Baby, It's Cold Inside (A Sleeping with the Scrooge Short Story)

by Hunter King

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Also by Hunter King

  The Flirt Club

  Sarah

  Hands gripping the wheel, I have to remind myself to watch the road. Snowdon, Massachusetts, Is everything I always heard it was. Covered in this heavy snow, it almost looks like an Alpine village. There’s even a horse and buggy, prancing along on the main road through town. The place is so perfectly decorated, it almost seems like a gingerbread city.

  Knowing I still have a way to go, I pull my Ford Pinto into the lot of a cute little place called North Pole Coffee Shop. With that name, I’m not surprised to see old man behind the counter who should apply be a mall Santa if he isn’t already. From the twinkle in his eye to his white beard to his round belly, this man is the closest thing to a perfect Santa I’ve even seen. He’s not wearing a Santa suit, but he dam sure should be. I feel like a kid again when I step to the counter and he asks, “What can Santa and his elves make for you, my dear?”

  “How about a man who’s loyal and cares as much about his woman as he does himself? Is that too much?”

  Santa looks at me with concern. “Broken heart?”

  I swallow my anger and disillusionment. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it. I don’t want to lose my Christmas spirit. Can I get a large coffee with cream and sugar to go, please?”

  He smiles warmly and says with a wink, “I’ve got something better. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  He goes to the back, returning a minute later with a white paper cup with blue glitter stars on it. “This is our Christmas special. Take a sip and tell me what you think.”

  One sip and I know he’s ruined coffee for me forever. This stuff is achingly delicious. From what I can tell, it’s some combination of coffee, nutmeg, cardamom, cinnamon and who knows what else. It’s warm and thick, sweet and amazing.

  “What do you call this nectar of the gods?” I ask.

  “It’s my heartbreak special. Guaranteed to make you feel better in twenty-four hours or your money back.”

  “Well, if it works, you should patent it. What do I owe you?”

  “No charge, Sarah. It’s on the house.”

  I thank him and rush through the snow back to my car. The resort I’m headed to is only forty-five minutes from here, but I’m sure this snow is going to slow me down. As I reach the city limits, it occurs to me that the Santa guy called me by my name. I chalk it up to him reading my debit card, but then I remember I didn’t pay for this amazing holiday concoction. I finally decide that I must have misheard him, because no other explanation makes sense.

  Two hours later, I make the final turn, and just in the nick of time. A few more minutes of white-knuckle driving in the snow and I would have pulled over and screamed with all my might. My drive has taken me from an Interstate to a rural highway to a blacktop road, and now finally, a gravel road. If I hadn’t just seen the sign reading, “Awtenbush Springs Resort,” I’d think I was hopelessly lost. This place is the very definition of “middle of nowhere.”

  It’s not where I had imagined spending the week before Christmas in the Bicentennial Year of 1976. But this remote resort is exactly what I need right now, to be away from everyone I know so I can begin to pick up the pieces of my shattered life.

  The resort’s main building is decorated and lit up for the holiday season, and a quick glance around reveals knee-high plastic candy canes lining the walkways. I can see some of the cabins, and they’re decked out in an equally festive manner.

  With today’s heavy snow, it’s truly a winter wonderland. Sure, it’s not Snowdon, but it still feels like magic.

  My stress levels are sky-high from the tense snowstorm driving, but I feel myself already relaxing a little as I park my car and grab my weekender. I step through the front door and begin to shake off the snow while looking at the large Christmas tree in the lobby and all the gifts underneath. A woman behind the front desk says, “What’s your name?”

  “Sarah Vickers,” I tell her from thirty feet away.

  “Hi, Sarah. Robby just left to give the last check-in tour. Drop your things here and go catch him. You can come back and check in when you’re done.”

  I leave my bag with her and follow her pointed finger to the back door. I just finished knocking the snow off my boots, now it’s right back into it again. I can see the tour group ahead of me, about a half-dozen people, and I hurry to catch up.

  “Hang on, we’ve got a straggler,” the guy in front says when he sees me approaching. Thanks for being a dick, Robby. There’s nothing more irritating than being singled out on a weekend where you just want to be by yourself.

  The others turn in my direction. Two couples, holding gloved hands, and one guy by himself.

  I follow in the rear as Robby takes us on a half-hour tour of the small resort. We see the forty little cabins, each set a hundred feet or so from the next. He then leads us down a short candy-cane-lined trail toward the riverbank. It’s breathtakingly beautiful in the muted mid-afternoon sunlight. The tall white pines are covered in snow, and the ground is a thick white blanket. The snow absorbs the normal forest sounds, leaving the resort eerily quiet.

  We round a turn to see a large wooden tub, at least fifteen feet across, with steam coming off the water and disappearing as it floats upwards. Four couples are sitting up to their necks. Some of the people turn and smile as we approach.

  “Awtenbush has three soaking pools,” Robby says, “all fed by the geothermal springs below and pumped to the surface by that big waterwheel you see over there in the river. No electric power is used for the pools, except for the lights. This is pool number one.”

  It looks positively blissful. The tub is made from smooth rocks and surrounded by a concrete perimeter. There’s a single wooden wall with hooks for hanging towels and robes. Shoes are scattered about in the snow that leads up to the edge.

  As heavenly as it looks, I can’t help but wonder about the inevitable freezing cold walk back to the cabins afterward.

  We continue to a second similar tub. “This is pool number two. It’s a bit hotter than number one.”

  This time there are only three smiling couples in the water. Jesus, I know some people consider Awtenbush a romantic resort, but aren’t there any single people besides me and this one other guy in front of me? I suppose it doesn’t matter, though, since I’m here to get away from romance. I just wish there weren’t so many happy couples here to remind me about my being alone.

  “Pool number three is this way,” Robby says, pointing.

  A sign at the beginning of the trail reads, This Way to Nude-Only Pool. Ah, yes, I was warned about the naked pool. My friends who have been here say it’s awesome and extraordinarily relaxing, and that there’s no creepy nonsense because the people there are always polite and respectful.

  We reach the pool and Robby waves to four couples whose naked bodies are almost completely hidden by the steam rising from the hot water. Everyone is smiling and looks relaxed and happy. The setting, back up against a sheer rock hillside, is gorgeous, and I decide I’m going to be brave and try it out later. For some reason, I glance over at the single guy and catch him looking at me. He smiles, then quickly turns away. I wonder what his deal is.

  The tour continues on an uphill trail made slightly treacherous by the snow. It leads
us back to our starting point, behind the main building.

  “This building is the lodge. There are board games and a library inside, but no TV. The dining room is to your left. All the food is healthy and delicious, prepared by our own chefs and served buffet-style. Breakfast is from 6 to 9, lunch from 11 to 1, and dinner from 6 to 8. Beware: If you’re late, you don’t get food.”

  Robby leaves us at the lodge’s back door. I step in, shake the snow off my clothes and boots, then return to the front desk. The woman who checks me in tells me there’s another wave of snow headed our way. “It’s supposed to be really heavy later, and the temps will be in single digits tonight. That’s crazy. The weatherman on the radio called it a polar vortex.”

  “The cabins are heated, right?” I ask, feeling stupid that I hadn’t checked into that in advance.

  “Of course,” she says. “Fireplace heaters in every cabin. Not real fireplaces, though; the risk of a fire would be too high since the cabins are totally wood.”

  I smile and take the key, then put my boots on again and slog through the snow to my cabin. The temperature is dropping quickly, and when I step inside, I have mixed feelings about the fake fireplace I see. It’s nice and warm inside, so I have that to be thankful for, but dancing cellophane “flames” and the fake crackling coming from the tiny speaker just make me sad.

  I take a few minutes to unpack my stuff, including my three self-help books.

  Fuck it, I think. I don’t need a romantic wood-burning fire. I need solace.

  I’m not here for romance, I’m here to rebuild my life.

  I’m here to get over Tim.

  Josh

  A fake fireplace? That’s what I get for all that money?

  Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas and Happy Fucking Holidays.

  Whatever. It’s not like I’ll be entertaining anyone.

  I pour a shot of bourbon into a Styrofoam cup and take a sip. Then another.

  That’s more like it. I begin to relax, which is part of why I’m here. My business is failing, and that’s despite it being the only thing I’ve thought about for the last couple of years. It occurred to me a few weeks back that I needed a few days of total relaxation and distraction. I’ve been trying like hell to think my way out of trouble, and that had gotten me nowhere. Maybe what I really need is to not think about it at all for a bit.

  It was either Awtenbush Springs Resort, which I’d read about in an in-flight magazine, or Jamaica. As expensive as Awtenbush is, a Caribbean weekend would have cost twice as much.

  I feared the worst when I drove through that overrated tourist-trap, Snowdon, on the way here. That place is a monument to the how out of control this whole holiday season has gotten. It used to be that Christmas was celebrated for two days. TWO! Nowadays, on December 1 the store decorations go up and the radio starts playing the stupid songs. By the time the year 2000 rolls around, they’ll be starting the Christmas season tight after Halloween.

  As you can imagine, I drove through Snowdon with only a quick stop for something to drink, then never looked back.

  Even “bah humbug” doesn’t quite capture how much I detest the way people get this time of year.

  I reach over to close the blinds on my cabin’s only window and see the woman from the tour, the other single person in the group. She’s struggling as she tries to open the door to the next cabin over from mine, and I weigh the thought of bundling back up and rushing to her rescue. I’m already slipping my boots back on when she disappears inside and no longer needs my help.

  Good. I didn’t really want to go anyway.

  I finish my drink, then decide to check out the pools before dinner. A nice long soak in that hot water would be a great start to the weekend, followed by dinner, then back to the cabin to hang out with my buddy, Jack Daniel’s.

  I undress, then slip into my swimsuit. The resort supplies plus bathrobes for the guests, but seeing as how it’s freezing outside, I know that won’t be enough. I put on a long-sleeved shirt, a sweater and some jeans and boots, then put the robe on over that. That should be plenty to get me a couple of hundred yards to the pools.

  Once I step outside and walk a short distance, though, I know I’ve underestimated the weather. I’m immediately freezing my ass off. Jesus, how cold is it? It’s dark now and the snow is coming down harder than before as I carefully make my way down the path to the tubs. The first pool is packed with people, which makes sense because it’s the closest to the cabins. By the time everyone gets to this point, they’re dying to get in the hot water.

  But I have zero desire to hang out with a lot of people.

  The second pool is less crowded; only two couples are there. I consider it for a moment, but my eyes land on the sign pointing to pool number three. In my twenty-seven years on the planet, I’ve never gone to any kind of no-clothing-allowed anything. Not a beach, a nudist resort, an orgy… nothing.

  You only live once, Josh. Do it.

  My adventurous side wins the short battle with my freezing side, who wanted to jump in the hot water now. I head down the path and around the next bend I see the beautiful setting for pool number three, back against a rock wall. Like everything else, the area is covered with snow and looks idyllic. I make my way to the pool and nod to the four couples and one single woman there, their naked bodies obscured by the rising steam.

  Hell, this isn’t so bad—it’s not even like you’re really exposed.

  That thought disappears instantly when I approach the wooden wall where I see everyone’s clothes hanging. I’ll be totally exposed from the moment I strip down until I get into that water. But hey, when in Rome…

  I take off the robe and am hit with a frigid breeze that puckers my skin immediately. The soles of my feet start to get numb the second they touch the concrete. I pull off my sweater and shirt and hang them up, then as quickly as I can, slip off my jeans and swimsuit in one motion.

  Great: shrinkage. The one thing every guy dreads.

  I quickly step down into the pool. As I do, I glance up to catch the single woman looking, and she quickly averts her gaze, trying to pretend she wasn’t curious. I recognize her as the woman from the tour, my cabin neighbor.

  Taking a spot directly across from her, I smile at everyone as the hot spring water warms me up again. Someone says, “Damn, this was so worth the frozen walk to get here.” The rest of them all laugh in agreement, and just like that everything seems almost normal. Just a bunch of naked people in a giant hot tub in the middle of nowhere.

  The next half hour is filled with intermittent discussion about the resort and the weather, and I do my best to avoid interacting. Three couples had been here to the resort before, and the other couple and the single woman hadn’t. One of the couples was older, probably in their sixties, and I admired their spirit. Two were probably fortyish, and the other looked young, maybe early twenties. The woman seemed about my age.

  After a while, the conversation is more attention-getting than the fact that nobody has any clothes on. Even when the two fortyish couples climb out and rapidly get their robes around them, it’s no big deal. I start to understand that at a real nudist resort, it wouldn’t feel weird to be naked because everyone else is.

  The older couple leaves just minutes later. The remaining four of us talk for a few minutes, then the young couple exchanges a few words between themselves. The guy says, “Time to go,” as they exit the pool. None of these people were models, just regular folks with regular bodies. To be honest, I’m by far the fittest of the men because working out has been my primary method of relieving work stress over the past couple of years.

  Within five minutes, what was a half-full pool has become just two single people. I look at the woman. She’s quite lovely, with freckles that give her an air of fresh-scrubbed innocence.

  “Where are all the couples rushing off to?” I laugh. “Are they offering holiday dance lessons?”

  The woman smiles. “Dinner. Remember, the tour guide said it’s exceptional.”
/>
  “I wonder what time it is.” I honestly have no idea. It gets dark so early in the Pacific Northwest during winter.

  She looks at me strangely, then rises out of the water, quickly turning her back to me in the process. I catch a glimpse of what looks like a very nice breast, then half of a beautiful ass as she reaches into her shoe.

  “7:15.”

  I’m guessing she was looking at a watch. I can’t say for sure because I was staring at her slippery body. I watch as her tits sink back into the water, then quickly look away before she catches me. Wow. What a great body.

  “What do you think about the fireplace in the cabins?” I ask, tying to deflect the awkwardness.

  She laughs heartily. “They’re so damn cheesy!” After a pause, she adds, “But hey, they work really well. My cabin is perfectly warm, even in this weather.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s the important thing.”

  “I’m Sarah,” she says. Her damp curls frame a freckled face with big brown eyes and heart-shaped lips.

  “Josh.”

  “Nice to meet you, Josh.” She gives me another strange look. “Well, I’m really hungry and I have to dry my hair in the cabin first, so I should get going, too.”

  Seconds later, Sarah stands and passes right by me, since I’m sitting next to the steps. I try in vain not to gawk at the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen. Then she climbs the steps, taking her sweet time. Once the cold air hits her, though, she rushes to the wall for her clothing.

  As I watch her, I feel my own temperature rising. My god, Sarah is damn near perfect. She’s not very tall, maybe five-four, with just enough meat on her bones. It’s the type of body I love on a woman, and hers is truly spectacular.

  I only have a glimpse of her tits and the brown hair between her legs, then I get to watch that gorgeous ass until she slips on a robe and steps into a pair of boots.