© 2008

“There’s magic in the air,” Helen Krause said, leaning across the reception desk at the Timberline Lodge to smile at Roland as he entered the inn.

Her husband of forty years stomped snow from his boots onto one of the large red oval rugs that marked the entrance to the lodge’s cozy lobby. Together they owned and operated the rustic lodge, which sat on the shores of MirrorLake, in the quaint village of Lake Placid, New York, a location that drew both local visitors and vacationers from all over the country.

“That’s not magic,” Roland replied, gazing at her over the stack of freshly split hickory logs he carried. “That’s a storm. And a bad one. Much worse than they’d predicted, and it’s comin’ sooner than they thought.”

“Last night’s weather report warned of only six to eight inches and that it wouldn’t hit until late tomorrow night,” Helen said, coming around the desk to relieve him of part of his bundle.

“Well, five minutes ago they predicted two to three feet, startin’ now. Wind’s picked up and the snow’s comin’ down hard.” He shook his head. “Crazy weather people. What other job allows you to be wrong so often yet not get fired?”

“Mother Nature loves to throw curveballs,” Helen murmured, walking with Roland toward the roaring fire crackling in the stone hearth. “So…looks like folks might be getting snowed in.”

“Oh, boy. I recognize that tone.” Roland deposited the fragrant cut wood into the curved polished brass log holder then held out his cold-reddened hands toward the dancing flame’s heat. Shooting her a half-indulgent, half-exasperated look over the tops of his bifocals, he said, “Now, Helen, just because Christmas is less than a week away-”