Page 5 of Pity Present

“I’m Molly,” I tell him hoping he’ll forget that whole lumberjack fiasco.

“Blake,” he says.

“You’re staying at the lodge, too?” He nods his head, so I needlessly tell him, “So am I.”Duh, Molly. Obviously, you’re both staying at the lodge, or you wouldn’t be in this car.

Blake remains quiet which is my cue to ramble on like a lunatic. “Do you live in Chicago?” But before he can answer, I decide, “You must. I mean, why else would you have been on the same train as me?”

“I might have come in from the suburbs to catch a train that goes to Elk Lake,” he suggests.

I hadn’t thought of that. “Did you?”

Another pained smile. “No. I live in Chicago. I just moved there.”

“Really? Where are you from?”

“I’mfromChicago, but I’ve spent the last ten years in Los Angeles,” he says.

“Winter is a crazy time of year to come home.”

As Paul pulls out onto the road, Blake explains, “I got sick of all the beautiful days in LA. I missed real weather.”

Neither one of us says anything else as we turn onto a road that leads through the woods. I don’t mind snow so long as it doesn’t stick around for months on end—which it tends to do. Yet, the current scenery replaces my disdain for an endless winter. The vision of huge evergreen branches laden with its white bounty is better than any of those calendars nature photographers shoot. I feel like we’re driving into Narnia or something.

By the time Paul turns onto the road in front of the lodge, I’m lock, stock, and barrel in love with Elk Lake.

Paul pulls around the circular drive leading to the giant log-style building. When he gets out, cold air that makes me shiver fills the cab. Blake and I take this as our signal to exit our warm confines and retrieve our luggage.

We both thank Paul for the ride before wheeling our possessions through the expansive double doors leading inside. The interior of the lobby is a warm honey oak from floor to ceiling. Roaring flames leap in a giant fireplace and the overhead chandeliers are fashioned from elk horns. My eye is drawn to what must be a twenty-foot-tall Christmas tree in the great room beyond the lobby. The whole scene is stunning.

Blake doesn’t appear to be quite as impressed as I am, but he still says, “Nice.”

I walk toward the front desk and am greeted by an affable-looking older man. “Welcome to the Elk Lake Lodge,” he says.

“Thank you. My name is Molly Anders.”

He clicks away on his computer. “I have a suite that just opened up if you and your friend would care for more space.”

I turn around and lock eyes with Blake which causes my heart rate to pick up speed like I just ran a 10K in under thirty minutes. I know my face turns bright red because I can feel the heat. The reasonable side of my brain says,Turn around, Molly, and tell the man you’re here alone.

The devilish side has other ideas.Think of the fun you could have with this smoke show. Go, girl, take the suite!

As I juggle the possibilities of staying in the same room with a total stranger, Blake announces, “We’re not together. I have my own room.”

The clerk nods his graying head. “Very good, sir.”

I belatedly spin around and confirm Blake’s statement. “Yes. Right. No, I’m alone. All alone. Not here with anyone. Just me.” I briefly wonder if I always sound like such an idiot when talking to members of the opposite sex. I’m not flirty by nature, but my visceral reaction to Blake has rendered me positively stupid.

The clerk reaches into the drawer in front of him and takes out a plastic card. He runs it through what looks like a credit card machine before handing it to me. “We have you in room 214,” he tells me. “Would you like someone to bring your bag up for you?”

While I love the perks of staying in five-star accommodations, I only brought one suitcase with me. “No, thanks, I’ve got it.” But instead of moving along, I just stand there blocking the path.

Blake looks over my head and tells the clerk, “Name’s Blake Walsh.”

I tell myself to leave but I don’t listen. Instead, I take two baby steps to the side and lean against the counter. Then I scan myphone with the same intensity the president might while reading a message from the Pentagon.

Yet, my messages aren’t quite so impressive. There are two and—surprise, surprise—they’re both from Ellen.

BS

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