Page 5 of Lucky in Love
“Well, this assignment will be right up your alley then. Peaceful Dove is in the backwoods, surrounded by lakes, trees, and mountains. Your relaxation oasis awaits. And that’s straight from the brochure.”
“Sounds perfect for some R and R. Who am I booked as?”
“Kevin McHale,” Chloe said.
“Celtics all-star,” he said. “Nice choice.”
It was essential that the places he stayed were unaware they were being evaluated and reviewed. Once Brody’s name familiarity shot high enough to be a problem, he’d begun traveling under an alias. He rotated through a couple of names of his favorite athletes.
The boarding call for first class was announced.
“They’re singin’ my song, babe. Gotta go. I’ll see you soon.”
He clicked off, slung his laptop bag over his shoulder, and headed to the gate. A smiley brunette scanned his boarding pass and waved him through to the Jetway.
Settling into his soft, roomy seat, he gazed out the window. Brody had spent the last decade as a transient. Globe-trotting from assignment to assignment all over the world.
The job had given him many once-in-a-lifetime, world-class experiences. And as one of the best in his field, had also been extremely lucrative. But lately, he’d grown tired of the hustle and bustle.
The flight attendant welcomed him with a hot towel and asked what he would like to drink. He politely declined both, still mulling over the conversation with Chloe.
What if she was right, and the company did go under? He didn’t have a backup plan. But he did have a mother who counted on him for support.
Perhaps itwastime to look at other options. Not just because the travel magazine industry might be teetering on a fall. But also because every day, after every trip, he felt more and more eager to settle down. Get married. Hell, maybe even have some babies. Who knew?
The jump from New York City to Portsmouth was quick. He landed, got his rental car, and plugged the Peaceful Dove campground into the mapping system.
Once underway, he searched for a local radio station—a habit he’d picked up to set the mood for a new assignment. Usually, it was a good way to find out about local events and get a feel for the place. But today, every station was laser-focused on the at-large convict.
“More information coming in on the escaped prisoner,” the broadcaster announced. “His name is Sean Dexter, and he’s serving three life sentences for killing his girlfriend and her two children. A real monster if you ask me. He’s about six-two, has brown hair, and a beard. Check your TV for a picture. Authorities say if you see him, call nine-one-one, and do not engage. Catch any new developments right here on KYFP.”
Brody turned down the radio, hoping all this wouldn’t overshadow his trip.
Ninety minutes later, he pulled into the Peaceful Dove parking lot and glanced around. This couldn’t be right. He was barely half a mile off the interstate. A far cry from “nestled in the backwoods” as the brochure had advertised.
He cracked the window and startled at the blare of a train horn—three long, ear-splitting blasts. So loud, Brody assumed the crossing must be within a stone’s throw. Once the honking stopped, the freeway noise took over. This place was anything but peaceful.
As he was about to get out of the car, a woman opened the office door, her ample backside holding it open while she continued talking to someone inside.
“I don’t care about your stupid gout,” she yelled. “Find a way to get the barf smell out of that cabin. The guy’ll be here soon to check in.”
Two humongous Mastiff dogs trotted out from behind the building, and Brody watched as one left an eggplant-sized pile of poop in the patchy grass next to the office entryway.
Brody restarted the car and threw it into reverse. The woman caught his eye, held up a hand in greeting, and started toward him. He backed up quickly.
“Nope,” he said, hitting the gas a smidge harder than intended. A cloud of gravel and dust appeared in the rearview mirror, obscuring the woman lumbering after him. “Not gonna happen.”
When he first started this travel writing gig, he’d stayed in places with the barest of amenities—dirt floors, no running water, even jungle huts. But he’d come a long way since then.
After a decade of paying his dues and working his way up the ranks, he’d earned the cushy assignments—downtown penthouses with gorgeous skyline views and lazy, sunny villas overlooking crystal blue oceans.
He wouldn’t consider himself spoiled per se, but he also wasn’t about to spend his last assignment of the year listening to train horns and dodging dog poop.
Rather than return to the freeway, he took a left and continued down a two-lane state highway heading toward the mountains. In the next little town, he pulled over, got out his phone, and searched “cabins near me.”
A couple of options popped up, but one in particular stood out. Whispering Pines. It was close, just one town over, and was billed as a quiet place to unplug and relax. He checked the map to verify it was nowhere near the train tracks or freeway and put the address into his GPS. Hopefully, they’d have room for him.
Passing under the welcome sign, he already felt better about his choice. A big, beautiful lake peeked through the trees on his right, and the mountain range towered off in the distance. It was mid-October, and the leaves were on the verge of debuting their gorgeous fall wardrobe.
