Page 7 of A Cozy Holiday
“Down that way. You’ll need to use the snowmobile to get to any cabins off the main road this time of year.” He gestures at a metal beast beside his truck.
“I’ll just call an Uber!”
Gary laughs, a deep, hearty sound that makes me want to box his hairy ears. “Good luck with that. No fancy cabs or pizza delivery here. That’s summer stuff.”
“But I’ve never driven a snowmobile.”
“It’s easy. Been driving one since before I could spell my own name. Just turn the key. Right is gas, the brake is on both sides. Follow the yellow tags tied to the trees to reach Jamie’s place. It’s only a few miles. Twenty minutes tops.”
“But how am I supposed to get my stuff to the cabin?”
Gary jabs a finger at the rickety wooden sled attached to the snowmobile. “That.”
Jubs gives an irritated thump, as if she already knows I’m about to make a very bad decision.
I will myself to open my door. When I do, frosty air swirls around me, blowing my bob out of place.
“Welcome to Cranberry Hollow,” Gary says as I climb out of the truck and my designer wedges sink into the snow.
I was still drunk getting dressed this morning, obviously.
I yank my silver faux sheepskin coat tighter while I rummage through my purse for gloves.
Please, please, please—nope.
Just a crumpled Duane Reade receipt and an expired lip balm.
It takes me a full ten minutes to unload my suitcases from the trunk and stack them on the small sled till they resemble a precarious Jenga tower. Once I shut the trunk, Gary speeds off, leaving me stranded.
Maybe I should have talked to him on the drive over.
“At least you’re warm, Jubs.” Her beady black eyes stare up at me from her carrier as she nuzzles deeper into her blanket.
I can handle this. I am intelligent. I am capable. I am a board-certified veterinary surgeon.
I can absolutely look up how to ride a snowmobile.
Except there’s no service.
I refresh and check again.
Gary’s truck is now a speck in the distance. I refuse to panic.
“I didn’t become an expert surgeon in Manhattan, only to be defeated by a stupid snowmobile.”
It’s fine that I haven’t driven in nearly a decade. It should be like riding a bike. But the lie drops straight into my ribcage.
Fake it till I make it.
I analyze the tiny sled stacked high with my luggage, trying to figure out where to place Jubs’s carrier. I see a red canister and a box, and I remove them, so I have enough room for Jubs. I wedge her carrier into the freed-up space, ignoring the way my fingers burn from the cold.
The snowmobile’s keys dangle in the ignition. I swing a leg over, my leather pants squeaking in protest. I spot the yellow ribbons dangling from tree branches.
I grab the helmet, sentencing myself to helmet hair. So much for making a good first impression.
Okay. Right is gas. Right is gas.
I twist the throttle.
