A Billionaire for Christmas

I look around the corner and see a small dining room with a wooden table and chairs. In the center of the table is a stack of pale blue cloth napkins and a set of white salt and pepper shakers that look like owls. But not a soul is there either.

It’s quiet, but welcoming.

The cabin itself is small, and someone must’ve heard me come in.

I shake off the cold from the outdoors, feeling the soothing heat from the fire and go to the crockpot before searching out anyone. I need something to warm me up. Just a moment to myself while my nerves settle. I’ve been on edge every minute of this trip. I know part of it is my fear of flying. It’s a stupid fear. I’ve heard every statistic, and I’ve been told over and over that flying is safe. But I’ll be damned if I could breathe for even a second of that six-hour flight.

The heavy smell of cinnamon greets me as I lay the glass lid down on the table and pick up the ladle, pouring a serving and then another into one of the mugs.

I’d give anything to shake this overwhelming apprehension that seems to be clinging to me.

I close my eyes, letting the heat of the cider travel through my chest and the taste of apples and cinnamon tickle my tongue. I smile into the mug, taking another sip before slowly sinking into the sofa and letting the flames of the fire warm me.

I roll my head to the side wanting to ease the tension, but it only makes me that much more tired. Already I’m exhausted from this trip, and it’s only just begun.

I wish I could have stayed longer in Seattle. It’s absolutely gorgeous, although opposite in beauty to this island. Where Seattle has intricately designed buildings that tower over you and the old streets lined with planted trees and cobblestones, here the nature is untouched. It’s not arranged to complement the city structures; the mountains and forests are the sights here. The few houses I saw earlier were tucked back into the thicket and seem to blend in.

That could be due to the hour though. We arrived in the evening as the fog was settling in. Funny how the fog in Seattle seems to dim the city's beauty, but here it only adds to the island's atmosphere.

I take another sip of the cider, watching the flames lick along the logs. My nails click as they tap rhythmically against the mug. Of the two places I've been today, I prefer the island. It has a sense of ancient tradition, the land feeling mostly unsullied.

I grew up in Philadelphia, and seeing the beautiful city of Seattle blew me away. But this remote island is like no other place I’ve ever been. It calls to me in a way I can’t explain.

“Miss Travers?” a small voice calls out from behind me, pulling me from my thoughts. I stand so quickly I nearly spill the cider, feeling embarrassed once again that I’ve made myself at home and didn’t bother seeking anyone out.

“Yes, here,” I answer, setting the mug down on the coffee table and turning to face an elderly woman. She pushes a pair of thin-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose as she walks around the back of the sofa to greet me. “Mrs. Joslin?”

“Call me Ada, please,” she answers me.

At first I smile and tug my sweater down, ready to get to my room and pass out from the long day, but something in her expression catches me off guard.

There’s a smile on her face, but it doesn’t reach her eyes and the way she wrings her fingers nervously makes me question the pleasant tone of her voice. “Are you checking in?” she asks.

I find it odd. Obviously I am. What else would I be doing here? I hesitate, trying to remember if today is the first day I booked. I turn halfway, still facing her and trying not to be rude as I lean down to dig inside of my purse for the papers. I fucking hope I didn’t screw this up. I don’t need to start this trip off by being kicked out of the one bed and breakfast for miles and miles.

“I believe it’s today,” I say although it comes out sounding like a question.

“Yes, of course,” Ada says with confidence and an upbeat lilt that wasn’t there before. I peek up at her, the papers in my hands crinkling as I unfold them. They confirm I’ve booked the entire week; today’s date is the first day of my stay.

She tucks her hands into the pockets on the sides of her pale pink flannel pajama shirt and nods. “Do you need help with your bags?” she asks me warmly, but there’s a chill to her expression.