Page 9 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Nine

HOLLY

Another morning where the sunlight beams from the windows, waking me from my well needed rest. Only this time, instead of a scalding Australian summer sun, I’m hit with the reflection of it on the Canadian snow outside.

A gasp cracks through my lips at great speeds as I jolt upward, then a smile turns them. “Far out. What a bloody cracker of a mornin’!” Every window that surrounds me is blessed with a spectacular view of some kind. “Is this what it’s like here every day?” I ask no one in particular.

Stunning, snow covered mountains further than the eye can see, and overcast clouds above is the backdrop.

What I’m looking at appears almost fake, like a cute little postcard or poster for an office suite.

Below my front porch on the opposite side of the road and thin pine trees, is a river that’s half frosted half clear. That must be the Bow River.

That’s a lot of snow. Australia could never.

I pinch myself to check if I’ve died and gone to wherever the unholy heavens are, because I’m certain that in my thirty-four years of existence, places like this just didn’t exist. But the red mark on my arm is proof that it does.

I stand like this looking out the window for some time, and eventually my smile fades and my eyes empty.

There is not a single whistle, hum, siren or traffic sound like I’m used to.

The lit fire being the only audible noise with its crackles and pop.

I’m quite surprised that the firewood Susan put in yesterday lasted so long.

I thought firewood only lasted a few hours, but this one obviously lasted all night.

Must be the Canadian pine, or something.

Susan arrives with a brown paper bag and two cappuccinos—or coffees, whatever they’re called here. When I let her in, the cold air howls inside with her. “Good morning, hon. You look like you’ve just woken up, sorry did I wake you?” she asks.

“No, no. Not at all.” I mean the time difference is bullshit, but not the worst thing I’ve endured since Sunday.

“Oh, good.” Susan closes the door behind her, and puts the bag with two bagels and a coffee for each of us on the kitchen counter.

The smell of caffeine hits my nose, running a violent dance to my taste buds.

“I see you’ve already cut some more wood.

You’re quick, well done. Nice stacking, too, you’re a true Canadian already. ”

She gestures to where the small pile of chopped timber was when I let her in, stacked neatly against the wall by the entry. Wait, I thought she did that yesterday. “You didn’t put those there?”

“No. I brought firewood from home because there was none here. And what I had went straight into the fire for the night,” she retorts.

Well that’s only a little bit eerie. “Anyway, how was your first night? You do look absolutely exhausted, sweet pea.” Susan fixes a look at me as if I’ve spent the night partying without a wink of sleep.

Anyway? What do you mean ‘anyway’? You’re not the slightest bit concerned that there’s things magically on my doorstep that weren’t there before?

Ugh. Forcing myself to think nothing else of it, I sink my head into my hands, rubbing the base of my palms against my brows.She isn’t wrong, though.

I feel like complete crap. My ass hurts from falling on it last night, and I think I slept in one position for too long so my shoulders are cramping up, not to mention the lonely doom feeling I have in the pit of my heart.

And now the mysterious firewood situation that’s for some reason taking up more space in my brain than it should.

“Terrible. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

“Did you, though? You’re limping,” she asks as I walk—no, waddle —from the kitchen to the fireplace. I roll my eyes, disappointed in myself for having two left feet, and add a slight laugh to brush it off.

“Don’t ask.” My tone is hard, cold and avoidant.

Of course, it’s completely unintentional.

I’m not like this. I’m always such a bright, and happy person.

But given the circumstances, I’m everything but that.

“Ugh! I’m a buzzkill. I’m so sorry Susan, you don’t need this.

You’ve already done so much for me and look at me, making a total ass of myself. I’m not normally like this.”

She plants her hand on my shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “Stop apologizing. This is a lot to take in. I’m here for you, I’m not going to leave you high and dry.”

“Thank you,” I mean the statement with every bit of my chest.

“Why don’t we look at what jobs are around then, hmm?”

“That sounds great. I’ll need the money, and stat.

I’ve pretty much blown my savings on the removalist, and getting here.

And only have one paycheck from my boss coming next week, plus the second half of the deposit for a book I edited, then that’s it.

I’ll be bone dry, and homeless,” I sigh, the reality of it kicking in.

“You won’t be homeless. You’ve paid for three months in advance, we’ll get you a job between now and then.” Susan smiles.

I hobble over to my bag beside the mattress, and grab my laptop before sitting on the counter top. “Can I please use your hotspot? My phone’s flat and I don’t have a connector for it here.”

“Wow, you really did do all of this at the last minute, didn’t you?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

I enter the website that Susan tells me to, and filter out the jobs that I don’t want, like mechanical engineering, boiler making and what not, then Susan spots an advertisement. “Waitressing? That’s right in town here, you could walk as it’s not far.”

It pays okay, not great but it would be enough to keep me alive, and the bills paid.

Maybe not enough to save and get the hell out of here to back home, but I’ll take what I can get.

With my new resume that I formatted while at LAX waiting for my flight to Calgary, I apply for it and keep scrolling.

“Now, you mentioned you edited a book, is that a field you want to stay in?”

“Yes, that’s my passion. I’m an editor for a magazine company, but I also work for myself for some extra cash.”

I had such good intentions in where I was going with my life and where my money was going. My vision was clear—work hard, save every penny, then buy a big slice of land and build our dream home. But now it’s all gone.

“Really? My daughter Isabelle is an author. She’s about your age, maybe I can put the feelers out with her for something, maybe even with her publisher? But for now, let’s find something quick and local.”

“Susan that sounds wonderful. I’d love that.”

Almost an hour after Susan left, I feel like I’ve sent my resume to every single advertisement. “Well, that’s it then. I’ve exhausted all of them.” Defeated, yet hopeful I glare out the kitchen window, seeing what looks like a snow storm coming in.

Not that I’ve ever experienced a snow storm, or have any idea if that’s what I’m looking at, but from where I’m from when you see gray clouds you put the car in the garage, lock the windows and stay the hell indoors.

Floods, insane winds, and hail the size of bowling balls will come your way in seconds.

Not to mention the bloody cane toads. Oh, and then the sun comes out and you feel like you’re melting from the 99 percent humidity.

Gotta love an Australian summer. Now I’ve just swapped the dramatically high heat and gorgeous beaches for dramatically freezing temperatures, snowy mountains, and frozen lakes.

Good one, Holly.

At least I can go outside now with my new hand-me-down bag of winter clothes. Maybe I can go and explore a little, get some things for the house at whatever shops they have in this town. But it obviously won’t be today, since it looks like impending doomsday out there.

When I start to close my laptop I hesitate, seeing a new advertisement that only went live 3 seconds ago. A sponsored one, too. Sitting right at the top in bold, far different from all the rest and of something I’d actually like that says:

Riverton House Publishing is looking for a qualified editor and PA, with previous experience working with authors or literary agents or experience in the publishing or magazine industry. We require someone to work in house for one of our Wall Street Journal Best Selling authors in Banff.

Requirements are as follows.

- Personal assistant tasks such as but not limited to;

Providing administrative support, emails, calls, appointments.

Managing event schedules/conferences to suit the author based on their schedule and availability, as well as attending them. Please note: this offer includes complimentary flights and accommodation.

- Editorial tasks such as;

Developmental editing, line and copy editing and proofreading manuscripts.

- Other duties include;

Running errands.

Cooking, meal preparation, etc.

Cleaning and other domestic tasks when/where required.

Successful applicant will be given their own room and bathroom, rostered days off on rotation, and a work phone and email account with great pay and insurance incentives.

To apply, please submit your resume to [email protected]

I clap so loud that my ears ring, giggling as enthrall runs through me. Is this real? Is this too good to be true? Could my luck be turning? Jobs like this rarely pop up, unless you’re in the big smoke.

I could live in someone’s house. I mean, I guess it gets me out of this empty one. So what, I have to cook, and clean, I do that anyway! And the best part? I get to actually do what I love doing—working with authors.

Curiosity floods my mind, I wonder who it is? I look back at the stack of books by my bag. Imagine if it’s Izzy Wentworth! My favorite author. She lives in Canada, I don’t know where but just imagine.

Oh, I think I’d die with joy.