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Just Let Me Die Here (A Serialized Novel) 7

Chapter 7

By Megan ClancyPublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 4 min read
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Thankfully, it’s a blizzard-free drive to Banff. Not to say it isn’t somewhat eventful. Snow from an earlier storm has melted and refrozen on the road, leaving several precarious stretches of black ice. The afternoon sun bounces off these patches, causing a blinding glare. I grip the wheel in these spots and tense with each slide of the tires.

“Relax,” Tucker whispers.

“I am relaxed,” I say through gritted teeth. “It’s just this car.”

Unfortunately, one of these jerks of the wheel does wake Millie and he spends the next half hour trying to calm her with every toy in the diaper bag, the instruction pamphlet from the car rental company, and an empty water bottle, which works for a few moments before she sends it flying into the back with the luggage. It bounces off the back window and spends the rest of the drive rattling against the suitcase wheels. Millie is finally silenced with an episode of some awful kids show on Tucker’s tablet. The high pitch of the characters’ voices grates at my focus.

You don’t know how to comfort your child.

You are an insufficient mother.

Relaxing is definitely not something I can do quite yet. But we make it.

Canmore is the paradise I never knew existed. From the moment the highway curves down from the foothills, I am leaning forward, over the steering wheel, my nose nearly pressed to the cold glass of the windshield, my mouth agape at what I’m seeing. The small town sits in a valley literally surrounded by the soaring peaks of the Canadian Rockies. I have lived in the mountains of Colorado and traveled through many others, but I have never seen such a spectacular, completely surrounding mountain view. The thick blanket of snow just intensifies the beauty of it all. And the town itself is adorable. Like a European ski village. The streets are lined with snow-covered trees and small boutiques, each still decorated with holiday lights. The people walking along the sidewalks are straight out of a Patagonia catalogue. Fit, good-looking, and decked in the season’s latest outdoor gear. The whole place feels like an idyllic ski resort. An alpine-lovers dream.

“Wow,” I say for the hundredth time since entering the valley.

“Nice, huh?” Tucker says.

“Wow.”

Once we get into Canmore, Tucker guides me down one road and up another. As I make a third left turn, I begin to worry that we are lost.

“Do you want me to look up directions?” I ask.

“No,” he says, glancing up one side street before directing me down another. The “getting there” part of travel has never been the easiest with Tucker. He isn’t the best with stress, but also never wants to admit that he might be lost or unsure. This has led to multiple arguments between us on both foreign travel as well as small day trips. Inability or forfeit are not options for him.

We take a few more turns, drive down a long residential road, and pull up in front of a massive, multi-story log cabin.

“We’re here,” he says. I take in the beautiful home through my window and know that we are definitely lost. Tucker’s economical lodging tastes would never have allowed him to book this place. He’s more of a chain motel, free continental breakfast included, type of traveler.

“We’re staying here?” I ask, trying to restrain my excitement, in case this is just a quick stop before heading to a less luxurious accommodation. This could just be somewhere to check in. I look around at the other houses on the street. They are equally grand. Equally unlikely. Is there a small guest house? An in-law apartment out back that only charges a fraction of what I assume a suite in this manor runs? Maybe he has a coupon.

“We’re staying here,” he says. Some people dream of a little bungalow on stilts over the tropic waters of Bora Bora. Others a fabulous beach house in Malibu. Me? It’s this. A stunning, snow-covered log cabin in the mountains. With my first step out of the car crunching in a drift of fresh snow, I start to feel a piece of myself reawaken.

See. You like the old you better. The you before her.

“How about you go check in and I’ll stay with Millie, let her sleep a bit longer,” Tucker says to me across the hood of the car. Without waiting for a response, he nods and slips back into the car, quietly closing the door. I inhale deeply, taking in all the fresh, crisp, ice-laced air I can. This is exactly what I need.

I climb the three steps up to the house’s front porch. A large engraved plaque hangs next to the massive oak doors. ‘Welcome to The Scarlett House’.

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About the Creator

Megan Clancy

Author & Book Coach, wife, mother, adventure-seeker.

BA in English from Colorado College & MFA from the University of Melbourne

Writing here is Fiction & Non-Fiction

www.meganaclancy.com

Find me on Twitter & IG @mclancyauthor

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