Noelle
I don’t watch many disaster movies. I’m too much of a wimp, and I cringe when anyone gets injured on screen. So I don’t have much to compare this sudden storm to, but in my mind, it’s like some B-movie blizzard thriller—one where the lead actors get trapped in a car at the side of the highway, and have to rely on their wits to survive.
Not good. I don’t have any wits! Not the kind you need to survive a blizzard, anyway. Because it wasn’t so bad as we left Aspen Ridge, just a few snowflakes and cold wind, but after forty minutes of creeping along a whited-out highway, I’m really wishing we holed up in that diner until this storm blew over.
“Are we going to die?”
Reid is hunkered over the wheel, stiff with tension. “No.”
But it’s crazy out there, thick snow buffeting the car so hard it rocks, the twin lights of other vehicles nothing but dim, hazy orbs as they creep past in the other direction.
We’re inching forward, headlights on, wipers in a frenzy. My teeth chatter, either from nerves or the cold or both.
“We should have stayed in Aspen Ridge.”
Reid looks pained. “I can’t turn back now.”
“Can we stop somewhere?”
We’ll have to, right? We can’t inch our way back to the city through this.
Reid’s mouth flattens in a line, but he nods. “I’m going to take the next exit. There must be some farmhouse we can shelter in until the storm passes. With any luck, we’ll still be home tonight.”
“It’s like the universe is conspiring against us,” I say as our car drifts off the highway, creeping down the snow-battered exit. And I’m just rambling from nerves, fidgeting in my seat, but Reid gusts out a sigh.
“Hardly.”
“No, I’m serious.” Okay I’m not, but teasing Reid always makes me feel better, and I’ll take any distraction from this life-or-death storm. “Maybe the gods don’t want you to escape the Christmas cheer, Reid Merryweather.”
“The gods can eat shit,” he mutters, turning the wheel and guiding us gently around a bend.
Despite our current peril, I bite back a smile.
Out here in the wasteland between small towns, we could drive for ages before finding shelter. Fumbling my phone out of my pocket, I check for signal. Zero bars.
Better hope we don’t have an emergency, huh?
I burst out laughing.
“Calm down.” Reid squints through the swirling mass of snow. It’s getting dark out. “I’m going to fix this. ? Stop laughing. You sound insane.”
I feel insane. Giddy and jittery and scared. And when a building looms out of nowhere through the gloom, studded with festive lights and lit from below, I don’t feel any saner. This is like seeing an oasis in a dessert, right?
“The Mulberry Inn.” I read the sign out loud as Reid curses, wrenching on the wheel and turning us off the road toward the building, tires crunching through snow. We trundle up the winding driveway, both craning forward to stare at the miraculous inn.
It looks like a giant gingerbread house, decked out in holiday decorations. There are balconies twined with string lights, a Christmas tree in the lobby window, and an honest-to-god statue of Santa and his sleigh on the roof.
My neck cranes. “What is this place?”
“The ninth circle of Hell.”
Reid kills the engine, parking in front of the inn’s postcard-perfect decking. The second we stop moving, snow starts gathering in heaps, and I fight against the wind to get the door open.
In the end, Reid yanks it wide, looming over me like a fancy yeti in the snow. He reaches into the car and plucks me out, bundling me under his arm like I’m one of his legal briefs, and marches us up over the deck and into the Mulberry Inn.
* * *
A bell tinkles as the door opens. It’s warm in this lobby—cozy and quiet, like there’s no storm raging just outside those windows. As the door snaps shut behind us, a hush falls, like this is the only place on Earth.
Reid sets me down on a thick, patterned rug. The air smells like freshly baked cookies.
“Evening, folks!” A young man with styled black hair and tawny skin beams at us from behind the polished wood of reception. He’s college-aged, wearing a bright white shirt without a single crease in the fabric. “Welcome to the Mulberry Inn.”
Reid stomps to the desk in moody silence, but our host’s smile doesn’t dim a single watt.
“What brings you lovely folks to our neck of the woods?” His name badge says, Hi! I’m Anirudh.
“A blizzard,” Reid says. “Do you have two rooms?” He turns back to face me, but won’t meet my eye. “We can’t drive again tonight. The car is in a snowdrift.”
No kidding.
And does he seriously think I want to head back out into that ? When it’s so cozy and welcoming in here? And there are freshly baked cookies somewhere nearby? This place is my dream!
Anirudh grins at me past my boss’s shoulder. “The cookies are in the guest library. They have cardamom.” He mimes a chef’s kiss. “My mother’s best.”
Reid clears his throat.“The rooms?”
“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Anirudh says, going on like Reid never spoke. He smiles wide, all mischief and sunshine. “Indians and Christmas? Who knew? But many Indians are Christian, my friends.” A stern finger points between us. “Don’t be racist.”
I choke back a laugh, and Reid gusts out a long-suffering sigh. Yeah, my boss doesn’t like being teased by anyone but me.
“Two rooms. Do you have them or not?”
Anirudh winks at me. Reid bristles.
“Let me check my magical booking software.” Our host hops up onto a stool, dragging his keyboard a few inches closer. He types fast, fingers thundering over the keys, and his mouth twists as he scans his computer screen. “Two rooms,” he repeats slowly. He taps his chin. “Two… rooms. There is good news and bad news,” Anirudh says at last.
Reid pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s hear it.”
“The good news is that you’re both safe from the storm! You won’t be exposed to the elements overnight. Wonderful news, I’m sure you’ll agree, and far more important than any pesky details.”
I do agree. As far as I’m concerned, Anirudh is our guardian angel, especially if I can go track down those cardamom cookies anytime soon. A guest library, too? Sweet . This inn is awesome, and I knew Reid would make everything okay.
“And the bad news?” My boss’s tone is clipped.
“The bad news,” Anirudh says, “is that there is only one room available tonight.”
My belly swoops. “With two beds?”
“No.” Anirudh gives a mournful shrug, but his regretful tone doesn’t match his eyes. “I’m afraid there is only one bed.”