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“Yeah, yeah. But a hard man is good to find, am I right?” She smirked at me, but then let it slide off her face when her eyes met mine. “Listen, I don’t mean that you need a man to write romance. Knowing the kind of dudes you write, it’s probably better if you just stick to vibrators and your imagination, okay?”
I frowned at her. “Are you saying there’re no good men left out there?”
“Look, I’m not saying there are none.” She power walked around her office in circles. “I’m just saying they probably don’t exist outside of your novels. And that’s great,” she clapped her hands, “because it’s bleak out there. Your books and the movies that come from them, they give all us women hope. Or at least something to imagine when we’re being drilled by Mr. No Foreplay, Have-you-cum-yet-baby, Jackhammer dick.
I blushed furiously. Not because of the jackhammer dick thing. Nancy has been my agent long enough that I’ve gotten used to hearing worse. Much worse. No, the heat that stung my cheeks was at the realization that I might actually be spending my life looking for a man that truly only exists in my imagination.
Well, and on paper.
“What you need to do is get away from the city. Isn’t that what the chicks in your books always do? They pack up, head out to some woodsy paradise and get lost in the Christmas magic, right?”
I mean, the way she said it made it sound so cheesy. I wanted to defend my books. My characters. Tell her it wasn’t as simple as that. They went on a journey of the heart. Of the spirit.
“Yeah,” I answered simply.
“And that’s what you need. I’m going to book you a cabin or whatever. You need to pack up your stuff, no distractions, no Hallmark Channel, just you and your words out in some snowy wilderness. It’ll be perfect. And, who knows, maybe in a couple weeks you’ll be able to bang out another bestseller, huh? I mean, it’s not impossible, right?” The hope etched on her tired face was too much for me to deny.
I’ve never missed a deadline before and I didn’t want to start now. “I mean, it’s possible,” I agreed.
“Great! Okay, leave this to me. I’m gonna find you the sweetest, most charming little cottage in all of New Hampshire. You’ll be surrounded by inspiration. Those words will get rolling and the next thing you know you’ll be back to normal. This is gonna be great, trust me.”
A distinct buzzing interrupts my memory, popping it like one of those cartoony thought bubbles that hang over characters heads in comic books.
Zzzche-zzzche.
I search the dash of the car, looking for something that could make that weird noise, but I don’t see anything. I pull up the long driveway of the cottage and the sparkle of my excitement falls flat. This is a far cry from the charming cabins I write about. Instead of long, sturdy walls made of thatched logs and floor-to-ceiling windows with full, pretty curtains hanging in them, I drive up to, well, it’s looking a bit like a shack.
Some of the shingles on the side have been split by cold and damaged by wind. The windows look like someone did a rushed job of Windexing a decade of grime from them. The setting sun hits the streaks, emphasizing just how much dirt once covered them. The only thing that’s actually the same as what Nancy described is the bright red entrance. That one Christmassy pop of color is the only truth to this entire writer retreat.
I park my car and step outside, soaking it all in. I mean, sure it’s not perfect. But do I really need some indulgent, oversized alpine loft just to get the feeling back? I turn and look out at the view from the mountainside. It’s impossible not to be overcome by the beauty. Maybe I can make this work after all. Optimism fills my chest and makes me float toward the door like a helium balloon.
I get to the cheerful, red entrance and read a small, scrawled note taped to the front:
Door’s open. Key’s by the sink. Let us know if you need anything.
~Management
Uh, okay then. Most Airbnbs had someone waiting to hand me off the keys, give me a tour, sometimes they even threw in a few nice extras like a fruit basket or a bottle of wine. I guess this place is more about the escape and less about the frills.
I turn the doorknob with my mittened hand and try to push it open, but it doesn’t budge. I drop my bag on the porch and use both hands, and the knob turns, but the door seems jammed.
“Of course it’s stuck.” I shake my head.
Exasperated, I turn back toward my car and stomp my foot on the planks. My eyes travel down the hill from my porch about a hundred yards and fall on another cabin. With two big trucks in the driveway and woodsmoke pouring up from the chimney, people must live there. They’re probably the “management” that signed my note. If I can’t get this door open in ten more seconds, I’m going down there and making them open it for me.
