Just Let Me Die Here (A Serialized Novel) 9

Tucker and Millie are both still asleep and I try not to wake them putting on my sweatpants, boots, and jacket to step outside. I stand on our balcony taking it all in. The vertical rock towers in front of me are set aglow with the pink of the rising sun. The light scent of smoke from a nearby chimney wafts through the crisp air. This is where I’m meant to be. I am completely at home. But before I can enjoy the moment any further, I am called inside by my child’s waking cries.

Awful, aren’t they?

Always ruining a perfect moment.

“We’re in Canada, Millie,” I whisper cheer as I pull her out of the crib, bouncing her a couple times on my hip. She yawns and nuzzles into my shoulder. I wrap her up in a blanket and take her out on the balcony. “Isn’t it beautiful?” She, however, is not interested in the snow, or the river, or the mountains just in front of us. She presses her face to my chest and pulls at my shirt. “Okay, okay,” I say, heading back into our room. “Breakfast time.”

After putting Millie down for her morning nap, I head downstairs to have breakfast in the lounge with Ruth and the five other guests that occupy the rest of the rooms in the villa. Tucker is still worn out from our day of travel and just wants to sleep. I tell him I’ll bring him something back. The smell of delicious breakfast food wafts upstairs as I leave our room but am still amazed at the spread when I enter the dining room.

Half the table is covered in baked goods, which I am certain did not arrive in this house in a box from some shop or bakery. As confirmation, I notice a small streak of flour just on the side of Ruth’s face. I wonder what time she wakes up in the morning to get this all done. The other half of the table is a magazine-worthy display of fresh fruit, sliced meats, and an assortment of cheeses. This was no “free continental breakfast” at some roadside inn.

“Coffee?” a woman says, appearing next to me with an outstretched carafe. I turn to thank her and find myself looking at a version of Ruth. It’s not our host, but the resemblance is quite remarkable. This woman is plumper, with shorter cropped hair, but the features are all the same. “I’m Dottie,” the woman says. “Ruth’s little sister.” She lifts the carafe a bit higher, her previous question repeated in her eyes.

“Lovely to meet you,” I say and nod, holding out an empty mug. “I thought there was a bit of a likeness.”

“Yes. When we were younger, people thought we were twins. Irish twins, maybe. Ruthie is eleven months older than me.”

“But people think I’m the younger one,” Ruth says, leaning in as she passes by with an empty tray. “Better looking too.” She winks at me and moves on.

“Modest, isn’t she,” Dottie says with the same chuckle that I heard from Ruth last night. I nod. “Are you enjoying your stay?”

“Well, we just arrived yesterday, but so far I love it. Your sister’s place is amazing.”

“Yes, she certainly has made quite a life here. We’ve always celebrated the holidays together, alternating between her place and mine each year. But since she got this place, I am more than willing to make this the permanent location for our festivities.”

“This is the perfect place to do it.”

“Absolutely.” Dottie smiles. “So, you said ‘we’. You are here with others?” She looks around the room.

“Yes. My husband and daughter. But they are still both asleep upstairs. Yesterday’s trip really took its toll.”

“Ah, I see. How old is your daughter?”

“Millie’s almost ten months old now,” I say.

“Oh, I remember when my children were that little. Such a precious age. I hope you’re taking in every moment. It’s over way too fast. But I’m sure you hear that a lot.” I smile in agreeance, thinking about how quickly the last ten months have seemed to fly by. I swallow hard at the rush of it all.

It’s too much for you and you know it.

You don’t deserve her.

Dottie gives my arm a gentle squeeze before moving on to offer coffee to someone else and I make my way along the table, filling my plate.

The other four guests mill about, sipping on tea and coffee and devouring plates piled with food. In between bites, we share stories about ourselves and get to know each other a bit. Dax and Rinn are a couple here on vacation.

“Avoiding the family Christmas chaos,” Rinn jokes, giving his boyfriend’s shoulder a hug. They’ve been here for eight days already and will be leaving tomorrow. Dax is older than Rinn by nearly a decade, I’m guessing. He is also the more stylish of the two. Even his casual outfit is tailored. Slacks and a button-down that is tucked just precisely to show off his physique. Rinn is more of the sweet-looking boy next door. A bit doughy around the middle, but handsome none the less. They are from New York and both work in finance.

“Well, we used to both work in finance,” Dax says, nudging Rinn’s side. Rinn has recently left the financial world to start a non-profit.

“It will provide assistance to young entrepreneurs from marginalized backgrounds,” he says. “Still using my economic knowledge and training, but in a different, hopefully more positive direction. This vacation is kind of a quick getaway before the life-consuming work starts.”

“Sounds like something that will really do some good in the world,” I say.

“I certainly hope so,” says Rinn.

Adele and Micha are from Germany. They are a stunning couple. He is a chiseled Adonis type with hair so blonde it borders on white and icy blue eyes. She is as dark as he is fair and her emerald eyes match the green in the scarf that ties back her arc of hair. Adele’s photography is on show in one of the galleries in Canmore and she just finished up a lecture series at the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity. Micha is, in his own words, “just boring old playwright.”

“I follow my famous wife around, happily riding on wave of her success.”

“He’s far too modest,” says Adele. “Two of his plays have been put on in London and, if he ever finishes the one he’s working on, there is group in Munich that wants it.”

“Sounds impressive to me,” I say. “The extent of my writing background is dry academic work. I’m always interested to hear how real creative writers do it.”

“Well, anyone who tells you they just get inspired to write and words simply pour out of fingers is feeding you bunch of shit,” Micha says, taking a bite from a large croissant.

“So, what does it take?” his wife prods, a sly smile crossing her face.

“If I knew, this verdammt play would be finished,” he jokes. “But I know coffee is involved.” He picks up the carafe from the table and refills his mug.

“That I can get on board with,” I say, tipping my mug towards his.

I return to our room with a plate of food and a cup of coffee for Tucker. He is sitting in one of the large leather chairs scrolling through something on his phone. Work.

“Get enough sleep?” I ask, setting the food and coffee on the small table next to him.

“Never enough,” he says with a slight grin. “But good enough for now.” He picks up a muffin and takes a bite so large he nearly swallows the thing whole. A few small crumbs stick to the new stubble present on his face. He is definitely leaning in to this time away in appearance if not in action.

“Growing a beard?” I ask, noting the lack of his typical clean-shaven freshness.

“We are on vacation, aren’t we?” he responds with an uncharacteristically cheesy grin.

“We are, this is true. I just didn’t realize you would be letting your razor take some time off too.”

“Didn’t even bring it.” This definitely surprises me. Tucker is usually so set in routine, so put together.

He glances up and sees me eyeing him.

“Sorry, work,” he says before taking another bite of muffin and continuing to run his fingers back and forth across the screen. Of course it’s work. It’s always work. The statement is unnecessary. I never worry it’s anything else, but I often worry about his complete consumption by it. We’re supposed to be on vacation. This is meant to be a relaxing time, free of work stress and full of good family fun and togetherness. I look down at Millie who is sitting up next to the bed, gumming on a piece of cantaloupe that I brought her and swinging her stuffed bunny by the ear. At least she has the stress-free way figured out.

No thanks to you.

I look out the window and notice that the mountains which had previously looked so glorious in the glow of the sunrise are being quickly erased by a rolling mass of dark clouds.

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