Thomas Dubois stood outside the Midway Motel office and watched the gray clouds rake across the jagged mountaintops. The leaves were gone from the trees, and with them the tourist season. Business was dead, and that left too much time to think.
It had been a busy summer and autumn; the cabins were filled almost every night. Tom handled everything alone, which didn't leave any time for self-pity. During the day, he forgot about Hannah Roundtree, but at night she haunted his dreams.
A penetrating gust made Tom shiver. The cold wind hinted snow. He turned and went inside.
After a thorough cleaning, the old house smelled much better. The former owner, Tobias Wentworth, would never be mistaken for a hygienic man. Tom now thought of himself as the motel's 'new and improved' owner. That was his goal and he focused all his attention on achieving it.
He planned on painting the cabins and the house interiors over the winter. Maybe he'd have to take a part-time job to finance the improvements, but once the ski resorts opened the place might fill up again and it would pay for itself.
The motel business had always been a seasonal occupation. The simple kind of life Tom hoped for after college -- make money during the summer and travel during the winter. But someone was missing from his life's plan.
After sunset, Tom would sit at the computer, usually with a longneck bottle of beer for inspiration, and write about the day. Sometimes he wrote pages, other times just a few sentences. But without fail, every night he sent these memoirs to Hannah's presumed email address. Last week, after a long, uneventful day, he wrote a two-page letter, explaining his loneliness and heartache. When it was finished, and the moment came to click 'Send', the pointer drifted onto the delete button and he pushed that instead, marking the end of wishful thinking.
Tonight, he dialed up the Internet, and then strolled into the kitchen for a beer. The near empty refrigerator painfully reminded him of his solitude. The holidays were coming, and they mattered this year. He had reasons to celebrate.
'Screw it.' Tom pried open the bottle, chugged a couple of thirsty swallows and wandered back to the computer. He logged into Yahoo and checked for email from Penny Skinner, Wentworth's daughter. The inbox displayed one new message. He clicked to open it, took a swig from the bottle, and then choked when the subject line appeared:
'Are you okay?' Sent by: Cheyenne4u -- Hannah's email address.
Long seconds passed while he stared at the monitor, afraid to read the message, afraid of having hope. After a few more pulls on the bottle, he steeled himself and opened the message:
Hi Tom,
I understand if you don't want to write me everyday. But send me a note once in a while, to let me know how you're doing. Please?
Hannah
Tom's emotions fluctuated between elation and despair. But foremost, he experienced flat-out relief. Why hadn't she written all these months?
Quickly, he wrote a reply. 'You're alive! How are you?' and hit send.
Nervously, Tom paced behind the desk chair, pressing the browser reload button every other pass. "Come on, Hannah, be there."
Thirty minutes and two beers later, Tom was about to log off, when another message finally appeared.
Subject: All better.
The message read: Instant Message me. Hannah2u AOL.
He'd already downloaded the instant messenger program to chat with Penny about the motel business. It just took a few seconds to add Hannah2u into the buddy list.
When the text box opened, Tom played it cool, "Hannah, what's new?"
The window said that Hannah was typing, but nothing came up. She'd obviously deleted several responses, until finally she settled on an answer and sent, "Nothing much."
After all he'd written in his daily letters 'nothing much' pissed him off. Sarcastically, he typed, "Are you still in the adult entertainment business?"
A minute passed. No answer came. The buddy list still showed her connected. Tired of staring at the screen, he went for another beer.
On returning, the screen read, "I've stopped being a whore, if that's what you wanted to know. I'm a waitress in a bar, so technically I am still in the adult entertainment business."
The anger shriveled to regret. "I miss you," he wrote. "I dream about you."
"Really? I dream about you too."
That was more like it. "What do you dream?"
As she typed, he sipped his beer.
Finally she posted, "I dream about our time together, how special you made me feel, how safe. In my dreams you make me laugh and I wake up happy, like I did when I slept next to you. I dream about sex. You were the only man to make me feel satisfied. There has never been anyone in my life that made me feel so wonderful."
Tears welled up in his inebriated eyes. "Then... why did you leave?"
A few seconds passed, and she said, "I needed to get my head straight, talk to the police, and heal."
Tom began to type, then backspaced and started over several times.
