Chapter 4
Twenty minutes west of Denver, the crowded city streets gave way to suburbs, then rural valleys.
Buildings and cars became scarcer as the looming snowcapped mountains filled my windshield.
And with them, the rapidly greying skies of the approaching weather.
Usually, I loved storms: getting cozy on the couch with hot cider and fuzzy socks, wrapping up in blankets by candlelight, eating all the ice cream in case the power went out.
On the road, however, the conditions were less enchanting.
The snowstorm moved quickly, from a light dusting to huge cotton balls falling from the sky.
Forceful gusts of wind blew sideways, jostling my old Subaru station wagon around on the winding highway.
Ice began to harden on my windshield and several times I considered pulling over to wait out the worst of the storm, but I needed to make it to the Hawthornes’ chalet tonight.
Megan said Mrs. Hawthorne had been emphatic on that point.
As I dipped into the valley, tires crunching over several inches of snow and ice, my cell reception went from spotty to zero.
The GPS map on my phone no longer pretended to know where I was and I almost missed the exit for Maplewood Creek.
I made a last-second lane change into a wall of solid white that completely obscured the road signs.
I had hoped the valley might provide some measure of cover from the storm.
Instead, the mountains seemed only to create a tunnel effect that channeled the worst of the weather straight on top of me.
I’d lived my whole life in Colorado and was no stranger to blizzards, but this one had me white-knuckling the steering wheel.
My attention flicked between the windshield and the clock on the dash.
Keen to reach the chalet on time, I pushed the car faster.
Probably faster than was strictly prudent.
I was desperately searching for street signs, any indication I was going the right way.
I was the only car on the road and that was never a good sign.
Suddenly, the car thumped. A pothole maybe.
Or a curb? I gripped the wheel as the tires skidded.
I was in a spin and entirely out of control, whirling in a whiteout and desperately begging not to come to a halt inside some frightened family’s living room.
Then, with a violent jolt, I came to a dead stop.
A pile of snow collapsed onto the hood of my car.
I sat there shaking a moment, adrenaline pumping through my veins, while I caught my breath.
It was just a snowdrift, I realized. Nothing catastrophic.
After I gathered my wits, I very carefully put the car in reverse and gave it the slightest bit of gas, downshifting to give the wheels more torque.
If I dug in too deep, I’d be sleeping in my car until a tow truck found me in the morning buried under a foot of snow.
Careful. Easy does it.
The crunch of ice cracking beneath my tires brought a massive wave of relief. I was free of the drift and back on my way. However, I didn’t make it even a mile down the road before flashing red and blue lights blocked my path.
A police officer bundled up in a heavy winter coat and Day-Glo vest stepped out of his SUV and flagged me down. He hurried up to my window and I cracked it just a couple of inches.
“Sorry, ma’am. This way’s closed. You’re going to have to turn around.”
“But I have to get up the mountain,” I said. Snow blew in through my window and immediately collected on my center console, melting in the blast of the heater.
“Too dangerous. We already had to pull people out getting stuck on the way up.”
Panic rose from my gut, queasy and urgent.
“You don’t understand. I’m starting a new job today and I absolutely have to get to the Hawthorne chalet tonight. Please. I’ve got all-wheel drive. I can make it.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you through. Even if you could climb those roads, there’s abandoned cars blocking the way.”
“But . . .” My mind began to spiral. I should have left sooner. I should have gotten ahead of the storm. That’s what Mrs. Hawthorne would say. No excuses. If I’d been better prepared . . . “Where am I supposed to go?”
“You can find lodging in town. Just down that way. They’ll get you set up for the night, and you can be on your way tomorrow after the roads are cleared. Go on now,” he said, freezing and clearly annoyed to be standing outside in the middle of this storm.
The officer hurried back to his SUV and even flipped on the siren a couple of times to move me along.
Dejected, I followed his directions and took a left toward the center of town. It wasn’t long before a lighted sign appeared as a beacon, mocking me in the snowy night. A B&B called The Snowdrift Inn. Fitting.
I pulled into the parking lot of the red farmhouse-style building, then dragged my suitcase through the deep snow, up to the wraparound porch and through the front door.
Inside, it smelled of mulled wine and cinnamon cookies.
Plaid sofas surrounded a roaring fireplace.
The reception area was lit with beautiful Tiffany-style lamps on each of the tables, giving every inch of the room a soft glow.
At the reception desk, made up of an old dining room set with the hutch sitting behind a long, narrow oak table, an older Black gentleman was watching Jeopardy reruns on an even older television. There was nothing hi-definition about anything here. It was cozy with a capital C.
“Hello, dear. How can I help you on this extra-chilly evening?” he asked, taking the duct-taped remote and lowering the volume from rock-concert level to slightly less earsplitting.
“Hi, I’m hoping you have a room available?” I felt guilty asking. It wasn’t like I’d turned up at a roadside motel. There was no reason to believe a tiny B&B would have a last-minute vacancy. “It’s just for the night. The road up the mountain is blocked and I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“Of course,” he said cheerfully. “We have a lovely single room right upstairs. It has a Jack and Jill bathroom that it shares with another single, but I haven’t seen that guest since very early this morning.”
“Not a problem,” I told him. At this stage, I’d have been grateful if he let me sleep on one of the reception area sofas. “I’ll take whatever I can get.”
As soon as I was able to put my stuff down, I’d have to give Megan a call and beg her to smooth things over with Mrs. Hawthorne, who was no doubt sitting in her comfy chalet grousing about her chalet girl no-show.
“He’s an old friend of the family. I suspect he spent the day on the slopes.” The old man paused, glancing out the window again. “May have decided to stay at one of the cabins up there if it was too difficult to get back down.”
“Thank you,” I sighed, unwrapping the scarf from around my neck. “I know it’s getting late, but is there anywhere I can grab dinner?”
He frowned. “I wish I knew you were coming. I would have saved our pot roast for you. It was delicious.”
At that point, I felt my stomach growl. “Any chance there’s something still open in this weather?”
He chuckled, a low, wheezy bark that reminded me of a cartoon cat. “We’re used to this weather, dear. Around here, we’re always open.”
My stomach erupted in another loud growl.
“Two buildings down,” he said, pointing in the general direction. “There’s a bar called The Foggy Goggle. Get a burger. You won’t regret it.”
“Thanks, uh, Mr . . .?”
“Wagner. Peter Wagner.” He handed me a room key. “But you can call me Pops. Everyone in Maplewood Creek does.”
“Alright. Thanks, Pops. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
“Breakfast is between eight and ten.”
Inside my room, the radiator groaned to life as I shrugged off my snow-covered coat. The mattress sagged when I flopped onto it. I pulled out my phone and tried several times to call or text Megan, but nothing was getting through. When I tried her on the room’s landline, it went to voicemail.
“Megan, hey, it’s Elle. I’m stuck in town.
The road is blocked, and I can’t get up the mountain.
I’m staying the night at The Snowdrift Inn.
This is the number to reach me. Cell reception in the valley is shit.
Hopefully I still have a job, but I’ll wait to hear from you if I should just turn around tomorrow and come on home.
Call me back when you get this. I’m running out to get some dinner, but I’ll be back soon. ”
At least the room was comfortable. Not overly polished, modern or elaborate, but I immediately felt right at home. There was a small electric fireplace in the corner, with various ornaments and a stack of books positioned on the mantle.
I decided to wash up, then pop out for an hour to eat, yawning as I got up to head to the adjoining bathroom.
There was a double vanity in there, with two sinks.
On the right side, I saw a mess of men’s grooming products, with the caps scattered and white foam overflowing from the can of shaving cream.
There were tiny hairs in the sink and the electric-blue remnants of toothpaste around the drain.
The idea to tame the mess might have briefly flitted through my head if I hadn’t been so hungry.
I got a little chaotic when I hadn’t eaten.
After a quick freshen up, I headed back out into the snow.
The Foggy Goggle wasn’t unlike many Denver bars. A large stone fireplace occupied most of one wall. A live band played on a small stage at the far end of the room. It wasn’t crowded, but there was enough of a buzz to make it lively.
Sidling up to the bar, I eased onto a stool near the roaring fire, letting the chatter, rock music, and clinking glasses wash over me. I wasn’t sure how much free time I would have to spend in town, if by some miracle I still had a job tomorrow, but this place would be on the list to revisit.