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I plaster a customer service smile on my face because Mom says it helps brighten your phone voice. “Right, and what can I help you with?”
Most of our guests call over to ask for more pillows or firewood.
But not Murray.
“Yeah, I’ll take a cheeseburger and fries, extra crispy. No mayo. Extra pickles. Large Coke. And maybe some more of those chocolate chip cookies. Charge it to the room.”
And then he hangs up on me. I stare down at the handset for a moment before I return it to the cradle.
Well, that was something. And boy is he going to be disappointed when he finds out we don’t offer room service here.
Twenty minutes later, I’m walking up the path from the farmhouse toward the log cabin. The original five-hundred-square-foot building was constructed sometime in the 1800s, but it’s been renovated and expanded over the years to include the large main living area with an updated country kitchen and the recording studio.
The front porch is dark and I wish I’d thought to bring a flashlight with me. Even my cell phone would come in handy if it weren’t still tucked inside my sock drawer. I carefully make my way to the front door and knock. All the lights are off and there doesn’t seem to be any movement inside.
I knock again and wait. And then wait some more.
Is Murray even here? And if not, where did he go?
I turn to study the woods behind me, hoping he didn’t decide to wander off by himself. The area around the farm is fairly safe, but there are plenty of pitfalls and caves out there that are best to leave for daytime discovery. I’ve lived here most of my life and I still wouldn’t wander beyond the Christmas tree groves after sundown.
The longer I wait, the more irritated I get. What kind of person has the nerve to order room service from a farmhouse that is clearly not a hotel or restaurant, and then not answer the door?
I knock again, louder this time, and debate leaving the bag on the doormat. The food that I carefully packaged inside is probably lukewarm by now, so it’s not like it matters. It’s tempting, but I also don’t want to wake up in the morning to find out that the local raccoons had a party on the porch.
Just as I’m about to give up and head back to the farmhouse, the log cabin’s door creaks open just wide enough for the paper bag I’m carrying to fit through. I can barely make out a shadowy human form behind the door. All I can tell is the guy’s taller than me.
“Room service?” he asks in a gravelly, groggy voice that makes it sound like he just woke up from a nap.
“Yeah, uh…” It’s kind of weird talking to a shadow behind a door. But okay. I’ll go with it, since it doesn’t look like I have any other choice. “We don’t really do room service here. But I packed you some of our leftovers from dinner.”
The guy clears his throat and a hand emerges to take the bag from me. I assume it’s Murray’s, because it’s too dark to see his face, or much of anything really, and we haven’t officially met. Our fingers brush during the transition, and his skin is cold.
Maybe he’s a vampire?
I rein in my overactive imagination. “Mom made meat loaf, which is kind of like a hamburger, right? I threw in a few slices of cheddar and some pickles, too, in case you wanted to dress it up a bit. There’s mashed potatoes and green beans to go with it. Oh, and a few of those chocolate chip cookies you asked for. Unfortunately, we don’t have any Coke, but there’s sweet tea.”
“Thanks,” Murray says dryly. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s parched or because he’s a jerk. My guess is he’s a little of both. His shadowy figure steps back and disappears into the cavernous darkness of the log cabin.
“The record label arranged for a grocery—” I start to call after him, but the door clicks shut before I can finish what I was about to say. “Delivery.”
Welp, we’re definitely not off to a good start.
November 3
Mom’s always giving people the benefit of the doubt, so I do my best to channel her energy and put last night behind me. It’s a new day, and if we’re going to make this co-writing thing work, Murray and I need to get started on the right foot.
I roll out of bed early to finish my morning chores before our nine a.m. meetup at the studio. There’s a pleasant chill in the air that has me tugging the sleeves of my flannel shirt down as I make my way to the stable to feed Dunder and Blixem their breakfast.
“Good morning, ladies,” I say.
They greet me with animated snorts and gentle muzzle-butts.
After cleaning out their water trough and refilling it, I add some feed formulated for late fall to a bucket.
“Big day for all of us. I’ve got a writing session coming up with our latest guest, and then you need to get camera ready for the kiddos.”
Later today, we have a few preschool groups stopping by the big red barn to paint holiday picture frames with Mom. Then the kids will have photos taken with the reindeer. So after my morning session with Murray, I’ll come back to get the girls gussied up in their fancy harnesses, the ones with jingle bells.
