Then I dive at them, scooping as many garments as I can into my arms like a deranged two year old who’s trying to hoard her toys.
Moose gets the rest. At least, what’s left on the belt.
We make a pile next to my carryon and empty Starbucks cup. The pile isn’t as big as it was before I folded it all and packed it into the boxes. Somewhere there is more. But at this point I don’t care.
“I don’t suppose you brought anything to pack this stuff in?” I ask, so mortified my eyes are burning.
“I think I have some garbage bags in the truck. Stay here. I’ll grab them.”
Garbage bags. “Sure. Okay.” I sink to the floor, crossing my legs, elbows resting on my knees.
What a wonderful start to my new life!
I’m in freaking Alaska.
Alaska.
Land of bears. And trees.
And snow.
And not much else.
I’ve lost half my stuff.
My fiancé isn’t in a big hurry to meet me.
But at least things can’t get much worse.
I watch all of my fellow passengers drift away, dragging their fancy bags-on-wheels behind them, and then the room grows silent. Eerily so. I’ve never been good with quiet. I like noise. And music. And people.
And--as I’ve discovered—reality television.
Growing restless, I leave my stuff on the floor (who’s going to steal it anyway?) and wander toward the exit. Just as I’m about to reach it, it opens with a whoosh and a blast of chilly air.
In strolls Moose, with some black bags in his fist.
We dump my stuff into the bags and haul them out to his truck, idling at the curb. The bags get tossed into the bed, with the tools and building supplies he carries in it, and off we go, down the highway.
I stare out the window at the landscape whipping by. The area surrounding the airport doesn’t look a whole lot different from rural Ohio—except the mountains in the distance. Even when we turn onto the main highway, the landscape isn’t much different from where I grew up.
But once we get out of Fairbanks, it’s very different. Trees wall the six-lane highway on both sides, creating a tunnel-like effect. It isn’t long before I grow weary of looking at trees and my eyelids grow heavy. I let the gentle hum of the truck’s engine lull me to sleep.
Sometime later, I wake.
We aren’t driving anymore.
“Welcome to your new home,” Moose says.
I peer out the window.
There is a house out there. At least there’s that much.
It isn’t what one might expect a billionaire to live in. But it is the kind of house you might expect a bachelor in Alaska to live in.
It’s a log cabin.
I pray it has central heat and electricity.
I climb out of Moose’s truck—literally. It’s a two-foot drop to the ground. He grabs my trash bags from the truck bed, one in each fist, and escorts me to the front door of my new home.
“After you,” he says by way of invitation.
I grab the knob, twist and push open the door.
Right away I notice two things.
First, it’s warm in the house.
And second, it’s dark. As in, woody. But also cozy, in a backwoods, hunting and fishing lodge kind of way.
It could use a woman’s touch for sure, but it isn’t a total wreck.
Moose drops my bags inside the front door and clears his throat. “If there’s nothing else, I need to get going.”
“Sure. Okay.” I step into the kitchen and peer out the window above the sink. Trees. I see lots and lots of trees. The sky is pretty. Coral. And pink. And purple. It’s almost sunset. I have no idea what time it is, but it feels like it’s about midnight. After all, I’ve traveled across at least four time zones to get here. “Should I assume Jace isn’t planning on getting married today?”
Moose gives me a crooked smile and a little chuckle. “I’d say that’s a safe assumption.” He grabs the doorknob. “Jace usually works late in the spring and summer. Doesn’t get home until dark.” He motions toward a clock, hanging on the wall over the fireplace. “That’ll be in maybe another hour or so.”
I
Moose gets the rest. At least, what’s left on the belt.
We make a pile next to my carryon and empty Starbucks cup. The pile isn’t as big as it was before I folded it all and packed it into the boxes. Somewhere there is more. But at this point I don’t care.
“I don’t suppose you brought anything to pack this stuff in?” I ask, so mortified my eyes are burning.
“I think I have some garbage bags in the truck. Stay here. I’ll grab them.”
Garbage bags. “Sure. Okay.” I sink to the floor, crossing my legs, elbows resting on my knees.
What a wonderful start to my new life!
I’m in freaking Alaska.
Alaska.
Land of bears. And trees.
And snow.
And not much else.
I’ve lost half my stuff.
My fiancé isn’t in a big hurry to meet me.
But at least things can’t get much worse.
I watch all of my fellow passengers drift away, dragging their fancy bags-on-wheels behind them, and then the room grows silent. Eerily so. I’ve never been good with quiet. I like noise. And music. And people.
And--as I’ve discovered—reality television.
Growing restless, I leave my stuff on the floor (who’s going to steal it anyway?) and wander toward the exit. Just as I’m about to reach it, it opens with a whoosh and a blast of chilly air.
In strolls Moose, with some black bags in his fist.
We dump my stuff into the bags and haul them out to his truck, idling at the curb. The bags get tossed into the bed, with the tools and building supplies he carries in it, and off we go, down the highway.
I stare out the window at the landscape whipping by. The area surrounding the airport doesn’t look a whole lot different from rural Ohio—except the mountains in the distance. Even when we turn onto the main highway, the landscape isn’t much different from where I grew up.
But once we get out of Fairbanks, it’s very different. Trees wall the six-lane highway on both sides, creating a tunnel-like effect. It isn’t long before I grow weary of looking at trees and my eyelids grow heavy. I let the gentle hum of the truck’s engine lull me to sleep.
Sometime later, I wake.
We aren’t driving anymore.
“Welcome to your new home,” Moose says.
I peer out the window.
There is a house out there. At least there’s that much.
It isn’t what one might expect a billionaire to live in. But it is the kind of house you might expect a bachelor in Alaska to live in.
It’s a log cabin.
I pray it has central heat and electricity.
I climb out of Moose’s truck—literally. It’s a two-foot drop to the ground. He grabs my trash bags from the truck bed, one in each fist, and escorts me to the front door of my new home.
“After you,” he says by way of invitation.
I grab the knob, twist and push open the door.
Right away I notice two things.
First, it’s warm in the house.
And second, it’s dark. As in, woody. But also cozy, in a backwoods, hunting and fishing lodge kind of way.
It could use a woman’s touch for sure, but it isn’t a total wreck.
Moose drops my bags inside the front door and clears his throat. “If there’s nothing else, I need to get going.”
“Sure. Okay.” I step into the kitchen and peer out the window above the sink. Trees. I see lots and lots of trees. The sky is pretty. Coral. And pink. And purple. It’s almost sunset. I have no idea what time it is, but it feels like it’s about midnight. After all, I’ve traveled across at least four time zones to get here. “Should I assume Jace isn’t planning on getting married today?”
Moose gives me a crooked smile and a little chuckle. “I’d say that’s a safe assumption.” He grabs the doorknob. “Jace usually works late in the spring and summer. Doesn’t get home until dark.” He motions toward a clock, hanging on the wall over the fireplace. “That’ll be in maybe another hour or so.”
I
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