Chapter 3
MADDIE
In the morning, I clean myself up the best I can in the utility sink. When I’m finished there’s a big puddle on the floor and I’m not a hundred percent sure that I’m much better off than I was when I started, but it’s a whole lot better than nothing.
I still have one clean pair of jeans and a sweater, so I pull them on and head into the hallway with my bag to use the lobby powder room.
When I come out, there’s an older couple sitting on the loveseat by the fireplace. They’re holding hands and smiling like they just won the lottery. They’re snuggled so closely together that the white cloud of her hair practically touches his bald pate as they murmur and gaze at the fire.
That could have been my parents one day.
But that kind of thinking won’t change anything, so I take a seat at the little table in the corner and pull my laptop out of my bag.
From here I can see the whole lobby. It’s a little drafty by the windows, but that will keep me from nodding off. If Michael finds me a job like I’m really hoping he will, then this might be my only chance to write today.
As if I summoned him with my thoughts, my old friend appears in the lobby, the buttons on his uniform sparkling.
“Miss Foster,” he says, approaching me. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you again,” I tell him honestly, but don’t go so far as to mention the fact that the cot in the broom closet is the best sleep I’ve had in weeks.
“I’m very sorry, but I haven’t been able to find you any employment yet,” he tells me. “I’ll keep trying, though, don’t you worry.”
I’m not too discouraged. It’s still early, and everything, including my future, looks a little brighter in the light of day.
“Maybe I can head down to the village and see if anyone in the shops needs a hand,” I say, already trying to figure out how I’m going to get down there without a dime to my name.
“Anna from the kitchen has to run down to the village at noon to pick up a shipment of vegetables,” Michael says, reading my mind. “She’ll give you a lift.”
“Thank you,” I tell him again.
“Have some coffee,” he tells me as he heads off, gesturing to the big stainless urn at the counter.
The lobby coffee smells amazing, and it’s free, along with the cookies on the silver tray beside the urn. But I don’t want to push my luck since Margo is around. If she remembers that I didn’t get a room last night she might kick me out this morning.
I open my laptop, feeling excited about the prospect of writing in such a perfect environment. My story is set at Christmastime, so the roaring fire and festive decor put me in the perfect mood.
Before I even have the file open, there is a swirl of winter air as a man comes into the lobby with a little boy.
The kid is somewhere around five years old with a mop of dark brown hair.
He looks around the lobby in delight, his brown eyes sparkling as he takes in the Christmas village.
But it’s the life-sized reindeer that really capture his attention.
He takes off to examine them and my eyes return to his father and get stuck as I take him in. I’m not usually one to get all drooly over a cute guy, but this one is a whole lot more than just cute.
The man is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, with wide shoulders, hair just a little too long, and cheekbones so sharp even his five o’clock shadow can’t hide them.
His clothing is quality but practical, and he’s so focused on getting the manager’s attention that he doesn’t spare a single glance at the over-the-top Christmas decor.
I pick my jaw up off the floor and wonder what’s gotten into me as Margo scurries over to the man and the lodge door opens again, letting in another blast of frigid air.
A small blonde woman and her three blonde kids hurry in and wipe their feet on the mat. Michael is already heading over to greet them, a big smile on his face like he’s really pleased to see the children.
“How may I help you?” he asks them all warmly.
“Oh, we’re just here with our letters,” the lady tells him a little apologetically.
I smile, happy to know that the local families still come in to drop letters in the lobby mailbox for Santa.
“Welcome,” Michael tells them, gesturing to the mailbox with a flourish.
The kids giggle and race each other over to it. Across the lobby, the little dark-haired boy turns to watch them.
I know I’m supposed to be working, but watching this little slice of life unfold in the lobby is making me feel good for a change, so I just continue to soak it in.
The elderly couple calls Michael over and he moves to them, nodding as he listens. Meanwhile, the little dark-haired boy darts over to the mailbox to see what the other kids are up to.
“What’s that?” he asks.
But the kids are talking to each other, and his dad is deep in conversation with Margo. Michael doesn’t hear him either—he’s too engrossed in chatting with the couple by the fireplace.
I look around, but no one else seems to have noticed the little boy, and I hate the idea of him being the only lonely person in this lobby.
Besides me.
“That’s a mailbox where you can send letters to Santa Claus,” I tell him.
“What?” he asks, marching over to me with a skeptical look on his face.
“Kids write letters to tell Santa what they’d like for Christmas,” I explain. “And then they put them in that mailbox.”
“Really?” he asks, looking thunderstruck.
“They sure do,” I reply.
I haven’t spent a lot of time around kids, but this one is pretty cute. He’s so tuned into this conversation that he’s practically quivering.
“I want to write one,” he says, the earnest eagerness on his face gives my heart a twinge.
I look around again, but his dad is still talking to Margo, and Michael is now sitting down with the couple. It looks like they’re regaling him with a long story.
“Hang on,” I tell the boy as I hop up and grab a pad of the lodge stationary from the desk, along with a pen.
Margo doesn’t even glance at me. Heading back to the boy, I feel a little shiver of joy like I got away with something, even though that’s silly.
“Here we go,” I tell him, placing the pad and pen down on the table.
“So I just write what I want?” he asks me, still incredulous.
“Well, my family has rules about our letters,” I offer. “You can ask for one thing for yourself, one thing for someone else, and one thing for everyone.”
I remember so many of my carefully compiled lists and all the amazing things I asked for: dolls and toys, books and vacations for my parents, and even world peace, while I was at it. I got a lot of the stuff I asked for, but I’m still waiting for the big man to deliver on that last one.
The little boy stares down skeptically at the blank pad.
“But you don’t have to do that,” I tell him quickly. “You can write whatever you want.”
“I want a train set for me,” he says right away, clambering onto the chair across from mine and getting to work on his letter, the tip of his tongue peeking out of his mouth as he concentrates on the pen.
I watch as he writes across the top of the page.
I wn tran set
A train set. That’s pretty old school for such a little guy, and something about it makes me like the boy even more than before.
My dad would have loved every bit of this, and probably would have started sculpting an animal figure of him immediately, though I can’t decide what kind of animal. A little wolf cub? A small bear, maybe?
“Now what?” the boy asks. “What’s the next one?”
“Next, you write something you want for someone else,” I tell him.
“Who?” he asks.
“Maybe for your dad?” I suggest.
I can’t help thinking again of how handsome his dad is, and I immediately feel mortified that my mind is going there in front of his little boy.
“I know,” the boy says happily.
I watch as he writes.
fune move
What the heck does that mean?
“My dad laughs when he watches funny movies,” the boy says, his own little face lighting up with a smile.
Funny movie, right.
“Mine too,” I tell him, leaving out the used to as I think about my dad cracking up over Robin Williams or Steve Martin.
“Now what?” he asks me.
“Now you ask for something for everyone,” I tell him. “Something that you think would make everyone happy or make their lives better.”
He beams and gets right to work.
ples snd sno
“What does that say?” I ask him.
“Please send snow,” he tells me. “I want to see it.”
“You’ve never seen snow before?” I ask.
“I’m from California,” he tells me. “But in the movies, snow makes people happy. There’s supposed to be snow here. My dad said so.”
“That’s true,” I tell him.
I don’t mention that snow also makes the roads dangerous, and inconveniences people when there’s too much of it. Those things don’t change the fact that everyone in this lobby is probably hoping for a white Christmas.
“Now you fix it,” he says, pushing the paper and pen to me.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You fix the mistakes,” he says, like I should know this. “And then I’ll write it nicely.”
“Oh,” I say.
He seems to be into it, so I don’t bother telling him that Santa doesn’t take points off for spelling. I just make the changes and push the pad back when I’m finished. He immediately tears off the original list and carefully refers to it as he slowly rewrites a final version.
I’ve been there, kid. Maybe you can fix my book next.
I’m so busy watching him that I don’t notice his father approach until a shadow appears across the page.
“What’s this?” a deep voice asks.
I look up, and up, and up at the handsome face of the man whose icy blue eyes are fixed on his son’s handiwork.
“I’m writing a letter to Santa,” the boy chirps joyfully. “She showed me how.”
Suddenly those blue eyes flash to me and I feel my cheeks heat.
“Sorry,” I hear myself murmur.
I have no idea why I just apologized, and I hate that I have that instinct. It’s just that I feel like a bug under a microscope with his eyes looking all the way into my soul.
“It’s good to see Dylan practice his writing,” the man says thoughtfully. “You’re not looking for a babysitting gig, are you?”
The world seems to stop turning for a second. Of course I am. I’m looking for an anything gig.
Could it really be this easy?
Then he chuckles lightly, like he can’t imagine a woman on vacation would want to babysit his kid, and I realize it was his attempt at a joke.
Stick to the funny movies, sir.
But when his eyes meet mine again I open my fool mouth.
“It would actually be great research for my book,” I hear myself say lightly.
“I wanted to do something part-time while I’m here just to get my creative juices flowing.
I was planning to lend a hand at the lodge, but the stuffy new owner is supposed to be coming and they don’t want anyone new messing things up for old Mr. Moneybags. ”
His eyes widen slightly, and then he scowls.
“Sorry about that, sir,” Michael says, approaching. “My name is Michael. How may I help you today?”
“Jake Stone,” the man says, sticking his hand out to Michael who accepts it right away. “But I guess you can call me Mr. Moneybags. I’m the new owner.”
I swallow hard, just as Jake Stone glances back at me and winks.
I hope my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel, because I’m pretty sure I’m giving off more heat than the fireplace right now. And I’m not even sure if it’s because I’m embarrassed that I put my foot in my mouth, or if it’s because a man who looks like that is winking at me…