Page 3 of Stranded in A Small Town Christmas
The line for coffee moves quickly, which is good because I don’t know what to say and I’m stuck with awkward silence. Natalie’s texting somebody and I can’t see her screen, but I assume she’s letting somebody know she’s making a detour to Stowe, Vermont with a man she just met—along with my name and the link to my website.
During the walk to the short-term parking lot, I learn two things. One, the white stuff falling out of the sky is more of a wintery mix than snow. And two, the shoes I’d worn to sit in meetings all day aren’t great in icy slush. I don’t fall on my ass or spill my coffee, but I come close several times as I try to keep up with Natalie in her weather-appropriate boots.
Since I can’t manage her pace without sacrificing my caffeine or my dignity—or both—she already has her Jeep Wrangler running when I get there. She pulls a coat and gloves out of the backseat, along with a scraper.
“I’ll do that,” I say, because I’m not going to sit in the vehicle while she cleans the accumulated white crust off her windshield.
She laughs at me. “In those shoes? With no coat and gloves? If you die of hypothermia, I won’t get my money, so get in and drink your coffee.”
Short of physically wrestling her for possession of the scraper—which might have sounded appealing if we weren’t in a frigid parking lot—all I can do is what I’m told. My toes and the hand not holding the coffee are already aching from the cold, so I slip into the passenger seat and try to convince myself I shouldn’t feel guilty. I am paying a hundred grand for a two-and-a-half-hour ride, after all.
It doesn’t work, though, and I’m about to get out and wrestle her for the scraper if I have to when her door opens and she tosses the scraper into the back as she slides into the seat.
“Buckle up, buttercup,” she says as she fastens her seatbelt.
I’ve definitely never been called buttercup before, but she’s already navigating her way toward the lot’s exit and I keep my mouth shut until we’re safely on the highway. Finally, I can’t take it anymore.
“Can I borrow your phone to make a call?”
“Sure.” Natalie pulls it out of one of those holders that jam into the heating vent, holds it up so her face can unlock it, and then hands it to me.
I use the keypad to punch in one of only two numbers I know by heart and listen to the ringing. So does Natalie, since the hands-free automatically routes the call through her Jeep’s speakers. I hang up when I hear my mom’s voice inviting me to leave her a message.
I want to call the ski resort, but I need to look up the number first. Using somebody’s phone to make a call isn’t the same as rummaging around in the apps, though. “Do you mind if I use the browser to search?”
She shrugs. “Go for it. Just don’t search for anything that’ll put me on a watch list.”
A minute later, the Jeep is filled with the sound of a ringing phone again, but this time somebody answers, with Shea asking how she can help me.
“Hi Shea. My name is Donovan Wilson and my mother—Justine Wilson—is the guest who was injured on the slopes this morning. I flew into Manchester and I’m in route, but she’s not answering her phone and I need to know which hospital she was taken to.”
I’m aware of Natalie’s head jerking toward me and I glance over to see her giving me a thoughtful look. It’s a long look and she should be watching the road. I’m listening to Shea, though, so I just wave my hand at the windshield. Natalie rolls her eyes before turning them forward again.
When I have the information I need, I thank Shea and hang up the phone. That was the easy part. Getting information from the hospital is going to be harder, but maybe they can page my stepmother and get her on the phone.
“You could have said your mom’s hurt and you’re trying to get to her,” Natalie says softly.
I’m searching on her phone again, looking for the hospital’s number. “It would have taken even more time to explain and it doesn’t change anything—I need to get to Stowe as soon as possible.”
“Yeah, but you would have looked like less of a jerk.”
I rarely care if people think I’m a jerk. One doesn’t amass a fortune without stepping on toes, and though I’ve tried to build my company as ethically as possible, being liked isn’t high on my priority list. It isn’t on the list at all, actually.
But the way Natalie’s voice softens—losing the snarky edge I’ve definitely deserved in the short time since we’ve met—makes my day feel brighter already, and I realize I might care if she likes me.
I need to focus on my mom, though, so I tap the number on the browser screen and confirm that I want to connect the call. Then I have to navigate through the directory menu until I’m finally connected to a person.
“This is Donovan Wilson. My mother, Justine Wilson, was brought in by ambulance following a ski accident and she’s not answering her cell phone. I need to speak with somebody who can tell me what’s going on.” I think of Natalie sitting silently next to me. “Please.”
“Hold, please.”
I’m on hold for what feels like forever, and everything I’ve learned about self-control and projecting a solid, confidence-inspiring image has gone out the window. My knee is bouncing and I’m drumming my fingers on the lid of my coffee cup, waiting to hear if my mother is okay. Or if—god forbid—she isn’t.
“Donovan!” My mother’s voice booms through the Jeep’s speakers, startling me for a moment. In the next second, I’m as close to crying as I ever remember being. “How are you, honey?”
“How am I? Mom. What happened? Are you okay?”
She laughs, and in my peripheral vision, I see Natalie cover her mouth, as if she’s trying not to laugh along with my mom. “I sprained my ankle. It’s bad, I guess, but nothing’s broken. The medical team is wonderful here, and so are the hospital staff. They’re taking very good care of me.”
