The Colorman by Erika Wood Page A

him.
    â€œI’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Morrow,” Rain said. “I just wanted to thank you for the tour. I’m moving into the little cabin on the edge of the woods there.”
    â€œYes, of course,” James said, without smiling. “John Morton’s cabin.”
    Rain couldn’t speak for a beat. “My father,” she said when she finally found her voice again.
    Morrow looked at her directly for the first time. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said genuinely.
    â€œYou knew him?”
    â€œNot well. Not…I’m terribly sorry. I have to…”
    Morrow retreated into his office, leaving Rain alone.
    Morrow watched Rain out of his office window as she tromped across the small lawn toward the dirt road. He reached out without looking and took up the portrait of the young woman on his desk, held it in one hand and rubbed his thumb along the glass all the while keeping his eyes trained on Rain’s back as she hiked up the road toward the cabin.
    As Rain approached the cabin along the dirt road, its darkstained, board-and-batten and broad, mossy roofline nearly disappeared into the woods, despite its striking modern lines. The cabin stared blandly back at Rain, as unfamiliar and unapproachable as when she had first pulled up in front of it.
    She could make out the outline of a small door bizarrely cut into a wider garage-style lifting doorway.
    The heavy cap of the low roofline and the odd door didn’t reveal what this place might have been—a storage shed or possibly a power station’s outbuilding. But when she unlocked and then raised the larger door up, tucking it seamlessly into its slot between the roof and ceiling—the cabin opened up in a welcoming, broad gesture. She entered and slid pocket panels of screening across the opening, turning the upper part of the cabin into one, big, screened porch.
    The opened space was like a proscenium, a bed and bath alcove to the left and a small efficiency-style, Pullman kitchen to the right. The rest of the interior lay a few steps down from the entrance. The ceiling angled toward enormous windows looking out into the woods. More windows extended around the right side of the house, bringing in generous light. One expanse of wall was painted a silvery graphite, with one small painting humbly hung in the center. Sheets covered the furniture; cabinets were thrown open and empty. Despite work to be done, the cabin was far from the abandoned shed Rain had expected.
    A wall divided the bedroom from the living room, but only an empty bookshelf and an inset ceiling track gave privacy from the kitchen. In the small living area, two long tables lay side by side. Tucked together, they might have been her father’s desk. The broad but diffuse light from the woods cast ornamental shadows over the draped forms. Distracted by the grand space and clever design in the cabin, Rain abruptly yanked the sheets from the tables, sending whorls of dust into the air and revealing beautiful pieces crafted in pine and loaded with a dozen or so cardboard boxes.
    Having settled in, Rain used the tables to organize the papers she’d unearthed. Rain’s laptop and printer lay on the other table along with her camera and some extra lenses. Cleaning supplies and bundled linens lay about. A huge boxy couch in mustardorange tweed sat in front of the great glass windows. Some mismatched wooden chairs and a few smaller tables and lamps were scattered about.
    Rain slit open the boxes, trying to makes sense of their contents, doling them into emptied boxes marked “Columbia U. Library,” “Keep” and “Trash.” Letters and some of the photographs were going into the library box. Only a very few photos landed in the keep box.
    It seemed whole eras of her father’s life had been locked up in here, thankfully kept dry and dark in the sealed boxes. Rain found herself disturbed by the fact that her