Whiteout

Mt. Claire Inn overlooks the Connecticut River. It was built in the 1760s as a resting place for travelers; today it’s a weekend retreat where one-percenters enjoy handmade quilts and designer martinis. I have a degree in math, but out in the wilds of western Massachusetts waiting tables at Mt. Claire is as good as it gets. Ben, our handyman, is outside heaving logs into a wheelbarrow. All the waitresses have their eye on him. He never talks to me. “Ben! You need to stoke the fire in the lobby. They’re predicting a blizzard. Twenty inches.” Ben is from Vermont. Snow doesn’t impress him. “Good,” he said. “Grab a bottle of bourbon and hide it behind the woodstove. Later, I’ll tell you about the time I was camping off the Kancamagus and got stuck in a whiteout.” I smiled and nodded just as the first fat snowflakes began to drift.