.”
Sam enters the cabin and I follow. He crosses the room, strikes a wooden match, and lights a thick white candle. The humble exterior of the cabin hasn’t prepared me for what the candlelight reveals. The vast, open, two-story space looks like Frank Lloyd Wright and Norman Rockwell were hiding out together. A geometric heirloom quilt is draped over the couch. A primitive oil portrait of a Catalina Island fox hangs on the wall. The kitchen is vintage and iron and not too shabbily equipped. Built-in Douglas fir bookshelves stretch from floor to second-story ceiling, complete with a custom ladder that rolls on metal tracks.
A fire fades in the elaborate fireplace, which is decorated with intricate carvings.
“Holy shit,” I say. “Who built this place?”
“It was bare bones when I moved in. The kitchen was trashed but mostly the same. I did everything else.”
“You…didthat fireplace?”
“I carved it. It’s based on a design by William Blake. The figures represent each of the four seasons.”
I look closer and I see it. Sam’s hand-carved personifications of the phases of the year—a plump baby for spring, a laughing young woman for summer, a strong matriarch for autumn, and an austere witch for winter.
“You’re telling me that you builtallthis”—I turn from the fireplace to gesture at the cabin’s many warm and inviting features—“in yoursparetime?”
“You make it sound like I’m permanently and forlornly holed up here with my chisel.”
“Who said anything about forlornly?”
“Yes, I like woodworking, but I also like hiking and fishing, cliff-diving, zip-lining—”
“You must have a lot of free time,” I say. Most people say this sentence as a dig, but I’m honestly envious that Sam has time for so many fascinating hobbies.
He lifts a shoulder casually. “I just call it living.”
“I’m sorry, I’m still processing all this. You built the bookshelves, too? And the ladder?”
“I’m pretty proud of that.”
“Have you read all these books?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you intend to read them?”
“Why else would I have them?”
