“No,” admitted Rebecca, because Mr. Murphy wasn’t that creative. “It wasn’t my parents, was it?” Bob and Evie Neumann weren’t the most luxury-minded of parents, but it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility.
The woman laughed. “Could be.”
Rebecca frowned, considering the uncharacteristic generosity. Her family had never been as flush with the green stuff as most of her friends, which perhaps, maybe, okay, probably, had influenced her more avaricious leanings. Her friends? “Natalie!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s just like her. This is a singles place, isn’t it? Oh, no, no, no. Don’t tell me. I want to be surprised.”
“Yes, I’m sure you will be. You’re confirming the reservation, then?”
“A lodge?” Rebecca still wasn’t sure. She wasn’t an over-the-river-and-through-the-woods sort of gal, but Natalie was usually spot-on, and she wanted to escape. If only for a while. If only to let the blood-letting inside her stop.
“We have a four-star restaurant, the suites have in-room whirlpool baths and fireplaces. A full spa—”
“Spa? With pedicures? And in-room foot tubs full of scented bubbles?” The world grew brighter.
“Sure. We can do that. And ice-skating, sledding, a movie theater in town—”
“Stop. You had me at the bubbles.”
It was going to be the perfect escape. The perfect way to get her head together. She’d have a nice, relaxing vacation, and then figure out a way to get her life in order. Preferably something that didn’t involve kids. Maybe retail? She would excel at retail.
“Look us up on the Web, Miss Neumann. You won’t regret it.”
“I’ll be there on Friday.”
Rebecca hung up, a bourbon-flavored smile on her face. Tomorrow she’d hurt, but right now she was happy. “Janine, I’m heading to the Adirondacks, and I’m taking the curling iron with me.”
Friday, December 20th THE SNOW WAS STARTING to fall in huge, blinding flakes, the road nearly invisible even though the wipers were moving faster than the wheels.
Eventually the road disappeared altogether, and Cory Bell swore. He lifted his foot off the accelerator and his pickup slid to a crunching halt. The last thing he needed was to be stuck with another one hundred and seventy miles to go. Hell. He hadn’t even gotten out of the States, yet, and already the never-ending Christmas music was eating at his nerves.
When Christmas came, Cory headed north, running for the French-Canadian mountains where English wasn’t the native language. He didn’t like the holiday, didn’t like being around people for it and chose to find a place where a man could disappear and nobody would care. Cory had learned early on that a disappearing act was the smartest thing he could do.
The windshield was nearly covered in white, and Cory cursed every meteorologist ever born. There wasn’t supposed to be snow yet. Two days ago, they said it was supposed to be “unseasonably warm” until the storm blew in. When the windshield was completely blanketed, he knew that global warming hadn’t kicked in here, at least not yet, and reluctantly he put the car back into Drive. There was a turnoff ahead for Lake Placid. He’d see what was there. All he needed was a restaurant, or a bar with people who saw, heard and said nothing. By the looks of the steely sky, he was going to be stuck for a few hours—at the very least.
* * *
The local cabbie picked Rebecca up from the train station and deposited her in front of a rustic snow-covered wonderland with huge firs lit up like golden Christmas trees. Timberline Lodge was an old-fashioned camping-style lodge, with two large stone support columns, towering timbers and an A-line roof that seemed to go on forever. It wasn’t the quaint bed-and-breakfast she was expecting, but warm and—Christmassy. Was it what she needed right now? She wasn’t sure.
The front door was twice her size, and she heaved it open, trudged inside, hauling her suitcase behind her.
Inside was just as cavernous as out. A stone fireplace climbed up one wall, running three stories to the roof. Rough-hewn timber columns were used to support it, so tall they must have been redwoods. Rebecca, who was used to feeling small, felt extra Lilliputian.
The furnishings weren’t new; some had that homemade look—the real deal. And there might not be eight-hundred-thread-count sheets she had hoped for, judging by the looks of things, but heck, it was a gift, so who was she to complain?
She was stamping her pink UGG boots on the mat, when the door opened and a man entered behind her, his black hair blanketed in white snow.
“You work here?”