Live up North and there are snow tires and sand trucks to keep the interstate clear. A few inches is no problem at all. Down South however, it is a full-fledged disaster, for there are no snowplows. And the frozen stuff quickly turns to ice. And ice is several orders worse.
It was still drivable for Diane and I as we picked our way home from our business trip. We stared at the white curtain past the wipers as the Range Rover ground its way up the freeway. The snow was fun at first, with my employee swooning at its beauty. An hour later, and the novelty had melted away. Another hour and we passed yet another car that had skid off that shoulder, a Jeep of all things. I slowed long enough on the deserted highway to look.
"You see anyone in there?" Diane craned an elegant neck towards the window, then rolled it down a few inches to see better.
"No. Hope they're okay." With that, she rolled the window back up. "Glad you brought the Range Rover, by the way."
"Yeah, me too." I patted the dashboard, thankful for the four-wheel drive and the heated seats. Before our three-day client visit on the Gulf, Carla wanted the BMW, something about showing houses to new clients, some out-of-towners. It was warm when we left town. But, a few days later, the winter storm caught almost everyone by surprise. Carla called that morning, worried about the forecast, and we wrapped the client planning session as quickly as possible. But now, a good two hundred miles from home, it was obvious we left too late in the day. Diane looked back over her shoulder at the abandoned Jeep, and noted its fresh skid marks.
"Whoever was in that car might have gone to the exit up here. Keep an eye out. If they're still walking, maybe we can give them a lift." She laughed. "Don't expect me to walk in these heels." She lifted her foot to make a point, a welcome flash of leg. A woman of thirty-three in good shape is a wonder of nature. Not that I'd ever tried anything with her. Or for any other woman during my marriage for that matter. But a man can look.
The exit was a mile away, but the McDonald's sign could be seen dimly through the snow shower. Creeping along, it would take several minutes to arrive. Home? Much longer. It was already six, getting dark, and would only get worse. We passed a billboard and I had an idea. But Diane beat me to it.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Five years working together meant she could read my thoughts. I was no longer surprised when it happened.
"I'm thinking, yeah, this might be our best bet. Want to call Mark?"
"No. He's in Chicago at some church conference. Mom has Nathan. I'll call her instead." As she made arrangements, we neared to the exit. I decided to not call Carla until we were settled. Otherwise, she would just fret if I were still on the road. In fact, she had already called twice in a panic over the past hour, but my wife could wait. I wasn't going to drive and talk in these conditions. My shoulders were already sore from the tension. No need to add more.
"Hope you like the Hampton Inn." Diane shrugged as she dug through her purse for a Kleenex.
"Sounds perfect. Might want to hit that McDonalds first. Don't know when we'll eat again." Twenty minutes and two Quarter Pounders later, we pulled into a full hotel parking lot. I sighed, knowing the odds were against a room, giving it the potential of a long night.
"Doesn't look good. Wait here." With that I unbuckled and opened my door, shutting it quickly behind me. The cold was a rude shock, given how warm it had been in Destin when we left.
The lobby was packed with travelers, fidgeting, tapping messages into their phones, or quieting whining children. Overhearing the desk clerk, the hotel was making arrangements for guests to sleep in the hallways, the conference rooms, wherever. Not for me.
"That was fast."
"No room at the inn." Diane just shrugged. Always a step or two ahead. She was already calling other options.
"The Holiday Inn and Ramada are full, too. I already checked."
"Shit." She flinched a little at that. A good Baptist girl, a preacher's wife, she never got completely used to my language.
"Cussing doesn't help. Let me try one more place." She dialed another number as I pulled into an Exxon. If I were going to get through the night, I needed gas and beer, not necessarily in that order. Returning a few minutes later, I was greeted with a grin. A triumphant one.
"Who do you love?"
"You got a room."
"Two rooms."
"Where?"
"A bed and breakfast. Turn right, one mile on the left. According to her, you can't miss it."
"That's it. You're getting a raise."
Well, not quite. The sweet older lady who owned the Victorian housed greeted us with regret as we struggled in with our suitcases.
"I bet you're the woman who just called."
"Yes. Diane Kelley."
"Well. I have bad news."
"Oh, no."
"I didn't realize that my husband had already given up one of the two last rooms. He never writes anything down." I stepped in.
"Do you have a sofa in the room?"
"Well, yes."
"We'll still take it." Diane looked at me, back at the owner, and nodded. I merely shrugged. It was likely the last vacant hotel room in this part of Alabama. My Visa was swiped, the room keys handed over the counter.
"Breakfast is served at 8 am." The owner had an official air. "Fireplace and TV are in there. Extra blankets and towels if you need them. Hopefully the roads will be clear tomorrow. But I can't make promises."
We carried our suitcases up the stairs. The room was decorated in early American country. Frilly lampshades. A picture of Jesus on the wall. Wallpaper that didn't match anything. In truth, it was the box where they keep the bed.
"It's not bad. A little cozy. But, um, that sofa." Diane laughed at her own joke. It was a loveseat, a sofa in the technical sense of the word. But I am six foot three. "Is that a pullout?"
I lifted a cushion to check.
"Nope. I'm not going to fit." A phone call to the desk. No foldaways. We both looked at the Queen-sized bed.
"You'll have to behave."
"Duh. But what do we tell Mark and Carla?" She absently flipped the controls to the TV. No reception. At least I brought a book to read.
"That the sofa was longer, of course. This room is a little cozy. I think there's a TV down in the main room. What's in the bag, by the way?"
"Beer." She wrinkled her nose as I offered a bottle. "Good beer." With that, she opened the door and I followed her out into the hallway.
"I don't drink, you know that. Of course, after the day we've had, I might make an exception."
The fire was perfect. The satellite reception was not. So I read while Diane pawed through some magazines and looked around the room at the fox hunting prints on the wall. Other patrons breezed in and out, made polite conversations about the weather, and left. I gently eased my beer onto the side table.
"Did you call Carla?"
"Oh, shit. I forgot."
"You cussed again. Another quarter in the jar when we get back. "
"Damn right." Carla picked up on the first ring, annoyed that I hadn't called earlier. She and the kids had a fire going. Chili was on the stove. Friends were dropping by. I could hear loud conversations in the background. Jack, our neighbor's raucous laugh burst from somewhere nearby. A snowstorm in the South is an occasion for a party, a moveable feast as long as the power holds out.
"So where are you staying?"
"A bed and breakfast." I started to mention that Diane and I were sharing a room, but thought better of it.
"Well, that's nice. By the looks of the weather report, you might have to stay there for more than one night." A pause, then Carla trying to sound casual. "So where's Diane staying?"
"In her room." With that, Diane shot a knowing look and waved an index finger at me. Naughty, naughty.
