Chapter 29 The Scriptorium
The Scriptorium
William’s house was not what Sam had thought it would be. For one thing, it was on an actual island surrounded by a massive
lake. At least there was a causeway to it, so she didn’t have to go by boat. At the end of the drive there was an iron gate
with spikes, upon one of which was impaled a stuffed Peter Rabbit whose fur ruffled in the steady wind. Had William put it
there? A warning to the Rabbit? To children? What was this place? Sam texted, Here! William didn’t answer, but the iron gates parted in the middle to allow her inside, the rabbit swinging on its spike, its
flat black eyes tracking the sky as Sam passed.
And there, in the doorway of a house that looked like a ski chalet had a baby with a cathedral, was William. He was in socks
and sweats, and—how had he grown a beard so quickly? Unlike his goatee, it was almost completely gray. Maybe he really had
been suffering the loss of Sam. Or the shock of Cyndi. He came to greet Sam without even putting on shoes, his face red either
from wind or crying, since his eyes above the bristling beard were full of tears.
“It’s you,” he said.
“It’s you,” Sam said.
He crushed her against him so hard she could barely breathe.
“Thank God you’ve come,” he said.
He took her hand and led her inside. The house was magnificent and scary.
Its walls were all glass, offering a panoramic view of the lake.
There was a double-sided stone fireplace that soared to the ceiling.
Two worn leather couches faced each other as if in conversation, Pendleton blankets slung over their backs.
Where there were slivers of wall, they were hidden behind bookshelves.
Next to the mantel, an enormous black bear reared up on hind legs, snarling out at the room.
“Wow,” said Sam. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Ernest.”
“After Papa, I assume. He looks combative. Did you shoot him yourself?”
“No, I read him drafts until he died of boredom.” William laughed. He knelt in front of Sam to unlace her boots, now dripping
on what was probably a priceless Turkish rug. “Welcome home, sugarplum,” he said, sliding off one, then the other, then her
pants. “Zoop!”
He led her via spiral staircase to his bedroom, as beautiful and impersonal as a hotel suite, but they were too impatient
to make it to the bed and got reacquainted on the carpet. Quick and rough and necessary, giving Sam rug burn and a sense of
release. Was this all there was to it? Were they reconciled? Were they actually doing this? Could she relax now? She cried
when she came and lay in stunned wonder afterward, blinking at the icy shimmer through the faraway clerestory windows. They
had another quickie overlooking the yard, and afterward, cleaning up in the master bath with pine-smelling soap, Sam watched
a doe step delicately across the ice outside and wondered if the deer had been responsible for the snapping noises she’d heard
while she and William were making love—or was it other animals?
“Hi!” said William when Sam emerged. He’d been waiting for her, holding up his sweatshirt for her to wear.
Sam wondered if this was a whole new William who, instead of being elusive, would follow her around puppylike all the time, and how she would feel about that.
Right now, she liked it. He toured her down through the ground floor, all space and light and lake.
The kitchen had a Viking range, granite countertops with embedded fossils, a fruit bowl with actual fruit in it.
A pineapple, a mango. A mango! thought Sam.
The dining room was governed by an oak table that could seat twenty, crowned by candelabra almost as tall as Sam.
A den with an Eames lounge chair, another woodstove, more piles of books.
Skylights everywhere. It was all gorgeous, tasteful, and impeccable, and it made Sam deeply uneasy. It was all the glass. She felt—watched.
Sam shivered. “Are you cold?” William asked. He was holding the hem of her shirt, his shirt, like a child afraid to get lost
in a department store. “I can add wood to the stoves—or turn on the boiler. Let me know if you get chilly.”
“I’m good at the moment, thanks,” said Sam. “And this place is gorgeous. But don’t you get scared, living out here by yourself?”
“Not at all. The isolation is the whole point of it,” said William. “Occasionally a fan figures out where I live and makes
it to the gates. Hence poor Peter Rabbit out there—I keep meaning to take him down, but I think he makes quite a nice sentry,
don’t you? Not to mention an effective warning to our special friend, if a little on the nose. But don’t worry. Nobody ever
gets in.”
He opened a side door with a flourish. “Ta-da,” he said, “the Scriptorium!”
Sam stepped out into the open air—or so she thought at first. This room was a glass box. The walls, the roof: They were all
invisible. Except for the flagstone floor and the card table and chair in the center, it was like being outside, in the drifts
sloping to the vast white-and-gray lake, the dark density of forest on the periphery.
“Wait until you see it at night,” William said. “When it’s clear, the ceiling is a frenzy of stars. The floor’s heated. And
this room’s a sauna when the sun’s out. Perfect for writing naked.”
“This is where you write?” Sam asked. “In the nude?”
“No, this is where you write in the nude,” William said, grinning. “At least, that’s my diabolical plan. Welcome to your new study!”
Sam gave him a raised-brow look. She tentatively approached the table and stood resting a hand on it, testing the vibes.
It was very sweet of William to have given Sam this space.
But she had never written in a room like this.
She preferred actual walls, and if she faced a view, she drew the curtains so she wouldn’t be distracted.
So she could focus on only what was in her mind’s eye. This was so—exposed.
She turned to find William observing her with a frown. “Do you like it?” he asked. “As soon as you confirmed you were coming,
I set it up for you.”
“It’s stunning,” said Sam sincerely.
“Of course, this is rudimentary. I expect you to make it your own. We’ll go to Augusta later this week, and you can pick out
whatever your creative heart desires.”
“That would be lovely,” Sam said. She would wait to tell him this wouldn’t work for her, that she’d rather write in a guest
bedroom upstairs or even a big walk-in closet. She’d just gotten here an hour ago. It was a little early to be lodging complaints.
In a few weeks, if all went well, please God, and they were more established, she’d suggest it.
“Would you like the rest of the tour now? Or shall we . . .” William slid his hands over Sam’s breasts beneath his shirt.
“I don’t think this room has ever been properly christened.”
“Maybe tour first?” Sam asked. “I want to see where you write.”
“Ah. Milady wants to see the dungeon. As you wish.”
William pulled away from Sam to look down at her. “There’s just one house rule, Simone. I want you to feel this is your home,
too, all right? But you are not to go into my study. Ever. Under any circumstances. Do we have an understanding, Simone? I
will not have my sanctuary invaded. Any violation, and you’ll be on the road.”
Okay, Bluebeard, thought Sam. William was taking his new facial hair a little too seriously. She nodded. “I hear you.”
“Do you?”
“William, come on. If anyone gets the need for creative privacy, it’s another writer.”
“Your track record has proven otherwise, Simone.”
Sam sighed. “That was different. It was an idea. And I’m not working on that book anymore.”
“Swear it.”
Sam drew her finger over her breastbone. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
William smiled. “I doubt it’ll come to that. Deal. And I’ll consider this space inviolate as well. I’ll never come in without
permission. Although I can’t promise I won’t stand outside and press this up against the window,” and he placed Sam’s hand
on his erection.
“That’s so nice,” she said. “Not at all distracting.”
“Lead on, Macduff,” William said, shuffling forward with Sam still clutching him. She laughed and led him from her new writing
room, but as they walked past the floor-to-ceiling windows in the den, the hallway, the great room, her flesh crawled. She
could not get over the feeling she was being watched.