Christmas Cove, page 3
Her mother said they would call when they got to Italy, and America planned to tell them about her adventure then. And perhaps, by then, she’d have something to tell. Up until that moment, all she had done was pack a bag and feed a squirrel. She would need something a bit more interruption-worthy if she were going to take away any time from her parents’ once-in-a-lifetime vacation.
America used the remaining battery life in her computer to look up everything she could about Christmas Cove. She learned that a young entrepreneur founded the town in the year 1869, when the railroad needed a watering station beside the lake. Later, when industry had moved nearby, the picturesque lake setting was the preferred destination for locals to spend any leisure time.
The summer playpen expanded into a winter haven after World War II, when returning soldiers took their families to quiet spots dotted throughout New England for long-awaited holidays. Christmas Cove lived up to its name with one of the biggest festivals in the area: The Bonfire of Fears.
America giggled when she read about it. It sounded worse than it was.
According to the custom, a bonfire is set ablaze on the icy shore, and people write their prayers and their fears on rice paper and throw them into the flames. When the paper incinerates, the tiny particles float skyward with the rising heat.
What a beautiful image the event created in her heart!
The battery icon on America’s computer blinked death, and she put it away, opting for an old standard instead, her favorite book.
CHAPTER 5
“I appreciate you coming over to help get the place ready,” Leo said. “I can’t believe that I got such a great booking this time of the year. It was a long shot trying to rent this place out, all things considered.”
“It’s not like there’s much else to do around here,” Edwin teased. “You know I’m happy to help you out. Now, where should I start?”
Leo handed the older man two brown grocery bags and pointed at the cabin. He had a few hours until the guest would arrive, and he wanted the place to be perfect. Having a long booking hadn’t happened in years, and he was thankful for the chunk of change the travel agency said the guest was willing to pay to stay there.
He hadn’t even argued when the name on the booking had switched from Meghan to America. He didn’t care much who she was.
Edwin came back out of the cabin and skipped down the front steps. “What’s next? Do you want me to go into town and get a few decorations? It is Christmas, after all.”
Leo looked out at the vast and empty countryside with fog lingering in the southern sky and sighed. “I don’t think it’ll be necessary. But thanks for the offer.” Leo handed the man two more bags from the bed of his truck and carried the tub, overflowing with fresh linens, inside.
While Edwin loaded the fridge with fresh produce and drinks, Leo made up the bed with layers of white sheets and a soft duvet. He hated that he knew the name for the thin covering and wished his mother hadn’t always been such a stickler for the way beds were supposed to be made. But here he was, about to turn thirty years old, and making up a bed in his little cabin with the most expensive sheets and blankets he’d ever purchased.
“You think she’s pretty?” Edwin yelled from the kitchen.
“Who are you talking about? Don’t tell me you bought another horse!”
“I’m talking about the lady. The one checking in today.”
“Why would I even care? It’s a booking. I’m simply happy to have one. Not to mention, if she’s a writer, she probably looks like she’s been locked up in a bookstore for the better part of her adult life and speaks in poetic soliloquies like she’s a long-lost Bennet sister.”
“That’s a very specific response,” Edwin laughed.
Joining Edwin in the kitchen, Leo sorted some of the dry goods on the counter. “It’s a habit. My mother was a literature teacher.”
“All I’m saying is to keep your mind and eyes open. You never know when a chance will be your only chance.”
“Now that sounds like a very specific response too,” Leo pointed out. “Are you speaking from experience?”
“I’m nearly seventy years old, of course I’m speaking from experience.” Edwin shut the fridge door and gathered the trash into one of the emptied brown paper bags. “When was the last time you dated? I know there are no unmarried women in town that are age-appropriate for you. Unless you count Scrooge McCarol.”
“Pa!” Leo scolded, using Edwin’s nickname. “Carol is your age, first of all. Secondly, I don’t need to go on dates to find someone. I’ll just know her when I see her.”
“And you’ll never find her if you don’t go anywhere outside this town of yours,” Edwin said. “But I, for one, feel like something big is about to happen for you. For this town. You know what I mean?”
Leo stopped his tidying and looked around the space. Creamy linen drapes hung loosely at the windows and framed the gray of autumn holding tightly to the structures outside. Birch logs stacked perfectly in the fireplace all screamed home to him. With the newly made-up bed and food stocked in the kitchen, the cabin’s energy was more cozy than exciting.
“Nope. Pa, I don’t feel it. This place feels the same as it always has.” Leo patted Edwin on the shoulders. “Whoever she is, I hope she has a nice stay here, and that’s it.”
“And maybe tell all her fancy city friends to book their own stay here, too?”
“Now, wouldn’t that be a miracle?” Leo said as he shut off the lights and locked up the cabin door until later.
CHAPTER 6
The world of Elizabeth Bennet wrapped America in its romance and thought-provoking humor so completely that time seemed to stand still inside the vehicle. No matter how often America read the classic story, she always felt like a scene was missing. The Bennet family never experiences Christmas together, at least not that the reader sees.
America imagined a holiday moment, with all the sisters vying for their father’s approval in their varied ways. Mary playing Christmas hymns on the pianoforte and Lizzy burying her nose in a book while secretly making fun of her family’s ridiculousness. As an only child, America had always wished to be part of something as grand as Regency-era England, save for the lack of indoor plumbing and inaccurate timepieces.
She lifted her wrist and checked the time on her smartwatch. Hours had passed. Out the window, tree-lined fields and granite-topped rolling hills screamed by. The road snaked around tight turns and through steep valleys where the cliff faces towered over her.
America pressed the green button.
“How can I be of service, Ms. Greene?” Brampson answered over an intercom.
“I seem to have lost track of where we are exactly. What is the E.T.A.?”
“About fifteen minutes, ma’am.”
“Perfect. Thank you,” she said and turned her gaze forward.
Anticipation fluttered in her belly. If this place was half as good as it looked to be online, she was certain she would be impressed. There was no use in focusing on the fact that she was to write a travel article, which she felt wholly unprepared to do well. America decided to enjoy the experience for what it was. The story would write itself. Or at least she hoped it would.
The SUV came through a valley and turned a sharp hairpin corner with caution. A wooden span bridge, like ones she had seen on Christmas cards, crossed a quiet stream. The bridge, on the other hand, creaked and shimmied under the weight of the vehicle. America held her breath, and the handle at the top of the door frame, as they inched across the structure.
Once safely on the other side, the road narrowed, and a village peeked from behind the next hill.
“Is that it?” she asked Brampson.
“It is, indeed,” he said.
Coming around another turn, a wide flat plain stretched out towards the south, but fog shrouded the edges and made it nearly impossible to see the town from her position. How am I supposed to get a first impression when I can’t see the thing I’m supposed to be impressed by? she wondered.
The vehicle bumped along the skinny road and splashed in a pothole. A sign that read Welcome to Christmas Cove hung between two pine poles on either side of the road, and her heart leaped with excitement as a cobblestone street materialized.
Victorian-style houses and flat façades lined the way. One by one, the buildings passed by the window. She couldn’t help but notice the darkened windows and shuttered doors. She saw no twinkling lights strung on the evergreens, no garlands, no joyful tourists, no residents dashing out for their Christmas treasures.
“Brampson, are you certain we’re in the right place?” America said. “This doesn’t look right to me.”
“This is Christmas Cove, ma’am.” He paused. “Not what you expected?”
“No.” Her response came out as a whisper, and she slumped into the seat back like a deflated balloon.
The main street passed by as quickly as it had appeared, and the vehicle turned down a gravel path towards the plain. America took the itinerary from her tote and looked for where she was staying the night. Knowing Mr. Janowitz’s appetite for the finer things in life, she supposed the hotel would be where all the Christmas action had moved to.
In many older towns, resorts were brought in to revitalize the economies, and bring new life and jobs into an area. She suspected the same thing may be true here after witnessing an otherwise dead Main Street.
It was no secret that people preferred to vacation at new, all-inclusive resorts, where a well-paid and courteous staff would tend to one’s every need. It only made sense, though a sad thought, that the old main street had dried up and been made irrelevant by modernity.
America eagerly watched out the window for a glimpse of her destination. Expecting to see all the Christmassy accoutrements around the next bend, she was confused when the vehicle came to an abrupt stop on the gravel road. Outside the other window, a lone cabin stood dark and vacant. A red painted barn in the distance was the first and only festive looking thing she had seen since arriving in Christmas Cove.
Brampson unlocked the doors and came around to her side. He held the door open and offered her his hand as she alighted from the cozy SUV. Her shoes slipped on the damp gravel, and she steadied herself against the driver’s shoulder.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“This is where you’re booked to stay for your trip.”
“A cabin. In the middle of nowhere? Brampson, this is how horror movies begin. I’ve literally seen this before.” She pointed to the small cabin and then to the fog rolling in and glowing orange through the dusky sky. “You are kidding me, right?”
America pulled out her phone and dialed Poppy. The phone icon flashed as it attempted to connect to a network. She tried again with no luck. “No signal. That’s simply great,” she said and stashed her phone in her tote. “Do you have service?”
Brampson shook his head as he lifted her bags from the back hatch and placed them on the ground beside America. “I’m afraid not.” He checked his own timepiece. “The property owner should be here soon. He was supposed to meet us here, but it appears we’ve arrived first.”
“Will you stay and wait with me until we find out what the story is?”
He nodded and shut the back hatch.
“I’m going to stretch my legs. Don’t you leave me,” she said and pointed two fingers at her eyes and then towards his.
After digging around in her suitcase for more practical shoes, she walked down the gravel drive. Grass spilled over the edges, and pine saplings dotted the ground along what looked to be an old split-rail fence. The gravel turned to wood planks, grayed from years of sun exposure, but with a kind of coziness, like a well-worn pair of jeans.
The terrain dipped down, and the wood planks turned into a raised walkway like a walking bridge. “Or a dock,” America said and peered over the edge. Instead of a lake, there was only long grasses and small bushy weeds. No water.
The planks ended at a square platform where railings hemmed in a row of benches. A staircase went down to one side, and a flagpole stood straight in one corner, though there was no flag hoisted. The dock, it seemed, went to nowhere.
Behind her, a plank creaked, causing her to spin around. Through the fog, a man’s silhouette emerged.
“You’re not Brampson.”
CHAPTER 7
“The name’s Leo,” the man said. He held his hands up by his shoulders and opened them to her. “I’m here to let you in the cabin.”
America’s heart had jumped for a moment at the sight of the stranger. Her hand went to the center of her chest. “You gave me a fright,” she said and put her hand out.
Leo’s rough palm and sturdy grip left her reassured as they shook hands. His side-cocked smile and friendly amber eyes further put her at ease. America withdrew her hand and placed it on her fluttering stomach. The man was easy to look at.
“Your driver pointed me down here, and—”
“Oh, my gosh! Did he leave me here?” she said and marched past Leo.
“That is how car services work, you know. They bring you to your destination and then they . . . leave,” he said.
“Yes. I know how it works. But I don’t think this is the right place, and he shouldn’t have left me,” America said as her feet scuffed along the gravel path. “Isn’t there a resort or something around here? This isn’t the Christmas wonderland that I was expecting.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. I don’t know what you thought you were getting. I have a reservation for Ms. America Greene via Jet Trek Magazine,” he said. “The driver said that was you.”
“It is. I am her. I mean, I am she, America.” She fumbled her words with each perturbed step. “Is there a phone or wifi in the cabin? I need to ring my office.”
“Sometimes.”
America paused. “Sometimes?”
“You know . . .”
“No, I don’t know. I’m getting no signal on my cell.” She held her phone out for him to see and wagged it back and forth. “I need a phone. Preferably one that works.”
“Well, let’s get you settled. I’ll show you around the cabin, and then we’ll figure out this signal mess. Okay?”
Though she was hesitant about a strange man showing her around a vacant cabin in the middle of nowhere, she had no real reason not to trust him, and no other options at the moment. With a grunt of agreement, she followed him up the path to the cabin where her bags sat on the bottom step. She palmed the handle of her roller case, and Leo’s hand fell upon hers.
“I’ll get this one,” he said, and she removed her hand from beneath his. “You can grab the smaller bag. And your purse.”
“Tote,” she corrected him and immediately regretted having done so. “Sorry. I’m an editor. I have the unfortunate habit of correcting words. Grammar. Slang. You name it.”
“Forgiven,” Leo said and rocked his head side to side. “I’m used to it. My mom was a teacher.”
“Was? Is she retired?” America said as she followed him to the broad front porch, painted white and black with a red front door. Looking out through the fog, she could barely make out the line of the dock at the bottom of the hill.
“Something like that,” he said.
“So, Leo, you’re the manager of this property?”
“That’s correct,” he said, and worked to untangle two sets of keys.
Parked on the driveway, his bright red pickup was quite possibly the most festive thing she had yet seen in town. It was only missing the obligatory Christmas tree tied to the roof and bushels of apples piled in crates in the bed, and it would have matched the Christmas card catalogue in her mind.
“Nice truck,” she said and pointed with her thumb.
He looked around her and shrugged. “Thanks.”
“You know it’s missing some frost in the windows and maybe a tree tied to the roof, and then it would be perfect!”
“Listen, America?”
She nodded and waited for his response.
“If you’re looking for Christmas, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
Confusion washed over her. “The wrong place? It’s literally in the name.”
He pushed the door open and let her inside the cabin. The air smelled of cedar and time. She checked her watch. Even if she somehow got ahold of Poppy or the travel coordinator at the magazine, it was too late in the day to find other accommodations. Once the office opened the next morning, she could get in touch with someone and schedule a car service or train ticket out of there.
“This is Christmas Cove, is it not?” Indignation spilled from her tongue.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Then forgive my ignorance, but where is all the Christmas? The pictures online and the brochure, the stories about this place . . .”
“It hasn’t been like that for a really long time,” Leo said. Sadness, or regret, pained his face. His eyes fell and his shoulders slumped as though her inquisition had wounded his pride in a way that she didn’t understand.
“If there’s no Christmas, then I don’t see what my boss sent me here for,” she admitted. “Seeing as it’s getting late, I’ll stay the night, but I’ll be checking out tomorrow if I’m able to get someone back up this way to pick me up. I’m sorry for the inconvenience and I’ll see to it you get the full payment for my booking.”
Without acknowledging her, Leo rolled the suitcase into the bedroom and flipped on the light. Soft white linens and ivory drapes bathed the space in a cozy comfort. A fur blanket lay across the end of the bed, and an old touchtone phone sat on the far nightstand.
“Does it work?” she asked.
“It should,” he said and walked around the bed. Picking up the handset, he held it to his ear. “There’s a dial tone. No long-distance calls, though.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course, I’m kidding. This isn’t the stone ages. I only keep this thing in here because the cell towers are so spotty ever since . . . never mind,” Leo said and walked out of the bedroom. “You can call anyone you like.”
