Wyatt opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and entered the motel office. He picked up the phone and checked his voice mail.
His son, Adam, should have called.
No messages.
Wyatt clicked on the weather radio and listened to the latest forecast. Nodding as the details streamed across. The baritone announcer read the same report he’d been reading for two days.
Big storm approaching, scheduled to arrive this afternoon. High winds. Heavy snowfall expected. The storm totals might break a Christmas record.
Be prepared. Stay off the roads.
The predawn hours used to be Wyatt’s favorite: still dark out, the workday not quite fully engaged. After warmer weather arrived, he’d hear the birds chirping outside. They’d be his company. The front wall of the office had a glass door and a long window that reminded Wyatt of an aquarium. He’d sit behind the counter and watch the clouds swim by.
Not in winter.
In winter, he began the day alone. The sky was a hood that wouldn’t lift for months. All useful light came from artificial sources. Reflections bounced back. Wyatt was the one inside the tank. He glided across the office, racking local attraction bro-
chures in slots along the wall. He plugged in the Mr. Coffee. He tore open foil packets of fresh grounds and inhaled.
Hard to beat a hot cup of joe before you hit the road.
But Wyatt wasn’t going anywhere.
He checked his computer screen. Ten rooms occupied last night. He’d make two pots, fill up a carafe, and start a decaf pot after that. Decaf drinkers had patience. The doughnuts were stored in a cooler, along with half-pints of milk, a few apples and oranges, and shots of cream to add to the coffee. Wyatt slid the pastry tray beside the front desk. He loosened the cling wrap but left it covering the doughnuts. He didn’t eat any.
Instead, he pressed his ear to the door that led to the apartment. He heard nothing. He stepped over to the computer and wiggled his arm into a gap behind the retractable keyboard— his secret hiding place.
He fished them out.
American Spirit Ultra Lights. The crumple of the pack in his fingers gave him a pang of guilt. Quickly, he stowed them in his shirt and slipped into his jacket. He touched the outer shell pocket.
Yes, his lighter was there.
Wyatt went into the broom closet. He found the snow shovel and a bag of ice melt. His gloves and a Vikings stocking cap lay folded on a shelf. He put the cap on. The gloves were for below- zero days.
It was cold. But it was always cold this time of year. He’d lived with the cold his whole life. Like an old friend who comes around and stays too long, until you decided he never was a friend at all.
Wyatt pushed through the heavy glass door.
He tasted the storm like a steel drill bit on his tongue. Clouds sank to the rooftops. Tinsel glints in the streetlights: the first snowflakes were falling. The lot’s surface was a jigsaw of cracks. Ice washed out the parking lanes. The highway beyond glistened. Summertime, he’d patch and fill in the potholes. Now he watched his step.
Rumble and the rush of an oncoming engine—Wyatt spun around to face it.
A snowplow drove past with its blade raised, throwing sand.
Wyatt waved to the driver. He recalled his years as a police officer, the early mornings he spent cruising along the grid of these same streets. Eyes and ears open for trouble.
The plow vanished around a corner.
The highway was quiet. Not another vehicle in sight.
Well, it’s a holiday, Wyatt thought, and there’s heavy weather coming.
Only one room was booked for tonight.
Walking around, the shovel in his hand, he assured himself that they’d make it through another year. As with most independents, the Larkins made only small profits. Enough to meet the bills, save a little, and spend even less for entertainment. Some years all they could manage was to pay bills. But they were cautious with money. Opal and Wyatt put back what they earned, improving the business or sprucing up their home. They took no vacations, spent nothing on luxuries. No, they came by what they had through sweat and dedication. They took good care of their property because they knew the cost. Knew they were fortunate, too. Sometimes hardworking people caught a nasty break, a streak of bad luck—or worse—and everything fell apart in the blink of an eye.
That had happened to the Larkins almost two decades ago. They’d never forget it. How could they?
Wyatt sprinkled ice melt on the concrete apron leading to the office.
A brand-new Super 8 went up on the edge of town last April. It was the first building anybody saw driving up the highway from the south. The parking lot held plenty of cars. What were you going to do? The chains had a right to exist. People who worked there needed jobs and had families just like his.
It wasn’t a big family. Just the two of them since their son started college.
Today was Adam’s first visit since leaving home.
Wyatt wondered if Opal remembered. He didn’t mention it, because he didn’t want her panicking if the blizzard arrived before their son did. Wyatt rolled down the top of the ice-melt bag. The keen wind smarted on his cheeks.
When he was a kid, he never dreamed he’d end up running a motel. Sounded boring and a little like failure. He wanted adventure, something better than the dull life he saw his parents living with their lumberyard shifts and union dues, football on the TV Sunday afternoon, then back at it for another week. His family didn’t travel. He was an adult before he slept the night in a paid room. Back inside the cozy heated office, he was thinking it looked more like a cell.
Wyatt had been inside a few of those, too.
The weather radio announcer was talking at him again.
High winds. Drifting snow.
Whiteouts.
Stay off the roads.
Oh, and have a Merry Christmas.