About a dozen Christmas carols on the radio later, a sign appears like a Christmas miracle for a place called Timber’s Edge Inn.
I follow the painted wooden arrows, all trimmed with Christmas lights and evergreen swag, along a winding road before a sprawling three-story building comes into view.
“Thank goodness,” I say, worried that I was soon going to have to send out an SOS—I’ve never had to use a smoke signal before. However, the wisps of smoke coming from the chimney suggest warmth, and that’s all I need right now.
Maneuvering toward the carport, the building looks like Hollywood’s top Christmas movie set dressers paid a visit. Twinkling lights outline every roofline and window. Evergreen garlands drape across the porch, tied with enormous red velvet bows. A pair of massive wreaths hang on the front doors, and through the windows, I spot a Christmas tree that has to be at least twenty feet tall and topped with a bright star. A life-size nativity scene nestles under the boughs of towering pines, with landscape lighting setting it aglow. Nutcrackers framing the door stand as sentries and baubles and garlands sparkle.
I take the first deep breath I’ve been able to take in hours, days, weeks, months?
It’s perfect. This is exactly what I need.
But I can’t walk in as Rebecca Rios and risk being recognized. I rummage through the car, finding Lilith’s baseball cap and grab a pair of sunglasses from my purse. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and wince. Sunglasses at night during a snowstorm are very “sus.” I might as well hang a sign around my neck that says Celebrity in hiding.
A Santa hat sits in the back seat—a prop from a recent social media video appearance. I swap it for the baseball cap and ditch the sunglasses.
That’s slightly less conspicuous—a festive frill, if you will. Given my surroundings, maybe I’ll fit right in.
My pug looks at me like I’ve gone sledding off the edge. Perhaps I have.
“Ready, Pookie?”
She whimpers when I open the door.
Snow covers the parking lot and her paws barely touch the ground before she scrambles, trying to climb back into my arms.
“I know, pugcess. But you need a potty break before we go inside.”
Exasperated, my little princess with the corkscrew tail does her business.
After a merry greeting from Santa, checking his list by the portico, the lobby is even more magical than the exterior. A fire crackles in a stone fireplace. Garlands, decorations, and ornaments cover every surface. The scent of pine and cinnamon fills the air, and soft instrumental Christmas music plays from hidden speakers. A ceramic Christmas village spreads across a multilevel surface, including a building that looks like the inn. Poinsettias add splashes of color against rough pine and stone surrounding a massive hearth strung with stockings. Nearly every surface sparkles with Christmas surprises.
A woman behind the desk—dressed like Mrs. Claus, complete with wire-rimmed glasses—beams at me. “Welcome to Timber’s Edge Inn! Are you checking in?”
“Do you have any rooms available?”
From behind the reception desk, she reviews a computer screen wrapped to look like a Christmas gift. “You’re in luck! We just got a cancellation due to the weather. Looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas!” She doesn’t even blink at my Santa hat or the tiny dog shivering in my arms.
But once she recognizes who I am, I’m afraid all bets on this particular celebrity remaining incognito will be off. My spirits dip, but I can practically hear Lilith’s voice hissing in my ear, reminding me this is what I signed up for—living the dream.
But is it? I really just wanted to share music with people—not be party to questionable charity organizations raking in money with a Christmas gala, being on the road three hundred days a year, and we won’t even get into my personal life—though the tabloids do and Lilith encourages it.
The sweet woman behind the counter asks, “How many nights?”
I hesitate, surfacing from my spiraling thoughts. I need to get home. I drove in completely the wrong direction and without GPS ... “Only one night?”
“Perfect! I’ll need a credit card and ID.”
My brain hits the panic button. Using my credit card means my handlers can track me. I fully intend to return to real life. Mostly. I just need a break. But what choice do I have?
I hand over my personal card, not the corporate card Lilith monitors, and my driver’s license. The woman glances at it, then back at me, and I brace myself for the recognition, the squealing, the requests for selfies.
Instead, she merely smiles. “Rebecca Rivers. What a lovely name.”
I experience a full-body hiccup.
“You’re in room twenty-three. Second floor, to the right. We serve a full, and dare I say delicious, breakfast from seven to ten. Also, we have Christmas activities all day tomorrow that you won’t want to miss!”
“That’s so nice.”
