Page 8 of Christmas Cove

Leo stopped his tidying and looked around the space. Creamy linen drapes hung loosely at the windows and framed the gray of autumn holding tightly to the structures outside. Birch logs stacked perfectly in the fireplace all screamed home to him. With the newly made-up bed and food stocked in the kitchen, the cabin’s energy was more cozy than exciting.

“Nope. Pa, I don’t feel it. This place feels the same as it always has.” Leo patted Edwin on the shoulders. “Whoever she is, I hope she has a nice stay here, and that’s it.”

“And maybe tell all her fancy city friends to book their own stay here, too?”

“Now, wouldn’t that be a miracle?” Leo said as he shut off the lights and locked up the cabin door until later.

CHAPTER6

The worldof Elizabeth Bennet wrapped America in its romance and thought-provoking humor so completely that time seemed to stand still inside the vehicle. No matter how often America read the classic story, she always felt like a scene was missing. The Bennet family never experiences Christmas together, at least not that the reader sees.

America imagined a holiday moment, with all the sisters vying for their father’s approval in their varied ways. Mary playing Christmas hymns on the pianoforte and Lizzy burying her nose in a book while secretly making fun of her family’s ridiculousness. As an only child, America had always wished to be part of something as grand as Regency-era England, save for the lack of indoor plumbing and inaccurate timepieces.

She lifted her wrist and checked the time on her smartwatch. Hours had passed. Out the window, tree-lined fields and granite-topped rolling hills screamed by. The road snaked around tight turns and through steep valleys where the cliff faces towered over her.

America pressed the green button.

“How can I be of service, Ms. Greene?” Brampson answered over an intercom.

“I seem to have lost track of where we are exactly. What is the E.T.A.?”

“About fifteen minutes, ma’am.”

“Perfect. Thank you,” she said and turned her gaze forward.

Anticipation fluttered in her belly. If this place was half as good as it looked to be online, she was certain she would be impressed. There was no use in focusing on the fact that she was to write a travel article, which she felt wholly unprepared to do well. America decided to enjoy the experience for what it was. The story would write itself. Or at least she hoped it would.

The SUV came through a valley and turned a sharp hairpin corner with caution. A wooden span bridge, like ones she had seen on Christmas cards, crossed a quiet stream. The bridge, on the other hand, creaked and shimmied under the weight of the vehicle. America held her breath, and the handle at the top of the door frame, as they inched across the structure.

Once safely on the other side, the road narrowed, and a village peeked from behind the next hill.

“Is that it?” she asked Brampson.

“It is, indeed,” he said.

Coming around another turn, a wide flat plain stretched out towards the south, but fog shrouded the edges and made it nearly impossible to see the town from her position.How am I supposed to get a first impression when I can’t see the thing I’m supposed to be impressed by?she wondered.

The vehicle bumped along the skinny road and splashed in a pothole. A sign that read Welcome to Christmas Cove hung between two pine poles on either side of the road, and her heart leaped with excitement as a cobblestone street materialized.

Victorian-style houses and flat façades lined the way. One by one, the buildings passed by the window. She couldn’t help but notice the darkened windows and shuttered doors. She saw no twinkling lights strung on the evergreens, no garlands, no joyful tourists, no residents dashing out for their Christmas treasures.

“Brampson, are you certain we’re in the right place?” America said. “This doesn’t look right to me.”

“This is Christmas Cove, ma’am.” He paused. “Not what you expected?”

“No.” Her response came out as a whisper, and she slumped into the seat back like a deflated balloon.

The main street passed by as quickly as it had appeared, and the vehicle turned down a gravel path towards the plain. America took the itinerary from her tote and looked for where she was staying the night. Knowing Mr. Janowitz’s appetite for the finer things in life, she supposed the hotel would be where all the Christmas action had moved to.

In many older towns, resorts were brought in to revitalize the economies, and bring new life and jobs into an area. She suspected the same thing may be true here after witnessing an otherwise dead Main Street.

It was no secret that people preferred to vacation at new, all-inclusive resorts, where a well-paid and courteous staff would tend to one’s every need. It only made sense, though a sad thought, that the old main street had dried up and been made irrelevant by modernity.

America eagerly watched out the window for a glimpse of her destination. Expecting to see all the Christmassy accoutrements around the next bend, she was confused when the vehicle came to an abrupt stop on the gravel road. Outside the other window, a lone cabin stood dark and vacant. A red painted barn in the distance was the first and only festive looking thing she had seen since arriving in Christmas Cove.

Brampson unlocked the doors and came around to her side. He held the door open and offered her his hand as she alighted from the cozy SUV. Her shoes slipped on the damp gravel, and she steadied herself against the driver’s shoulder.

“Where are we?” she asked.

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