All I Want.... Isabel Sharpe
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Lucy was right, and Krista was too into the hot bod and the hot chemistry and maybe she should start dating men she wasn’t that attracted to. Men she could feel so-so about while insisting she was in love, hanging on year in and out, after anything they had in common had long since fled screaming from the boredom. Just like Lucy.
Good idea!
Not.
She’d a thousand times rather suffer through one passionate relationship after another exploding into shrapnel than hang on to the safe but mediocre for fear of being alone.
Though just once she’d really like to get it right, without the explosion, at least not so damn soon after the fun started.
Another mile through ever-thickening snow and the road widened into an empty parking area—was she the only guest here?—with tiny cabins barely visible through the white whirl, the closest with a red Office sign hanging beside the door and Christmas lights glowing blurry green along the eaves.
Krista parked and uncramped her fingers from the wheel, stretched and rolled her shoulders. She’d made it. And with the fat flakes falling as fast as possible, not a moment too soon.
Door open, she stepped into the crunching snow, already accumulated to over an inch, and pulled out her overnight bag, glad she’d worn boots just in case. A mug of hot decaf would taste fabulous right now, and she looked forward to a chat with the owners about annual holiday events in the surrounding area, to flesh out her article.
Unfortunately chatting would have to be done another time. A black-and-white Closed sign hung in the office window under an envelope with her name on it taped to the glass and another one above it that read “Smith.” Great. Not only was she the only guest, the place was entirely deserted of staff, too. Who knew if this Smith person would even show up, considering the weather.
Hmm.
She did a slow three-sixty, taking in the darkening sky, the wind picking up.
Romantic? Or creepy?
For a second, the idea of driving back into Skowhegan appealed. Until she realized she’d have to drive through worsening snow, which could become not only an annoyance but a serious hazard on unfamiliar roads. And she’d have wasted the chance to write this article, which could become a humor piece if need be: Romantic-Getaways Author Becomes Stephen King Heroine.
Only, in case the fates were feeling tempted, she was kidding about the horror stuff.
Kidding.
She shivered, grabbed the envelope and ripped it open. Two keys—thank goodness they’d honored that request. She’d locked herself out of too many hotel rooms to count and asked for an extra as a matter of routine now. On each key ring hung a small, rough wooden circle, the cross-section of a tree branch with distinctive white birch bark still clinging in places. The circles had the cabin numbers burned into them. She peered at the first. Cabin six. Frowned at the second. Unless she was mistaken, the other key had a nine on it, though it was hard to tell, the way the wooden disks spun. Someone must have picked them up in a hurry, not realizing one was upside down.
Nice. Though considering the weather, no chance of her coming outside to get locked out in the first place. Not as if there was a lot of nightlife in the area to be explored…except maybe animal.
Krista glanced around nervously through the white at more white-covered shapes. Trying to feel like a brave adventuress instead of a city girl tossed to the wolves, she made her way to cabin six and tried both keys. The six key worked, the nine definitely didn’t. Oh, well. She was only here one night then, weather permitting, on to a B and B in Jackman tomorrow. Having only one working key wasn’t going to be a problem.
She pushed inside and flipped on the light, relieved to be out of the snow but surprised not to be enveloped in a rush of warm air. Maybe they left the cabins unheated until the guests arrived to save fuel? Understandable, but chilling. As was the total silence. She prowled around, hyperconscious of every bump, swish and creak of her steps, taking in the cold-but-cozy feel of the place—a bit too log cabin and geometric Native American for her taste, but then if a lot of their guests were hunters, she couldn’t exactly expect floral and froufrou.
There was a gas fireplace on the right, at the foot of the king-size bed. On a table to the left sat a potted miniature Christmas tree, three wrapped fresh-looking blueberry muffins, boxes of cold cereal and—thank goodness—a coffeepot with several packs of good coffee and tiny tubs of half-and-half. A mini refrigerator held glass bottles of premium orange juice and single-serving cartons of milk. The spotless bathroom had a large tub and a small basket with shampoo, conditioner and lotion.
Not half bad for less than fifty dollars a night. Very nice, in fact.
But unless she had less than the sense she was born with, no thermostat. No heating unit against the wall. So the fireplace must be it. How cozy. And romantic! She swooped over to it and searched for the controls. Exactly the warming touch the room needed, figuratively and literally.
Except, after a good half hour of frustrated attempts, finally using the last match in the box she’d dug out of her purse, she couldn’t get the damn thing to work. As far as she could tell, no gas was flowing at all.
She picked up the room phone and left a message with the office, though chances were with the storm raging, no one would be making the rounds tonight.
Irritation.
Thank God it was in the thirties and not single digits. She’d brought her new warm flannel nightgown instead of the one washed thin, and in a king bed the blankets could be doubled over onto one side. For internal heat, the coffeemaker could make decaf, and she always had herbal-tea packets in her purse.
She’d be okay. This would be an adventure, in fact. Right? Her article would be funny and charming. Single woman’s attempt to stay warm on lonely night in romantic cabin.
Very lonely.
She changed into her nightgown and brushed her teeth, starting to shiver. Except for the occasional wind gust or creaking branch, the silence was absolute—that particular dead silence of a snowy evening. Even cities grew quiet, muffled, when the lovely white blanket dropped. Though here, instead of cars picking their way cautiously through the snow, she could all too easily picture moose and bear nosing around the cabin in the darkness.
Gulp. Good thing she slept with earplugs or she’d imagine the great beasts pawing and snuffling to get in no matter what she heard.
Of course, bears and moose sounded pretty tame once you started imagining forest-dwelling psychos investigating apparently deserted hotels. Drunk. High. Armed.
Not going to think about that.
Not.
She slid into bed, unwilling to stay out in the chill long enough to do her Yoga routine—it was hard to relax when your teeth were chattering. The sheets were icy at first, but gradually her body heat and the huge pile of blankets started a slow, lovely thaw, which changed the icebox into a deliciously warm cocoon. Better with company, but mmm, nice. Maybe she’d start turning off the radiators in her apartment at night, too. Maybe that article would come out just fine.
She yawned and blinked a few times, then closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind, fill it with peace and calm and warm golden light instead of pImages** of the vast woods around her and things that go bump in the night and the fact that no one could hear her scream.
Mostly she’d keep at bay the fact that during this off-the-beaten-track romantic getaway research trip, she had absolutely no hope of romance.
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