Chapter 45 Haisley
HAISLEY
Haisley heard the sound of the big plows on the road, the rattle and crash of them distinct as they pushed back the side berms and leveled out the surface.
She couldn’t see them, but she knew what they’d look like, scraping down the hardpack and rolling up big chunks of snow and ice.
They’d put down gravel, at least at the curves and hills, and even the rental van would be able to make it back into town the next morning.
To the airport.
So they could all go home.
The power came back on midday, to the sound of cheers. Everyone swiftly took showers, in case it went off again.
Before dinner, everyone was packing and talking about what they’d do when they got back to Shifting Sands. A few last loads of laundry were done, and Haisley copied most of her recipe binder for Chef to take back with him.
“This is a princely gift,” Chef said, without a shred of irony. Finding out that his wife, Magnolia, was literal royalty had been unsettling to say the least. It was almost as weird that there were still monarchies as it was that there were shifters.
“People who give you their food, give you their heart,” Haisley reminded him. She wasn’t sure if he recognized his own words echoed back, but she wasn’t entirely surprised when he enfolded her in his arms for a big bear hug.
“I will miss your kitchen,” Chef said. “Even though I will be glad to have mine back. And I’m sure you will be glad to have your dish towels back where they belong.”
“The hand towel on the left!” Haisley teased. “Heathens, the lot of you.”
Breck also gave her a hug, and it didn’t assume nearly as much as Haisley feared it would.
“I’m so happy you hid here,” Darla told her, following Breck’s hug with her own. “I cannot imagine this vacation without you. There’s so much we didn’t know about Alaska!”
“Our next vacation should be somewhere urban,” Breck suggested. “Las Vegas, with dancing girls.”
Darla murmured something that Haisley couldn’t quite hear, but it made Breck blush and smack her on the rear as she went to turn off a timer and take biscuits from the oven.
Tristan was oddly absent from the kitchen as they prepared the final dinner.
Haisley usually relished the challenge of using up leftover ingredients in one final spread, but staring at the half-empty refrigerator only reminded her that she should let Mr. Barnum know she was leaving.
There were two bookings in the next three months that she felt obligated to stay for. And then…
And then…
She stared around the kitchen. Some of the items were hers, bought with her own money, but most of the pots and pans had been a chalet expense.
The cookbooks were hers, and she had more books in her bedroom, overflowing her shelves.
They would be pricey to ship to Costa Rica and she ought to weed them.
The bed was hers, the couch had come with the room.
She wouldn’t need a whole shipping container, probably.
What would she do with her coats and boots? She’d need a whole new wardrobe on a tropical island. So many scarves that had been made by friends that she would have no use for now. She couldn’t get rid of her beaded gloves or fur earmuffs.
Would she work in the kitchen under Chef? That wouldn’t be the worst thing; he was kind and talented. But he didn’t really need her help. She’d probably be just as useful in housekeeping, changing linens and cleaning bathrooms.
Tristan would be there, she reminded herself. That was why she was doing this.
Tristan was worth it.
She excused herself after all the mise en place was finished for dinner and went to boot up her laptop. She’d need to apply for a work visa, and that might take a few months to get through, depending on the bureaucracy.
There was so much to do, and she didn’t want to do any of it.