An error message flashes, and the heat indicator light is out. Even worse, it reads thirty-seven degrees. How can it be thirty-seven degrees in this house? I hit the on-off button a few times, hoping it will trigger the furnace to kick on, but no such luck. Either the thermostat is busted, or the furnace finally kicked the bucket. My bet is on the ancient furnace.
“Dammit.” I drop my head against the wall with a thud. I can’t use the fireplace in my bedroom unless I want to die ofsmoke inhalation. Adam made it perfectly clear that I couldn’t use that fireplace until it was repaired.
It’s moments like these when I start to think my family and friends back home have a point. I’m all alone in a drafty old house, freezing, and have no knowledge of the inner workings of a furnace.
At this moment, I’m helpless.
I hate feeling helpless.
“Come on, Camille. Think.” What would Mark do if he were here?
I rack my brain, tugging on my memories of him. I keep Mark buried in the recesses of my mind. Life is easier if I don’t let myself think about him and all the ways he’d made my life better. While I’m independent and self-reliant, there were so many things Mark took care of, just so I didn’t have to think about it.
Even after two years, I still discover new things he did to take care of his family. Some of them were simple things, like taking out the garbage, changing light bulbs, cleaning out the gutters, or making my coffee. God, I miss him making my coffee. I knew he did these things, but until he was gone—and I had to start doing them myself—I didn’t realize how much I took those things for granted.
Especially my coffee. Mark started making my coffee in our first year of marriage. Every morning without fail, the coffee maker was cleaned out and ready to go. All I had to do was hit start. Mark didn’t even drink coffee. He did that for me because he loved me.
It’s the little things I miss the most. They make my heart ache.
But right now, I have a big issue, and I need his help before I freeze to death.
Breaker box!He would’ve checked the breaker box first.
With newfound hope, I make my way downstairs to the garage. The first floor feels even colder than upstairs, but nothing prepares me for the cold air that literally takes my breath away when I step into the garage. It nearly knocks me on my ass.
I’ve never felt temperatures this cold before. We experienced the occasional freezing night in Georgia every winter, but it didn’t feel anything like this. This is miserable, and I’m questioning my sanity for purposefully moving here.
Walking as fast as I can, I make my way through the pile of boxes I haven’t unpacked yet. I only trip three times and stop myself from falling two out of the three, which I’ll call a win.
The breaker box is on the wall next to the silent furnace. I flip the switch and pray that the furnace will make a noise when I flip it back on.
Nothing.
I repeat this process like something magical will happen the second time around.
Nothing.
Unable to take the cold a moment longer, I rush inside. I can either go back to my bed and bury myself in a mountain of covers or try to start a fire in the one fireplace that passed inspection. Problem is, that fireplace is in the back of the house with no furniture. There’s no way I can move a couch on my own. I’ll have to sleep on the floor.
Being a southern gal, I’m not used to this level of cold. It doesn’t take me long to decide on the fireplace. Sleeping on the floor for one night won’t kill me.
I run upstairs and grab several blankets and pillows to make a bed. I also pick out some warmer clothes and soft fuzzy socks. I layer up like I’ve been dropped in the Arctic, and I’ll die if any of my body heat escapes.
Once back downstairs, I make my way to the back of the house. I haven’t done much with this part of the chalet yet. These rooms are large with gorgeous views of the mountains. They’ll make great meeting spaces for the writer’s retreats I hope to host one day.
I flip on the light and sigh in relief when I see the pile of wood and kindling next to the fireplace. There’s a large woodpile along the back of the house, but the thought of having to go outside in this weather does not appeal to me. I’m cold enough as it is. Going outside, even to get firewood, would turn me into an icicle for sure.
I cringe at the thought of dropping the blanket wrapped around me long enough to start the fire. I can’t imagine letting it go to walk outside in this storm.
It’s now or never. I toss the blanket aside and get to work.
My lips shiver, and my hands are numb. I can barely feel the wood between my fingers as I pile it into the fireplace. I just keep moving and try not to think about how cold I am. I focus every thought on the fireplace and getting it started. Thankfully, this is something I know how to do. When the kids were little, we’d done our fair share of camping. Mark loved the outdoors, and camping was a hobby of his. He taught me how to start a fire while he gathered the wood and set up the tent.
Within minutes, the kindling is blazing, and I add another log to the fire. Flames kick up, and the heat against my face instantly relaxes my shoulders. My front warms quickly, but my back remains cold. I wish this room were smaller, so I can contain the heat better. But this will have to do until Adam arrives in the morning.
Oh, God. Please let him be able to get here tomorrow.The snow was already thick when I went to sleep. If it's too dangerous for him to travel, I don’t think I’ll survive.
I curl up as close to the fireplace as I deem safe and attempt to squash the panic that consumes me. I’ll be fine under the layers of covers over me. I have plenty of wood and a working fireplace. I won’t freeze to death as long as I keep the fire going.
