Vermont Christmas

by Tracey Pedersen

Greg is laughing.

  A loud, belly laugh that I honestly have never heard in all our years together. He says something that I don't catch, but his tone is happy. Who could be on the phone this time, to elicit that kind of relaxed response? A quick glance at Sheila's desk reveals I’ll have to knock and announce myself again. Her computer is switched off, where before the screen added a slight glow to the hallway. I didn't pass her in the hallway, and I didn't see her at the elevator. Maybe she knows more than me about the stuck lift and she took the stairs.

  I refocus on the door and screw up my face, my eyes closing for a second as an unwanted thought tickles at the edge of my brain. The smell of Chinese food is in the air.

  “No,” I tell myself, but before I can go any further the unmistakable sound of a woman's giggle comes through the door. Unfortunately, this time I can hear what's being said.

  “We have all night, sexy man,” the feminine voice says, and she is rewarded with another of Greg’s unfamiliar laughs. “One night is never enough, as you know, but you'll make it worth my while. You always do.”

  “I'll make it worth everything for you, just as soon as you get those titties out and let me lick them.”

  It’s Sheila’s turn to laugh, because who else would it be, but Sheila? Her high-pitched giggle has disappeared, her tone now matching his dirty one. I hear the tear of fabric as I stand frozen outside the door. I know my eyes are bulging, too many questions pouring through my mind after the shock of hearing the man I love saying what he just did. I have never in my life heard Greg call my breasts titties.

  To hear him laugh with her and make lewd comments almost makes my brain explode, and it's not even with anger. It's purely disbelief. I'm standing outside my boyfriend’s office door and listening while he rips his secretary’s clothes from her body, and all I can do is hide here with an open mouth. I rest my head against the door, my lips dry, my legs shaking. Do I want to see what they are up to? Or should I salvage my pride and pretend this moment never happened?

  Do I go out with the girls, then go home and say nothing? Am I the kind of woman who could overlook infidelity when I know we are so close to taking the final step to commit? How can he make plans with me for our future when he’s sleeping with her?

  Three years. Three years we’ve been together.

  It takes me a moment, but my spine stiffens, and I pull back, the blood draining from my face and heading for my feet. I’m not the kind of woman who can ignore something like this. In fact, I'm far more likely to be your worst nightmare. Greg is about to find out what that means.

  Rage fills me, but I damp it down and will my hands to stop shaking. I have to remind myself that pushing him, or both of them, out the window of his top floor office is a bad idea. No Vermonty retreat if I go to prison, some sick part of my brain whispers.

  I turn the handle quietly and let the door swing open with a little push. That action couldn't have gone better had I planned exactly how to make my entrance. The handle hits the wall just slightly. Just enough to get their attention at the sound and bring both their eyes to me.

  I'm not sure who is more shocked in the moment.

  Me, discovering that my dreams of marriage, and holidays, and babies, just vanished. Or Sheila, draped across Greg’s desk, legs in the air, her torn shirt dangling beside her bra, which is open in the front. Hers are the widest eyes I’ve ever seen.

  I bet if I could see my reflection, mine would rival them.

  Or maybe Greg is the one to suffer the most as I stare at the two of them. Before the door caught their attention, both his hands were wrapped around her breasts and his face was nestled deep. He’s still between her legs, but it only takes a moment for realisation to dawn in his eyes. He jumps back and drags up his pants, and Sheila sits up, turning toward the window as she tries to gather her shirt and cover herself.

  Greg stutters, his eyes finding mine, but consistently dropping to the floor. “Cherie—”

  “Are you two smoking in here?” I have no idea why I choose to fixate on that. I should be throwing books and whatever else I can snatch off his bookshelf. I should be spitting venom and making threats, but all I can focus on is the horrible smell of something I never knew Greg was interested in. “You’re smoking weed?”

  Sheila clutches her ruined top and snorts in my direction. “We smoke. Then we f—”

  “No need for that, Sheila,” Greg quickly interjects, sweeping a box into his top drawer and slamming it shut. “Cherie, I can—”

  “No. You can’t.” I raise my hand to make sure he stops speaking. I’m not interested in anything he has to say. Not now. Possibly not ever.

  I should be hysterical, demanding explanations. Instead, there’s a dead weight in the pit of my stomach. A hard, black, painful weight that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. If I let him speak, he might convince me this doesn’t mean anything. He might manage me, like he always does, and explain why this is nothing important.

  Worse, I might be convinced.

  And Greg Bennett needs to know that his days of placating me with words are over.

  I didn't know I could move so fast.

  Laziness is my go-to when any activity outside of a paying job is required. Except for baking. I love tinkering in the kitchen and could happily do it all night. Tonight, though, I remove every trace of Greg from our apartment as fast as I can.

  His clothes are easy enough. I just pile them into the suitcase we bought last month. It's funny, he doesn't have that much clothing for a man with a job like his. I would've thought there would be more suits, not that I've ever taken any notice of what he buys, or what he wears. The suitcase is soon by the front door awaiting collection. I’m still considering whether to throw it out onto the landing and let him worry about it.

  His toothbrush, razor, hairbrush, and deodorant are next, and I shove them into a plastic bag. I scan the bathroom cupboard and throw two bottles of aftershave in on top. Again, there should be a lot more of his personal items to pack. I bought him an electric razor for his last birthday, but I don’t see it. My things take up three whole cupboards and a drawer, but I guess that's what happens when you're a woman. I throw the bag onto the kitchen counter and look around the room. His slippers are by the front door, and he has a jacket on the coat rack and they both get shoved into the bag. On one wall is his prized print of the Eiffel Tower, a place he’s never been, and I swiftly yank it down and lean it against the back of the front door.

  The kitchen reveals a few gadgets and his set of knives that I've never been allowed to touch. I wrap them in yesterday’s newspaper and shove them into a new bag. How is it possible he has so few things?

  My phone vibrates on the counter and I glance at it, a deep sigh rushing out between my lips. My friends took the news of me staying in pretty badly and they’ve been blowing up my phone for the last hour. I’ll explain to them in good time, but now is not that time.

  Greg hasn’t called or sent a text. His silence is as confusing as the sparse personal items I’ve packed up for him. I expected to be fending off calls and have him banging on the front door by now.

  But, nothing.

  Whilst I’ve made my decision not to take him back, that black weight in my stomach jabs me with painful force.

  How can I mean so little, that he doesn’t even try?

  Chapter Four - Cherie

  My first flight ever to North America is uneventful, even if I’m unexpectedly alone.

  When I broke up with Greg three months ago, I called my bestie to invite her along. Bec would normally jump at an opportunity like this, but she already had Christmas plans with her dad who lives overseas most of the year. I could see she was tempted to change her plans when I tried to woo her but, in the end, she stayed home and made me promise to post every single picture on social media so she could be there in spirit.

  Next, I called Nina. Then Sorsha. Then Belinda. Then Kat.

  Everyone had an excuse not to come with me. They were either too poor i
n the lead up to Christmas, had an aversion to snow, or had unbreakable plans with their family or boyfriends.

  Kat, who I’ll admit was my last choice as a travel companion, said this to me when I tried to convince her with the promise of free airfare. “Honestly, it sounds amazing, but I don’t want to have a weepy Christmas, no offence. I think you’ll be wallowing. Why don’t you stay and spend it with us, instead?”

  Back in September, she probably had a point. I was sobbing the day we talked about it. Fast forward to the twenty fourth of December, though, and it turns out I made the right decision to come on my own. I’m well-adjusted and not weepy at all. I haven’t thought about Greg for a couple of weeks, and he wouldn’t be in my head now if this trip hadn’t been planned for us to take together.

  Back in September I nearly gave up and cancelled. A couple of times, actually.

  At one point I even considered asking Greg if he wanted to take Sheila, since he made it clear in the weeks following, that they were serious. But I knew that would mean I’d have an unhappy Christmas, since they’d be front and centre of my thoughts.

  So here I am. Watching the clouds below as the plane hurtles toward a magical Christmas getaway.

  For one.

  I watch a couple of movies and eat every meal offered to me, including all of the snacks. I’m so excited that I barely sleep, despite several attempts over the sixteen hours we’re in the air. The only positive to arriving exhausted is the extra ice cream the hostess slips me while everyone else is snoring. That bonus cannot be discounted. I might be tired, but boy am I happy.

  I switch planes in Los Angeles, expecting to sleep on the next flight. It’s a lost cause, though, and with an hour left until we land in New York, I open my emails to refresh my memory about the cabin and what I need to do next. I’ve booked a car to take me all the way up the mountain from my final stop at Burlington Airport, and I’ve planned a stop along the way to buy groceries. I have a list of the things I’d like to purchase and a plan for indulging in a little bit of baking while I’m there. The brochure promised the cabin was equipped with everything I need, and I emailed the owner to make sure. His reply was very thorough, and I scroll through it now as the crew prepare the cabin for landing.

  His tiny face looks back at me from my Gmail account. It’s not a good photo but I can see he has a strong, square jaw. His head is tipped back, so his jaw is the most prominent part of the photo, which amuses me. I’m a sucker for a square-jawed man so it’s not the first time I’ve clicked on that little circle to examine his photo. The first time it was an accident, but it’s not an accident today.

  He said the keys to the cabin are in a locked box and gave me a secret code. Unless I have a problem, I’ll probably not get to meet him, which is a shame. I have plans for this holiday. Plans to forget my most recent love life disaster. What better way than finishing off the year with a bang?

  I roll my eyes at myself. As if I’d be brave enough to proposition someone, even on holiday with a guarantee I’d never see them again. That’s just not me, as much as I’d like to pretend that it is.

  The pilot instructs us to put away our devices and I drop mine into my handbag, checking again that my passport is in there. Then I sit back and close my eyes, my daydreams of my holiday sliding in front of my eyes.

  I’ll be free to spend my days outside in the snow, exploring and learning to ski. I’ll bake at night and sip hot chocolate in front of the open fireplace. I’m sure I can find a square-jawed ski instructor to take my mind off my quiet, cozy cabin, even if I have to force myself to be brave.

  I don’t need the owner to check on me.

  “There.”

  It took an hour, but my purchases are now safely stored in cupboards and in the refrigerator. I’m still running on the adrenaline of being in a new country where everything is so very different to home, but I can feel my energy levels dropping. As soon as I get the heat on in the cabin, I’m convinced I’ll fall into a warmth-induced coma for at least sixteen hours. I keep fighting, though. I need to eat and to stay up at least until it gets dark so I’m not wide awake and staring at the ceiling at three in the morning.

  I pulled out an extra jacket when I first arrived, since it was freezing in the cabin. I read the instructions to turn the heat on and followed them exactly. I might have been awake for twenty-four hours and be colder than usual, but I can’t detect any change in the temperature in this little space, even after an hour. I go back to the bedroom and find my scarf. I wrap it around my neck and tuck it into my jacket, before turning back to the main room, determined to get this place warmed up. Cold like this is not what I signed up for when I made this booking with dreams of steaming drinks, and nakedness, in front of the fire. I can see my breath in the bedroom and that can’t be right.

  Not that I’ve ever been anywhere this cold. I’d never even seen snow until today.

  A black folder on the small dining table holds all the information I need for my stay and I pull it toward me again. I re-read the heating instructions and check the panel. A red light was visible when I first pressed the on button, but now even that’s disappeared. I frown and tap my fingers on the panel, but it doesn’t spring to life and it doesn’t send hot air bursting into the room. I look around, wondering if there’s a second panel, or a master switch that I’m meant to do something with. Nothing jumps out at me, but my eyes settle on the fireplace.

  The cabin is equipped with firewood, which means I can start a fire. I’ve watched a few survival shows on television. How hard can it be when you’ve got matches on hand?

  Turns out, it can be the most difficult task ever when the fire is powered by gas and the firewood against the wall is just for show. Again, I follow the instructions, without success, turning knobs and staring into the fake hearth. No flames spring to life in front of me. Not even a hint of a spark. Instead, I get the distinct smell of gas, and panic and turn it off before I’m overcome and die, either of gas inhalation or from the cold after I’m unconscious.

  I glance at my watch —three o’clock.

  Soon it will be dark if my internet research is correct, and I’m going to guess the temperature will drop even more after dark.

  I might get to meet the square-jawed guy after all.

  Chapter Five - Brant

  “Brant, we have a problem.”

  “What’s up, Luthor, my man?” My cheeriness can’t be undone by any imagined bad news from my caretaker. The smell of beef casserole wafts toward me from the kitchen and I’ve just opened a beer to keep me company while I watch the movie I’ve been saving. The view from my lounge room shows clear skies, with a bank of cloud creeping in from the right, and the sun is starting its descent toward the horizon. It’s my favourite part of the day here.

  “The new arrival in cabin six says they have no power.”

  “Really? I have power. Do you have it over your way?” I frown at the setting sun. Power out in a cabin could be a problem that takes more than a few minutes to fix. Luthor also isn’t an electrician, though he has a few skills in that area.

  He coughs, and says, “Sorry. Not power. I meant heat. The woman called and says the central heating won’t work and they can’t get the gas to light in the fireplace.”

  “Why do we keep renting to these people, Luthor? How hard can it be to flick a switch and start a damn fire?”

  “You’re in charge of who you take in, boss man. I’d drop by, but that’s the problem part. We’re at Meredith’s parent’s place and it will take us over an hour to get back. It’ll be almost dark by then and she said they’re freezing in the cabin.”

  “They would be. Probably too silly to put a jacket on, too. I’ll go.” I sigh. “I can be there and back before my meal is ready.”

  “Great.” Luthor’s voice fills with relief. “I was worried you might be out, too, though I should have guessed you’d be settling in for the night.”

  “That’s me. Always on call at home with the television. Lucky I didn
’t start on my beer yet.”

  “Make sure you tell them that when you get there. If they’d waited any longer, they’d have had to keep each other warm for the night. Be careful on the road on your way home. It’ll probably be icy.” He makes a tutting sound like my grandma used to do. “You know how you are.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about me. I won’t be falling off any mountains in bright sunlight.”

  “I don’t need to tell you the forecast is for much colder temperatures. We most likely won’t be waking to that sunlight. I’ll keep the phone close, in case you need some handyman help when you get there.”

  “You can do that, but we both know it’ll be something easy like not pushing a button. Same as the last city slicker. And the city slicker before that.”

  “For an ex city slicker, you sure do hold a grudge.” Luthor laughs and I hang up to the sound of him still cackling.

  God dammit. Of all the times for Luthor to get stuck elsewhere.

  My half-cooked meal taunts me from the oven and now I have to make a decision. Do I leave it cooking on the assumption that I'll be back from the cabin in plenty of time and a nice hot meal will await me? Or, do I play it safe and switch everything off? It will mean a much later dinner, but it could be the difference between eating here late at night or eating in a church back room after I've burnt down my own house.

  I opt for safety and turn the oven off with a growl.

  God dammit. Why can't these tourists plan ahead? Why don't they choose holidays that match their domestic skills?

  I'm annoyed and not really making sense, but sometimes the holiday cabins get me down. This is the third renter this month who has needed help with the basics of setting up on their arrival. That means I either need to provide better instructions and information, or I need to change the set up so even someone having their first experience of lighting a fire can make it work.