Page 3 of Better Than the Beach
“A Bed and Breakfast? Honey, what about the hotels?”
“No vacancies,” I say with a shrug, and I can hear her sigh.
“Did you call them all?”
“Everything in the immediate area, yeah.”
“Well, did you call them right away? How are they all booked already?”
I try not to take offense to her needling, but it’s hard. I know she’s worried about me, but it would be nice if she would just trust me for once. It’s not like I can control the weather.
“I called them as soon as I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave, and they’re all booked probably because it’s the holidays, and all flights are cancelled, and Denver is an international airport.” I close my eyes and tilt my head to the ceiling. “It’s going to be fine, Mom. The B&B is better than sleeping on the airport floor.”
“Well, what’s it called, this B&B? So I can use the google and check their rating?”
Shit. I don’t actually know.
“Um, I forget, but I’ll text it to you once we hang up.”
“Okay. Cassandra, I’m so sorry. I know you were looking forward to your trip,” she says, sounding legitimately sympathetic for a moment, but I don’t fall for it. “I do think you should have just stayed home, though. This never would have happened if you would have listened to your father and me.” Yep, here it is. The guilt trip. “You know your father and I never see you anymore. We wanted to be able to spend Christmas with you, and now you’re going to be spending it all alone.”
I roll my eyes.
“It’s cool, Mom.”Lie. “This is going to be great.”Bigger lie. “I’ve always wanted to spend the holidays in the mountains.”Surprisingly not a lie, but I didn’t know it was true until I said it out loud. “I’m excited.”Huh. I kind ofamexcited now.“Don’t worry. It will probably only be a day or two, and then I’ll be soaking up the sun in Honolulu.”Fingers freaking crossed.
“Okay.” She sighs again, just as Mallory steps up next to me zipping up a parka jacket. “But you know that—”
“—Mom, I gotta go. My ride’s here so I’ll text you in a bit. Love you! Bye!”
I hang up before she can pull me into another conversation. Or another guilt trip.
“What’s your nan’s place called?” I ask Mallory as I follow her through the airport. “I have to send it to my mom.”
“Yeah, sure. I think it’s just called Nan’s Place or something. She doesn’t have a website or anything—all her bookings come from Airbnb. Hold on, I’ll shoot you her listing.”
She fumbles with her phone and asks for my number, but she drops the phone on the ground before she can do anything else.
“Shit,” she spits as she picks the phone up and inspects it. “This is my third phone this year. If I bust another one, my husband will riot.”
I laugh and give her my number, then a new text pops up with an Airbnb link. I click on it and thumb through the photos, looking up frequently to weave through the dense crowd of people as I follow Mallory to wherever she’s taking me.
“Oh, wow. This is amazing,” I exclaim as I scroll through the details on the listing.
The house was built in 1901 and has three floors, six bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a gorgeous patio with a hot tub and some beautiful views. With a red brick façade and two large bay windows on either side of the double-door, arched entryway, the house is a breathtaking sight. Add in the dormer windows on the top level and the white, elegant trimming, and it could definitely pass for some sort of historic mansion.
“Right?” Mallory boasts. “It’s been in the family forever. I don’t know how Nan keeps up with all that house, but she does. The town keeps trying to buy it from her—cause it’s so historic, or whatever—but she said ‘over her dead body.’” She snorts out a laugh, then points to an exit. “This way. I’m parked out here.”
I zip up my thin jacket and stick my naked hands in the pockets. No gloves, no hat, no scarf. The moment we step outside, the cold wind bites at my face and seeps through my leggings as if they’re not even there.Damnit. I might as well be in one of my bikinis for how well these leggings are working at keeping me warm.
“So, it’s about a forty-minute drive,” Mallory says once we’re sitting in her Subaru Outback, “but it will probably take us over an hour since it’s snowing. We’ll probably get into town just before the ice hits.”
“Wait,” I interject. “Are you driving out of your way to take me there?”
“Nah,” she reassures. “My apartment is in Golden, too. We’re looking for houses in the Denver area but so far nothing’s worked out.”
“You commute?”
“For this job, yeah,” she says as she pulls a window scraper out of the back seat. “I work at the airport part-time. I actually teach high school English.”
