Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Samuel
The GPS on my phone had lost signal twenty minutes ago, somewhere between “turn left at the church that’s definitely not there anymore” and “continue on an unpaved road for three miles.” I was navigating by sheer stubbornness and a printed MapQuest direction sheet I’d made the tactical error of trusting, watching my rental Miata bounce over potholes that could swallow small children.
In hindsight, the convertible sports car had seemed like a good idea at the airport. Sleek, fun, the kind of car that said, “I’m on vacation and making spontaneous choices.” What it actually said was, “I’m a California idiot who doesn’t understand mountains or winter or basic geography.”
The heater was working overtime, but cold air still seeped through every seal and gap. My hands were numb on the steering wheel, and my nose felt like it might fall off. I was pretty sure I’d lost feeling in my left foot somewhere around mile marker thirty-seven.
“Why,” I said aloud to no one, “didn’t I rent a cabana on a small island in the Pacific? Somewhere tropical. Somewhere with mai tais and sand and temperatures above freezing.”
The forest didn’t answer, but the bare trees seemed judgmental about it.
I’d left Los Angeles twelve hours ago, back when the California sun had been warm and forgiving and I’d been wearing a t-shirt under my jacket like an optimist. Now, in early December Virginia, I understood that I’d made a terrible mistake.
Multiple terrible mistakes, actually, starting with the Miata and ending with my complete lack of appropriate winter clothing.
But then I rounded a curve, and the view opened up.
Mountains stretched out before me in layers of blue and gray, misty and ancient, dusted with snow on their peaks.
The late afternoon sun caught the edges of clouds, painting everything in shades of gold and rose.
Pine trees clustered thick along the roadside, their branches heavy with winter.
The air—even through my inadequate car heater—smelled different. Clean. Real.
For the first time in years, I felt my face do something it had almost forgotten how to do: I smiled.
Not the Dr. Brock Blaze smile I’d perfected for the camera.
Not the polite smile I gave to fans and photographers.
A real, genuine, nobody’s-watching smile that came from somewhere deep in my chest.
Maybe the mountains weren’t such a bad idea after all.
The sign appeared suddenly, hand-painted wood that had seen better decades: “Pine & Dandy Resort - Cabins Available.” An arrow pointed down an even narrower road, and I sent a silent prayer to whatever god protected idiots in sports cars before following it.
“Resort” was an extremely generous term for what I found.
Pine & Dandy consisted of a log cabin office that looked like it had been built sometime during the Roosevelt administration—the first one—and a cluster of smaller cabins scattered among the trees beyond it.
Everything was weathered wood and stone chimneys, rustic in a way that was either “charming” or “please God let there be running water,” depending on your perspective.
I parked the Miata in front of the office, its bright red paint absurdly cheerful against all the brown and green, and immediately regretted opening the door.
The cold hit me like a physical slap. California cold was a joke—a light jacket, maybe a scarf if you were feeling dramatic. This was something else entirely.
I grabbed my jacket from the passenger seat—a stylish leather number that I now realized was about as useful as a paper umbrella—and hauled myself out of the car. My legs had gone stiff from the drive, and I took a moment to stretch, watching my breath form clouds in the air.
The office door opened, and a woman emerged who looked like she’d been carved from the same wood as the buildings.
Late sixties, maybe early seventies, built like someone who’d spent her life doing actual physical labor instead of paying someone to do it for her.
She wore a puffy vest over a flannel shirt, sensible boots, and an expression that suggested she’d seen everything and been unimpressed by most of it.
“You must be Bennett,” she said, not as a question.
“Samuel, yes.” I walked toward her, hand extended. “You must be—”
“Gladys Pritchard. I run this place.” She didn’t shake my hand, just looked me up and down with the kind of assessment usually reserved for livestock auctions. “You’re that actor. From the TV.”
My stomach sank slightly. So much for anonymity. “I—yes. I do some television work.”
“Midnight At Magnolia General.” She pronounced it like a disease. “My sister watches it. Says it’s trash for bored housewives.”
I blinked. “Well, she’s not wrong.”
The words came out before I could stop them, but Gladys’s expression didn’t change.
“At least you’re honest about it.” She moved past me toward the Miata, and before I could process what was happening, she was opening the passenger door and climbing in. “Come on, then.”
“I’m sorry, what are you—”
“Taking you to your cabin.” She looked at me through the open door as if I were being deliberately obtuse. “Why the hell else would I get in your car? You planning to stand in the parking lot all day asking stupid questions?”
“No, I just—I can follow you in my car if—”
“Your car doesn’t have four-wheel drive, city boy. The road to your cabin is steep and half-frozen. You’ll end up in a ditch, and I’m too old to haul you out.” She settled into the passenger seat and pulled the door closed. “Now get in before I freeze my ass off.”
I got in.
The interior of the Miata suddenly felt tiny with Gladys in it. She smelled like wood smoke and something piney—the forest itself, maybe—and radiated a no-nonsense energy that made me want to sit up straighter and stop mumbling.
“Turn left out of the lot,” she instructed. “Then follow the road up the hill.”
I did as I was told, the Miata’s engine whining in protest as we climbed. The road was less “road” and more “suggestion,” winding up through the trees in a series of switchbacks that made my California driving experience feel woefully inadequate.
“So,” Gladys said after a moment of silence. “Running from something or running to something?”
“Excuse me?”
“People don’t rent cabins in the middle of nowhere in December unless they’re running or hiding. Which is it?”
I kept my eyes on the road, navigating around an enormous pothole. “Maybe I just wanted a quiet vacation.”
“Uh-huh.” She made a sound that might have been a laugh. “You Hollywood types are all the same. Think you can come up here and ‘find yourself’ or whatever nonsense you call it.”
“I’m not—” I stopped, because she wasn’t entirely wrong. “I just needed a break.”
“From playing a doctor on TV?”
“From playing anything.”
She glanced at me, and I felt the weight of her assessment. “Fair enough. Left at the fork.”
We drove in silence for another few minutes, climbing higher into the mountains. Through the trees, I caught glimpses of other cabins—small, isolated, exactly what I’d been hoping for.
“Your cabin’s the last one,” Gladys said. “Most private of the bunch. No neighbors to bother you except for the one next door, but he just checked in yesterday and seems like the type who keeps to himself.”
“Perfect.”
“There’s a general store about twenty minutes down the mountain. Shifflett’s. They’ve got everything you’ll need—food, firewood, emergency supplies. Cell service is spotty up here, but there’s a landline in the cabin if you need it.”
“That’s actually ideal.”
She frowned, then chuckled and shook her head. “You one of those meditation types? Gonna sit on a rock and contemplate your chakras or whatever?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe. Is that a problem?”
“Not my business what you do, long as you don’t burn the place down or attract bears.” She pointed ahead. “That’s yours. The one with the green shutters.”
The cabin appeared through the trees like something from a postcard I’d seen but never quite believed was real.
It was larger than I’d expected from the photos—two stories of weathered logs with a stone chimney, wide front porch, and those promised green shutters that looked hand-painted.
Smoke rose from the chimney, which meant someone had already started a fire.
“I had my grandson get the place warmed up for you,” Gladys said, reading my mind. “Stocked the firewood, too. You know how to maintain a fire?”
“I... watched a YouTube video?”
She sighed the sigh of someone who’d been suffering fools for seventy years and hadn’t gotten used to it yet. “There are instructions on the mantel. Don’t let it go out overnight or you’ll freeze. And for God’s sake, open the flue before you add more wood.”
I parked in front of the cabin, and we both got out. The cold was even sharper up here, crisp and clean in a way that made my lungs work harder. But the view—God, the view. Mountains stretched out in every direction, and the silence was so complete it felt like a physical presence.
Gladys produced a key from her vest pocket and unlocked the front door. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
The interior was exactly what the photos had promised, if slightly more rustic.
Exposed log walls, wide-plank wooden floors, a massive stone fireplace with a fire crackling away.
The furniture was mismatched but comfortable-looking—overstuffed couch, worn armchairs, a dining table that could seat six.
The kitchen was small but functional, with appliances that looked like they’d been installed in the nineties.
“Bedroom’s upstairs,” Gladys said, already moving toward the stairs. “Bathroom’s through there. Hot water takes a minute to get going, so don’t panic. Thermostat’s on the wall, but the fireplace is your primary heat source. Keep it fed.”