Page 14 of Unwrapped

“Stop. You know what it is?”

“I do?”

She gives me an eye-roll. “You have a thing for douchebags. Hot, rich ones.”

“I do,” I mutter, laying back against my pillows.

“Some spend Christmas with us. The kids would love it!”

I smile weakly. I can’t hurt her by saying what I’m feeling out loud; that being around her and her adorable family is just a reminder of everything I’m longing for and don’t have. “Actually, I’m taking a trip.”

“You are?”

“Yes. I want a real Christmas this year with evergreen trees that smell like fresh pine needles. I’ve never had a white Christmas, maybe it’s about time I give myself one and while I’m at it I can work on my books.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure yet. Probably up North. I feel like a drive. It’ll clear my head.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You shouldn’t be alone.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll find a high-end spa in the mountains somewhere. I’ll pamper my loneliness away. I’ll be fine.”

“Ok. If that’s what you need. Call me, though, okay? I’m going to worry if you don’t.”

“I’ll be fine. I know how to take care of myself.”

“I know you do.”

“Love you!”

“Love you, too. He’s out there Shi. Just stop looking then he’ll find you.”

This time, I’m the one to roll my eyes, “You know I hate those crappy sayings.”

“Well, maybe they are true.”

“Bye!” I laugh, ending our call. Getting up from my bed, I unzip my gown and step out of it, carefully placing it back on the hanger still on the back of my door. Then zip it back up in its protective bag.

Lifting my chenille robe off a hook, I wrap it around me and tie the sash. Padding back out into the living area, I pour myself a glass of merlot and open my laptop. Opening up my web browser, I type in “scenic luxury mountain spa.” Hundreds pop up. Some are in the Mid-West, but most are in Europe or even the East Coast. I amend my search, “scenic luxury mountain spa west coast.”

I scroll down. There it is. “Maple Mill Inn and Spa, located in Springdale, Oregon.” I click on the link and it opens to a picture that takes my breath away. It’s a huge white colonial nestled amongst enormous pine trees. The owners describe it as being an old logging mill that they lovingly restored into a fifteen-room luxury inn and spa facilities. They even host weddings in the summer under a large pavilion next to the old sawmill and pond.

Without hesitation, I pick up my cell and dial the number.

“Maple Mill Inn, Sally McBride speaking. How may I help you?”

“H-hello. I know this is last minute, but would you happen to have any availability?”

“When are you looking to stay?”

“I don’t know…how far of a drive is it from Los Angeles to you?”

“…maybe about twelve to thirteen hours if you stop and encounter light traffic.” My eyes fall down to the time displayed on my laptop.

“Perfect. I’ll take a late check-in…tomorrow?”

“Sure. We have a room available. How long do you want to stay?”

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