Page 8 of Saved By Noel
I kept shower cleaner in an easily accessible box so I could give the tub a good scrub first. After using the attached shower head to rinse away the cleaner residue, I turn up the water temperature and add a healthy dose of pumpkin spice bubble bath to the running water. I don’t prefer drinking pumpkin spice lattes, but I don’t mind smelling like one. Humming to myselfas the tub fills, I arrange my hair products and soap along the ledge. I hang a fluffy towel and my favorite cozy robe on the nearby hooks.
I queue up my Dave Barnes Christmas playlist on my phone, turn on the overhead heat lamp, and ease myself into the sudsy water. I close my eyes and lean against the back of the tub, grateful for the large size accommodating my 5’ 8” frame. The standard shower/tub combo in my apartment doesn’t lend itself to relaxing baths for tall-ish people.
I did it. I’mdoingit. I’m making my dreams real.
After thirty minutes of bliss, my pruned fingers tell me it’s time to get out of the repeatedly reheated water. I use the shower head to wash and condition my hair, carefully brushing through the curls while wet.
While the water drains, I wrap myself in my velvet robe and use an old t-shirt to scrunch water out of my hair before working in curl cream. I wipe my hand over the fogged mirror so I can apply serums and night creams to my face.
After such a long day, I should be ready for bed, but I’m wide awake now. I smile at my reflection in the mirror, picturing myself in my overstuffed chair in the sunroom with a cup of hot cocoa and a good book.Or maybe my laptop? Are the creative juices flowing to write tonight, or should I wait until I’m mentally fresh tomorrow?
I turn off the heat lamp and twist the door-knob.
The door doesn’t budge.
Brow furrowed, I pull harder. Nothing.
I wipe my hands on a towel, ready to put my full strength into my next effort. I turn the doorknob, then pull as hard as I can. This turns out very unfortunately for me when the doorknob comes clean out of the door. I topple backward with the full force of my pulling strength.
Oh no.
I try to put the knob back into the hole in the door, jiggling it around, as if that would magically make it click back into place. I then abandon the knob altogether and try to grab through the circular hole to pull on the door.
No. No. Nonononononono. This can’t be happening.
It’s my first night in my perfect writing retreat cabin, and I’m stuck in the bathroom. Literallystuckin the bathroom. The small window opens, but it’s clearly made for ventilation, not escape purposes.
I quickly dial Dawn, praying she’ll answer. Just when I’m certain I’m about to hear her voice mail recording, she picks up. “DAWN! I’m trapped in the bathroom and the doorknob came off and I can’t get out and I don’t know anyone in town to call to help me and what do I do?” I frantically ramble.
Dawn slows me down for an explanation, so I give her the specifics of my predicament.
“Well, that’s . . . unfortunate,” Dawn replies.
“Yes, fully aware how unfortunate this is, Dawn,” I retort. “Now tell me what to do.”
“Let me call the seller’s agent and see if she has a suggestion of someone who can come over to get you out,” Dawn says. “I’ll call you right back.”
I pace the approximate distance of a 5K back and forth in the bathroom waiting for my phone to ring.I can’t believe this is happening. Of course, this day was too good to be true.
I’m staring at my phone, so the ring tone doesn’t even sound before I’ve answered Dawn’s incoming call. “Well?”
“Don’t worry, Clara. The agent gave me the number of the town handyman. I called him to see if he could help. He’s going to come over and get the door open for you. I just need you to text me the code you set on the front door so he can get in,” Dawn tells me.
“How do you know this person is trustworthy? I’m supposed to hand over the proverbial keys to my house to a complete stranger? What if he’s a serial killer?!” The octave of my voice rises as a new wave of panic sets in.
“The seller’s agent was perfectly nice—you met her, remember? I hardly think she’s going to risk her reputation, or the town’s, by sending a serial killer after you. Text me the code, and then text me later to let me know you’re alive and not in a ditch somewhere,” she replies, an eye roll in her voice.
“How will you know it’s me texting you and not the serial killer throwing you off his track?” I counter.
“Use the code phrase, ‘My nonsensical imagination had nothing to fear’ when you send me proof of life,” she says.
I huff, but don’t argue.
“Code, please?”
“Fine, two-five-one-two.”
“Okay, just hang tight. Help is on the way—and his name is Clark.”
