A storm was rolling in fast, dropping the temperature 10° in the last hour. Then a sharp, frantic hammering cut through the drone of my machinery. I killed the power to the sander. The sudden silence in the workshop was heavy broken only by the aggressive rattling of my heavy oak front door. I pulled off my safety glasses, wiped the sawdust from my gray t-shirt, and walked out of the shop space into the main living area.
People didn’t just drop by this far up the mountain ridge, especially not when the sky was turning the color of bruised iron. I turned the deadbolt and pulled the door open. The freezing wind immediately whipped into the entryway. Standing on my porch was a woman. She was shivering violently, her bare shoulders exposed to the biting air.
She had a thick white bath towel wrapped securely around her torso, tucked tightly over her chest. But what caught my immediate analytical attention was her head. It was completely covered in a thick sculpted mountain of white shampoo lather. Suds were dripping down her forehead, catching in her dark eyelashes and sliding off her jawline onto her collarbone.
She looked up at me, blinking through the soap and let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. I know this sounds crazy, she said, her teeth visibly chattering, but my water just died completely mid lather, and your chimney was the only one with smoke. Can I please use your bathroom before I get frostbite? I didn’t smile, not because it wasn’t an absurd visual, but because my brain immediately shifted into triage mode.
The temperature was 32° and dropping. She was wet exposed and losing core heat rapidly. “Get inside,” I said, stepping back and pulling the door wide to clear the frame. She hurried past me her bare feet, leaving wet, soapy prints on my reclaimed oak floorboards. I shut the door instantly, cutting off the wind and sealing the warmth back into the cabin.
Second door on the left down that hallway,” I instructed, keeping my voice level and purely functional. “The water is hot. There’s a stack of clean towels on the wire rack and a heavy gray bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. Put it on when you’re done. Don’t come out until your teeth stop hitting each other.
” “Thank you,” she gasped already fast, walking down the hall. “I’m Isa, by the way. I’m renting the A-frame through the trees. Carson, go. The bathroom door clicked shut, followed seconds later by the reliable roar of my pressurized plumbing. I stood in the entryway for a moment, listening to the water run.
The immediate crisis was handled. Now I needed to figure out the secondary problem. An A-frame rental losing water pressure abruptly in freezing conditions usually meant one of two things up here. A frozen mainline or a catastrophic pipe burst. Given that the freeze had just started, a burst was more likely. I walked into the kitchen, pulled a clean ceramic mug from the open shelving, and set the coffee maker to brew.
