Page 3 of Saved By Noel
I sit up straighter in my seat. “Yes. You’re right. I’ll do it . . . next month.”
Madison sighs, probably not believing me, but loving me anyway. She mutters, “It’d be even better if you would talk to your boss about firing Michael and hiring someone better.”
Deep down, I know she’s right. Half of the articles Michael submits I wind up practically rewriting. The other half are often passed off to me entirely when he doesn’t have enough time to get them all done. But I’d much rather jump in to do the work myself than have to have the uncomfortable conversation tofiresomeone.
Even if it means I never have any free time to work on my passion project.
I redirect Madison’s attention by asking about her latest roommate drama. She launches into a detailed story involving waking up to a strange guy in the living room, a broken toilet, and unauthorized cats. One of Madison’s two roommates, Ivy, is constantly causing issues. Madison frequently tries to convince me to move in with her and her good roommate so they’d have an excuse to kick Ivy out. But they live in the trendy area ofBrookside, while I prefer to stay closer to my parents in the suburbs on the Kansas side of the Kansas City metro.
I share an apartment in Overland Park with a roommate who is almost never home between traveling for work and staying over with her boyfriend. Which pretty much gives me the place to myself. Plus, I’m only a ten-minute drive away from my parents in case they need anything.
I’ve finished my salad by the time Madison is banging her forehead against the table, groaning about Ivy’s new preoccupation with ASMR videos in the early morning. I suggest we head back to the office, anxious to catch up on my recently expanded work-load.
Walking past the open cubicle workstations, I note that Michael is mysteriously missing. I’m stopped by three of the other writers to answer questions before finally making it back to my small office an hour later. I rotate my Pilea plant on the windowsill before sitting down at my desk.
Everyone else has long since left the office by the time I finish writing Michael’s article and editing submissions for the homeowners newsletter sent out by real estate agents. Slipping my thumb and forefinger under the rim of my glasses, I rub my tired eyes. I use the last of my brainpower to send the compiled articles to the graphic design team before powering down my desk monitors.
The silence is startled by a text notification. I open my phone to see a message from Dawn, a friend from college who recently got her real estate license.
DAWN
I’ve found it, Clara! I’m sending you listing info. Let me know what you think. Bc I think this is THE ONE.
My heart pounds in my chest.Could this really be it?For the past two months, Dawn has been searching for a small propertyto serve as a writing retreat for me. My list of qualifications was short, but I wasn’t willing to budge on any of them.
One: Must be within a four-hour drive from KC
Two: Must feel secluded, but not actually be secluded—close access to a grocery store and coffee shop required
Three: Must have reliable Internet for remote work
Four: Must give cabin in the woods retreat vibes
When my late Aunt Gloria, my father’s sister, passed away from pancreatic cancer a few months ago, she left a large inheritance to me. She had never married and always doted on me like her own daughter. Aunt Gloria also built a name for herself, pursuing her passion as a member of the Kansas City Ballet and later an instructor at the school. Apparently, that legacy also included wise investments that resulted in a large chunk of money.
What she didn’t donate to the ballet, she left to me. But I was burdened by guilt that she passed it to me and not to my parents. I tried to insist on sharing it with them or donating it to help fund the Living Nativity my parents run at their church every Christmas.
However, shrewd Aunt Gloria had left one stipulation attached: Ihadto spend the money on something for myself, something in line with my passions. The executor of her estate would have to approve my plan for the money before it would be released to me. My parents also wouldn’t hear of me bypassing Aunt Gloria’s plan to force me to pursue my dreams.
It didn’t take long to know exactly what to do with the money. I would purchase a writing cabin. A place I could run to and hide away in while I wrote what Iwantedto write—Christmas movie scripts for the Heartmark Channel.
I’ve watchedeverysingle Heartmark Christmas movieeveryyear for as long as I can remember. When I was a girl, my mom would make cookies and hot cocoa, and we’d watch lovestories play out to the backdrop of snowy scenes and Christmas wonderlands. Sometimes Aunt Gloria would join us if she wasn’t busy teaching ballet classes. We never cared that the same handful of story lines got remade over and over. It was the magic of the season, the magic of falling in love that drew us in each time.
Ever since high school, it’s been my dream to create a little bit of that magic for other moms and daughters watching together each holiday season.
My fingers tremble as I click the listing link Dawn sent.Could my dream come true?
The first photo that pops up is the exterior of an adorably quaint log cabin nestled among mature trees. I swipe through the images to find one bedroom and bathroom, a small but adequate kitchen, and a living room with vaulted ceilings and an inviting stone fireplace. The photo that stops me in my tracks, however, is a sunroom on the back of the cabin with ski lodge-style windows. Upon zooming in, I see a sliding door leading to a small deck and fire pit. I can already envision myself curled up in that room with a cup of hot cocoa, my laptop, and a view of the trees inspiring my writing.
DAWN
Look at the name of the town, Clara. It’s FATE!!!
I click out of the photos to the listing information to see where the cabin is located.
Noel, Arkansas.
My heart pounds even harder.
