Chapter 2
Luke
I’m standing at the desk of an inn, twenty miles from Christmas Tree, Pennsylvania, where I was expecting to spend the night tonight, since I have an appointment in the morning to meet with the owners of a lodge there to see if we can’t turn the little mom-and-pop joint they just bought into a large commercial operation. There’s no reason why we can’t. This is ski country, and it’s close enough to New York City that it should have no problem attracting weekend warriors who just want to get out of the city for a couple of days.
Kind of like me. I don’t live in New York City, I’m actually from Philadelphia, but I wouldn’t mind moving somewhere a little less crowded, slower, less competitive. Someplace more relaxing, where...the values of the people align more with mine, and I don’t feel like I’m living in enemy territory.
There’s something to be said about living in a place where there are lots of people, when one is stranded in the snowstorm, and one comes upon an inn where the owners are not expecting to see anyone, much less a traveler looking for a room for the night.
“You said you wanted a room, son?” the older lady says, looking at me over the rims of her glasses like this isn’t an inn and she can’t imagine why someone would ask her something so insane.
“Yes, please. One room for two nights,” I say, knowing that I’m not going to want to leave before the roads are completely clear. I’ve been warned by the owners of the lodge that the curvy mountain roads are treacherous in winter. That was one of the things they saw as a drawback to luring tourists in. If the roads aren’t clear in the morning, I’m not setting out.
“Two nights?” the lady says. “This is an unexpected stay, and you’re going to book two nights?” It is like she isn’t quite sure whether I am old enough to make up my mind or not.
I am north of thirty years old, in case anyone was wondering, and I’ve been making my own decisions for years now. I do live next door to my parents in a townhouse in Philly, but that’s mostly so that I can be there for them if they need me. They are the reason that I haven’t moved out of the city sooner. I value my family.
“Yes, two nights, one room, anytime,” I say, wishing that I hadn’t been sarcastic. It’s really not me. Typically I’m pretty relaxed and respectful. But driving in the snow has shaken my nerves a bit. It’s flat in Philly, and I’m not used to these mountains. Even though I live in Pennsylvania, I don’t often venture west. I go east, toward New York City, more than I go north or west to the interior of my state. I know it’s nice. The few times I’ve left the city and gone to more rural areas, I haven’t been disappointed.
“All right then, son. Let me see what I have for you,” the lady says, opening up a big book, like something from the 1950s.
She doesn’t even have a computer on the desk.
As she’s opening the ledger, the door bursts open, along with a gust of wind and a few stray snow flurries.
Despite the fact that it’s after Thanksgiving, there are no Christmas decorations up in the inn at all, which is a little odd, considering that every place I’ve been to in the last four weeks has either been decorated for Thanksgiving or, more likely, completely decked out in Christmas finery.
In a way, it’s refreshing, but in another way, it seems sad. Like the owners weren’t expecting guests and didn’t make the effort to try to make the place look beautiful for them.
I assume the person, bundled up in a jacket with a hat pulled down low over their face and scarf covering the lower part of their mouth and nose, is also a motorist who decided not to continue on the treacherous road, since I already know that the innkeeper was not expecting guests this evening.
“My goodness, that snow is really coming down,” the lady says, looking up over her glasses as the door finally closes, but the cold air remains.
There is a fireplace and two comfortable-looking chairs in front of it over to the left, but there’s no cozy fire crackling, and if this ancient place has a heating system, I’ve yet to feel any warmth from it.
The lady is wearing a large sweater, and she had to remove gloves before she opened the ledger.
“I will be with you in just a moment,” the lady says to the person who just walked in. “We’re having quite a crush this evening.” Her language is a little old-fashioned, and I feel almost like I’ve stepped back in time. Which is odd but I suppose not too unexpected. After all, I’ve left the city, and I’m with backwoods people. I don’t mean that in a derogatory way, exactly, it’s just that people who live in rural areas aren’t as suave and sophisticated as city dwellers. They seem to cling to their traditions and get all uptight when anyone tries to come in and make changes. Which is one of the things the lodge owners I’m meeting with tomorrow are concerned about.
That reminds me. I want to text them when I get to my room and let them know that I might not make it, depending on the roads. I’m sure they’ll understand. They’re from Pennsylvania too, and we all understand how the weather is. Even though I don’t get as much of this in Philly, surely they’re not expecting me to drive over these treacherous roads while they’re covered with ice and snow.
I can sense movement behind me, and I’m tempted to turn around and tell the lady to get comfortable, because it’s going to be a while, but my city upbringing reminds me that you don’t turn around and just strike up a conversation with a complete stranger.
The innkeeper doesn’t seem to have any such compunctions, and as she gets to the correct page and smooths it down, she looks up with a smile.
“Are you two together?” she says.
“No,” I answer immediately.
I can almost feel the surprise of the lady behind me. Now I’m a little embarrassed, because I don’t want her to think that I have given any impression of having someone else with me.
“So you don’t want to share a room?” the lady says.
“No,” I say, knowing I should add a “thank you” to that but feeling like the question really doesn’t warrant it. Of course I don’t want to share a room with a stranger.
The lady bites her lip for a moment, looks down at the ledger, and then looks back up at me with a worried expression on her face.
“But I only have one room that has a working shower.”