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Story: Cold Winter Nights

Royal

“Come on Royal, you do know what happened to Cavanaugh wasn’t your fault, right?” His assistant, Joel, attempted to convince him for the hundredth time. “What the guy did was his own decision…I mean, you didn’t pull the trigger.”

Didn’t I?

“It was a bold move on your part, it shows you’re not afraid to take ultimate risk. And it’s made you a shoo-in for partner next year. Who the hell walks away from that?”

“Me,” Royal muttered as he continued to pack the last of his personal items into a box.

“What more do you want?” Joel spread his arms wide, gesturing at Royal’s massive corner office on the sixty-fourth floor of their Manhattan finance firm. “Six-figure salary plus annual incentives. Company car, penthouse, platinum status at the most exclusive gentlemen’s club on the East coast, and don’t even get me started on your benefits.”

Royal pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to breathe through the onslaught of another migraine.

“Thank fuck I have good health care, Joel, otherwise I wouldn’t’ve been able to get treatment for that last heart attack scare or afford the medication for my recent hypertension diagnosis. Pills that I’ll probably be on for the rest of my life.”

At least Joel had the decency to look somewhat apologetic. With his dark blond, slicked-back hair and haughty attitude, Joel had the appearance of a classic Wall Street wolf.

Wearing a five thousand-dollar suit, he paced back and forth across the polished floor, his Gucci shoes click-clacking to an anxious rhythm that only added to Royal’s headache.

Joel sat on the Ralph Lauren couch facing the panoramic view and lightened his tone before he continued. “Then take a couple months off. Swing by Miami and visit your folks. Rent a condo on South Beach and have an escort service send over their best talent to take your mind off all this dumb shit. Sunbathe, get a tan, go deep sea fishing, scuba dive with angel fish, what-the-hell-ever, boss. Then come back revived and ready to kick some ass.”

“Joel, I’m leaving, all right. I’m done.”

Royal threw his extra ties he kept in the closet into the box. It didn’t escape him that he had no framed pictures of family or a lover on his huge glass-topped desk. It’d been so long since he’d seen his parents—he didn’t even give them five minutes of his week to Facetime—he’d almost forgotten what they looked like. At least they still had one good son, his little brother, Cameron, who Royal also hadn’t seen or spoken to in over a year.

“Don’t worry about your position, okay.” Royal aimed a fake smile at his secretary when she came in with a plastic tote to retrieve his files. “You and Shelly are actually being promoted. I got you both a position with Grainger, which means a higher salary, and a better office.”

“And more work,” Shelly muttered, “Grainger has twice as many clients as you, Royal, in order to keep up with your numbers. It’s no wonder he has three secretaries and five assistants.”

Royal should’ve known better than to expect understanding from his staff. In the cutthroat world of corporate finance, a person toughed it out. They battled through sickness, pain, headaches, loneliness and depression. There was no such thing as sympathy for too much hard work. So, he didn’t know why he thought he’d get a wish-you-well or a modicum of appreciation when they’d never shown any before.

“I’ll have your mail forwarded whenever you give me an address, Mr. Peterson. There weren’t many possessions to put in storage from the penthouse, so that’s already done as well.” Shelly ticked off the to-dos on her legal pad. “I rented you a 4WD SUV for your trip and the company car’s been checked in.”

“Thank you, Shelly.”

It was sad that after two decades of busting his ass, he had nothing to show for it but a closet full of expensive suits and designer shoes in the firm’s penthouse. Royal didn’t even have his own car, sentimental mementos, or family heirlooms to take with him.

“This is the last of the boxes, Shelly. See that they’re added to the storage as well.”

“Yes sir.”

She thought he hadn’t seen her roll her eyes but he did, and he didn’t care.

The news of his sudden resignation had hit the office like a two-ton wrecking ball. No one knew what to make of it. He’d walked in and said two words to his bosses that weren’t his usual “good morning” . Instead, he shocked the fuck out of them, and gritted out with exhaustion… “I quit” .

He thought he’d be at Global Crown Financial for the rest of his life, but the lifestyle had become too much for him.

Now he was burnt out at the age of forty-five.

When it came down to it, Royal didn’t have what it took. He couldn’t become, or rather stay, a corporate drone.

The partners at Global Crown all looked the same—balding, permanent frown lines, devoid of smiles, and hunched over from never leaving their desks. They all spoke the same—the language of statistics. They even smelled the same, the men reeked of Dial soap and Old Spice, and the women smelled like bars of Ivory and Estée Lauder.

“All right you guys, I’m outta here.” Royal walked from behind his desk and paused in front of the two people who’d worked for him the longest. “I wish you both all the happiness in the world.”

Joel scoffed as if he were disgusted. “I’d rather have all the success in the world.”

Royal grimaced. “Of course.”

He’d once lived by that same motto. He’d worked sixteen-hour days and neglected life and especially himself to climb the corporate ladder. Little did he know that when he got to the top, there wasn’t shit there.

Royal waited a second, but when it was clear neither were going to offer a handshake, hug, or wish him good luck, he eased past them and left.

He didn’t glance back when he nodded to the doorman and walked out onto the busy Manhattan Street.

He waved down a cab, and it took less than five seconds for one to pull up to the curb where he stood.

He got inside and sat back with a long, relieved sigh.

“Where to?” his driver asked without sparing him a glance.

“Enterprise car rental on 126 th .”

Royal could already feel the boulder that had had permanent residence inside his chest began to lighten.

Royal split the eight-hour drive to southern Maine between two days. He’d decided to take his time to see what it felt like not to rush for a change.

The city was far behind him now, the towering glass and concrete of Manhattan becoming a distant memory and so was the man who’d thought he was thriving amongst the chaos. Now all that remained was the stress and regret from his burnout. He beat a restless rhythm on his steering wheel wondering how long his body would carry the residual effect of years of anxiety.

The interstate into Maine had been long, winding through the last vestiges of fall, as bare tress that leaned away from the wind gave way to thick snow blanketing the ground.

It was about eight-thirty in the evening when Royal took the exit to Windeville— population seventeen hundred—and the world seemed to shift. The entire town revealed itself like a secret he wasn’t prepared to learn. It was small, really small.

Several dozen houses sat off a single main street, while some were scattered in the surrounding mountains.

The streets were empty—except for a lonely snowplow trailing down the narrow lane—and it wasn’t even nine o’clock.

What the hell?

Royal looked side to side, checking his rearview, as if people were going to suddenly appear out of nowhere.

But there was nothing. No one was clamoring around annoyed pedestrians on cluttered sidewalks, there were no horns honking, or sirens blaring, and the silence bore down on him so intensely it frightened him.

The town was bathed in a golden glow from the garland-wrapped street lamps. And the houses were really houses, not towering buildings crowded with three-hundred square foot apartments renting for four thousand dollars a month.

The quaint cottages and humble ranch-style homes’ windows were illuminated with warm lighting and had smoke curling from chimneys in a way that made them radiate with life.

“Are they using actual firewood,” he murmured. “What in the…where the fuck am I?”

The storefronts tucked beneath canopies and smothered with holiday decorations were already closed, including the modest building with a sign in front that read Deena’s Diner .

Damn .

Royal was getting hungry, he’d only had a pack of cashews since his lunch at a buffet spot off I95. He’d sat in ignorance at the table for twenty minutes waiting for the waitress to take his appetizer order… at a buffet . Royal had never felt like more of an asshole, which was why he’d left a one hundred dollar tip.

Now, he was again, hunting for a ritzy diner or even an all-night bodega for a chicken Caesar wrap.

It never dawned on him to research the town his parents used to visit every year around this time. They’d always invite him, but of course he was always too busy. He hadn’t even taken five minutes to glance through the pictures they sent to his phone, email, and both his secretaries.

He pulled over with a resigned sigh.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What have I fuckin done?

Royal was so far out of his depth he was barely treading water. He was considered a smart man but at the moment he felt like a jackass. He didn’t know how he was going to survive in such a simple environment.

But the thought of going back to his lonely penthouse, back to the cold, hollow hustle of his life, made his head start to pound, and his chest tighten.

That was all the reminder he needed.

Royal opened his glove box and took out the bottle of Tylenol and swallowed two of them dry before he pulled out his phone and googled hotels near me .

One result came up that was less than a third of a mile away. The other four were over twenty-two miles distant.

Jesus.

Royal glanced up, and sure enough there was a rustic sign indicating the next turn was into the Cedar Pines Bed and Breakfast.

He pulled into the gravel lot, and it was so quiet that the crunching of rock and ice under his tires sounded too loud. He’d probably woken the guests.

Royal sat there for a long moment. He didn’t have a reservation, he hadn’t even called ahead.

Shit .

Well, if they were booked up, he supposed he had another thirty minutes to drive to find a different place to sleep. His throbbing head and exhaustion were praying Cedar Pines had something. He’d take a broom closet.

Mustering energy and nerve, he got out of the car and was surprised at the clean, crisp scent of the air. It was cold but it was a welcome change from the toxic air of New York’s exhaust-filled streets.

Royal buttoned his peacoat over his cashmere turtleneck his assistant had purchased from whatever fashion magazine she liked. The shoes he wore would be the death of him unless he found something durable and with deeper tread.

He pushed open the cottage-style door—the brass handle freezing his bare palm—and was grateful for the immediate rush of heat.

The fragrance of freshly cut wood, pine, and something sweet like apple cinnamon made a feeling of nostalgia wash over him. When he was a boy, his mother’s kitchen had always smelled like that.

The lobby was decorated like an elderly couple’s living room, with thick carpeting and a wide sofa sitting between two, plush La-Z-Boy recliners. Discarded local newspapers littered the polished mahogany oval table in the center.

The woman behind the counter glanced up as he entered, removed her reading glasses, and quickly put her book down.

“Evening!” She greeted him with a big smile.

His frown at her politeness was instinctive, but he hurried and attempted to return her expression, but probably ended up looking like he was holding in gas.

She was in her sixties, maybe seventies, but there was something about her that made her appear ageless. She wore a pastel-pink cardigan over her simple white blouse, and a modest strand of pearls around her neck. Her shiny silver hair was pinned up in a bun with loose tendrils kissing her round face.

“Um.” Royal cleared his throat.

“Well, look at you.” She chuckled, in a warm, not teasing way. “Let me guess, you’re not from around here.”

Royal shook his head. No, he didn’t belong here.

“We get a lot of travelers at the grand opening of the winter festival, but that’s not for another few weeks. I’m Mrs. Pearl. What brings you to our little neck of the woods?”

Royal was stuck. He was used to bored, unaccommodating receptionists and a generic greeting.

“I uh…I’m Royal. I live…I mean lived , in Manhattan. I’m from Manhattan.” He glanced back at the door, every instinct telling him to hurry—he had emails piling up by the second, not to mention twenty or more phone calls to return in the next hour, and he was wasting time.

“Sweetheart, are you all right?”

Mrs. Pearl even sounded like his mother. If his mom still sounded like that. He wasn’t sure.

Royal could feel moisture forming in the corners of his eyes.

“Do you um, have any rooms?” He forcefully wiped tears away. “I-I don’t have a reservation. I don’t need anything fancy. Just a bed will do.”

Pearl came from around the counter and before he knew it he was engulfed by strong arms that didn’t seem to fit her petite stature.

“Of course I do.” She hugged him tighter. “And even if I didn’t, I’d call Stone and tell him to get over here right away and build you one.”

He assumed Stone must be her husband.

Royal locked up his emotions and pulled away from her.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m just really tired, I haven’t eaten in a while and I been driving a long time…and I get these migraines,” he rambled, hoping his excuses explained his weirdness.

“Don’t you dare apologize, sweetheart.” Pearl reached over the counter and grabbed a set of keys off a cork board. “I’ll take care of you. Let’s first get you settled in a room.”

Royal began to reach for his wallet.

“You put that away. We’ll worry about check-in later.” She turned him back towards the door. “Do you have any luggage?”

Royal nodded.

“All right then. Go get your luggage and meet me upstairs, first room on the right.”

He was baffled that she didn’t need his ID and to run his credit card first to ensure he didn’t skip out on the bill or wreck the room.

Too tired to question it, Royal did as he was told and when he came back in he ambled up the stairs with his garment bag and small suitcase, the wood flooring creaked under his Bergdorf dress boats.

Pearl was in the first room on the right. The two lamps on the nightstands were turned on, she’d already gotten a fire started in the fireplace, had turned down his sheets and was fluffing his pillows.

I’m in the Twilight Zone . This can’t be real.

Just like everything else since he’d turned onto Main street, the room wasn’t what he’d expected. It was small but not in a suffocating way.

The bed was large and covered with a cream, mint, beige and gold quilt. It looked warm and inviting in the way that homey things did, not like his cold, black satin comforter in his penthouse.

Lace curtains covered a thick set of burgundy drapes that had been pulled to the sides. A small vase of white and purple flowers sat on the table beside an empty glass pitcher with two glasses waiting on a white cloth.

Everything was mismatched, as though the room hadn’t been decorated all at once but over a long period of time.

Mrs. Pearl watched him as he sat his things on the luggage rack. “So, what d’ya think?”

“It’s fine. It’s very nice.” His voice sounded as if he was just getting over strep throat.

Mrs. Pearl’s smile lit up the room. “Wonderful. I’m glad you like it. You go on and get settled, bathroom is right there, and the water gets super-hot so be mindful.”

She pointed to the nightstand. “You’ll find the television guide, Wi-Fi password, map of the town, and a few other pamphlets in the drawer, okay?”

“Kay… oh, thank you…um, thanks so much.” He’d almost forgotten to add that.

“You’re very welcome, sweetheart.” She clasped her hands together. “Now, I’m gonna go to the kitchen and heat you up some leftovers. Myra always makes too much.”

Royal blinked.

She cocked her head to the side. “Do you like meatloaf?”

“You don’t have to do that. I can wait until tomorrow and find a place to—”

“Now, that’s not what I asked. I asked if you liked meatloaf. Or are you a vegetarian… or what’s that other one?” She snapped her fingers a couple of times, then perked up, “a vegan!”

Royal’s slight smile felt strange stretching his cheeks. “No, I’m neither.”

“Phew!” She touched her palm to her chest. “I have no clue what to make of those folks. So yeah to the meatloaf?”

“To be honest. I haven’t had it since I was a kid.”

“Well then you’re in for a treat. It’s Myra’s specialty. She’s my evening cook. Bristol will be here in the morning at five, we call her Brissy.”

Mrs. Pearl took his glass pitcher and rushed out of his room, leaving the faint scent of flowers and plums behind her.

Royal plopped down on the mattress and dropped his face into his palms. He was still in that position when Mrs. Pearl knocked on his door. He opened it to find her big smile and holding a plate with a large hunk of meat on top and the other half filled with a heaping mound of mashed potatoes smothered in dark gravy. In her other hand was a full pitcher of iced water.

After his shower and medication, he sat at the table and pulled the plate close.

The first bite of the tender meat melted in his mouth.

Fuck.

It was rich, savory, and seasoned as if it’d been made by a person who cooked with soul and love. Not in a high-end restaurant by a chef who served a two-ounce portion of food abed an over-the-top garnish to post on Instagram, not really for consumption.

Royal cleaned the plate.

He fell into bed, laid his head on the freshly fluffed pillow and was out in seconds.

When he woke, the sun was reflecting off the snow, creating a light so brilliant it blinded him.

Now he understood the need for the heavy drapes. Tonight he’d remember to close them.

Royal grabbed his cell phone thinking he was late checking his emails and schedule.

His eyes almost bugged out of his head when he saw it was after nine.