Chapter 8
KENT
Don’t these mountain people have any idea who the hell I am? I’m Kent fucking Bancroft. Not some average working-class joe who took a wrong turn on his way to a budget motel.
Yet here I was, sitting at what appeared to be a communal dining table in the main hall like some kind of medieval peasant waiting for scraps from the lord’s table. I didn’t even get my own table?
The concept was so foreign to me that I had actually asked Sylvie if there had been some kind of mistake when she’d directed me to the long wooden table where other guests were already seated.
“This is how we do dinner at the lodge,” she’d said with that infuriatingly cheerful smile. “Family style. Community dining. It’s part of the experience.”
The experience. Right. The experience of sitting elbow-to-elbow with strangers while a six-year-old girl stared at me like I was some kind of exotic zoo animal.
The little girl—Aspen, I had learned when her mother had scolded her for abandoning her jacket on the floor—had been openly gawking at me for the past ten minutes.
Not subtle glances or curious looks, but full-on, unblinking stares that made me wonder if I had something stuck in my teeth or if my hair was standing up at odd angles.
I had showered in the itty-bitty shower in my room. Got my body temperature back up to human level and changed into dry clothes. I was clean. I didn’t stink. So what the hell?
“Is there something on my face?” I finally asked her.
She shook her head solemnly but didn’t stop staring.
Meanwhile, her older brother Alder, who couldn’t have been more than eight, had apparently decided I was his new best friend and had been yapping my ear off for the last five minutes about his Christmas list. The kid had too much energy and seemed incapable of speaking at anything less than full volume.
“And then I want the new Lego Millennium Falcon, and the remote-control helicopter that can do flips, and the skateboard with the light-up wheels, and maybe some Magic cards, and definitely the new Pokémon game that just came out, and—”
“What makes you think Santa is going to bring you all that?” I interrupted as kitchen staff members began bringing out steaming plates of food to all the guests at the table.
The question seemed to stump him for exactly half a second.
“Not all of it,” Alder said, as if I was the one being unreasonable. “Just one thing. Santa only ever brings one thing for me and one thing for Aspen. To keep it fair.”
I nearly choked on the water I’d been sipping. “Fair is overrated.”
Apparently the grownups weren’t allowed to have a glass of top-shelf scotch with dinner. My request for something a little stronger than milk had been met with shock and horror. I wasn’t drinking fucking milk.
“That’s not what our mom says,” Aspen said, speaking for the first time since she’d started her staring campaign.
I looked down at her, taking in her serious expression and the way she looked personally offended by my worldview.
“Your mom sounds boring,” I said.
Both children looked absolutely scandalized, their mouths dropping open in identical expressions of shock. It was actually kind of amusing, like I’d just told them that Santa Claus was actually the Easter Bunny in disguise.
I shrugged off their obvious dismay and turned my attention to the plate that had been set in front of me. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, some kind of bread that was still warm from the oven.
It smelled incredible.
I cut into the roast beef, expecting the kind of overcooked, under-seasoned fare that usually passed for food in places like this.
Instead, I was hit with flavors that were surprisingly sophisticated.
The meat was perfectly tender, the potatoes were creamy without being glue, and even the green beans had been prepared with what tasted like garlic and almonds.
It was comfort food at its finest. The kind of meal Kathy served for Sunday dinner. It was exactly what I needed after spending half the afternoon freezing my ass off in the snow.
I spotted Sylvie on the far side of the hall, moving between guests with a large pitcher, refilling glasses. She was dressed in the same jeans but now had on a pink sweater that showcased a very nice set of tits that made it difficult to focus on my meal.
When she glanced in my direction, I caught her eye and immediately chugged the rest of my water, then held up my empty glass with an expectant look.
She rolled her eyes in a way that suggested she knew exactly what I was doing, but she started making her way over anyway. I loved how easy it was to get under her skin. A simple gesture could make her expression shift from professional pleasantness to barely contained irritation.
“Thirsty?” she asked as she refilled my glass.
“Absolutely parched.” I took a long drink from the freshly filled glass.
Before she could respond, Alder looked up from his plate and pointed his fork at me. “Sylvie, this guy said Mom is boring.”
I watched Sylvie’s expression change from mild annoyance to something approaching murderous rage. Her green eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment I thought she might dump the rest of the water pitcher over my head.
“Throwing our tree in the ditch and calling my sister-in-law boring?” she hissed. “I should have charged you double the asshole service fee.”
Aspen immediately dissolved into giggles. “Auntie said asshole!”
“Don’t tell your mom,” Sylvie said quickly, shooting a panicked look toward where Stacy was helping serve food at another table. “And eat your green beans.”
Aspen pouted dramatically but picked up her fork. Alder was grinning like he’d just witnessed the best entertainment of his young life and went back to devouring his meal with renewed enthusiasm.
Sylvie, however, wasn’t done with me. She planted one hand on her hip and fixed me with a stare that could have melted steel.
“What are you actually doing out here?” she demanded. “And who are the Bancrofts, anyway? Because clearly you think your name should mean something to me.”
Finally. Someone was asking the right questions.
I set down my fork and leaned back in my chair, savoring the opportunity to enlighten this small-town Christmas enthusiast about exactly who she was dealing with.
“The Bancrofts,” I said, letting the name roll off my tongue with appropriate gravity, “are one of the wealthiest families in America. We’ve been building business empires for generations, acquiring companies, developing properties, creating jobs for thousands of people across multiple industries.”
I could see I had her attention now, along with that of several other guests who had been eavesdropping on our conversation. It was impossible not to, sitting as close as we were.
“I descend from a legacy of visionaries and entrepreneurs who turned modest investments into massive fortunes through intelligence, determination, and strategic thinking,” I continued.
I didn’t necessarily buy into that bullshit, but I had heard several cousins and brothers repeat the speech when making a pitch.
“As for what I’m doing here, that’s personal family business. ”
Sylvie studied my face for a long moment, like she was trying to decide whether to believe me or laugh in my face. And that water pitcher was still dangerously close to my head.
“Don’t forget check-out is at nine sharp,” she said finally, then turned and stalked off to serve other guests, her ponytail swishing behind her in a way that was both dismissive and oddly hypnotic.
I was left alone with Alder and Aspen, who had apparently decided that my earlier comment about their mother being boring was water under the bridge. They peppered me with questions about whether I lived in a mansion and had my own swimming pool.
After finishing my meal, I grew restless with the conversation and excused myself to explore more of the lodge. I noticed a room off the main hall that looked like it might be a library. I was curious to see what kind of books these people considered worth reading.
The library turned out to be exactly what I expected. It was cozy and cluttered, with mismatched furniture and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed with an eclectic collection of novels, travel guides, and what appeared to be several decades’ worth of National Geographic magazines.
But what caught my attention wasn’t the books. It was the framed photographs and documents that covered nearly every available wall space, creating a visual timeline of the area’s history that stretched back centuries.
There were black-and-white photographs of the lodge in its early days, when it had been nothing more than a simple cabin surrounded by wilderness.
Pictures of men in old-fashioned hunting gear standing beside massive deer and elk.
Images of the town during its early years, when Main Street had been a dirt road and the population couldn’t have been more than a few dozen people.
But the most interesting items were the historical documents—blueprints of the original hunting cabin from the 1600s, land grants signed by long-dead governors, and most intriguingly, a hand-drawn portrait of a man identified as Hymal Northwood, founder of Northwood Township.
Sylvie’s ancestor. The man who had started it all. The way he sat for the painting suggested someone who understood what it meant to build something from nothing, to create a legacy that would outlast his own lifetime.
I knew a thing or two about that kind of pressure, about growing up with the weight of family expectations and the constant awareness that your actions would be measured against the achievements of those who came before you.
Moving to the library window, I peered outside at the sprawling property that stretched out below.
The fresh snow made everything look serene and quiet.
I liked the fast pace of the city, but I could maybe see the appeal of spending time in a place like this.
Somewhere you could take a breath and think without a million distractions.
It sure didn’t seem like they’d sold many trees today, though. There were just as many out there under the string lights that had been there when I perused the many, many options. For a property this size, with this much overhead, that couldn’t possibly be sustainable.
When I looked up at the night sky, I was struck by something I’d never really noticed before. Stars. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, scattered across the darkness. I was certain I had never seen so many stars in my entire life.
In New York, light pollution made it impossible to see anything but the brightest celestial objects. I typically always stayed in cities. I didn’t do country stuff. The entire Milky Way was visible, stretching across the sky in a glowing band that took my breath away.
Perhaps this place wasn’t a complete shit hole after all.
I was still standing at the window, mesmerized by the view, when I heard voices and laughter from outside. Looking down, I saw Alder and several other children heading out into the snow.
Something about their excitement was infectious. Before I could think too hard about what I was doing, I grabbed my coat and headed outside, too.
The cold air hit me like a slap, but it was invigorating rather than unpleasant. I looked up at the sky and took a second to simply appreciate the beauty.
The kids’ laughter drew my attention. I made my way toward where the kids were playing. They were having a snowball fight. That was something I knew how to do.
Alder was the closest target.
I packed a snowball, took careful aim, and pegged him right in the back of the head.
He spun around with a shriek of surprise and delight. He immediately declared war.
What followed was the most ruthless snowball fight of my adult life. I showed no mercy, taking out kids left and right with precision shots that would have made a major league pitcher proud. They tried to gang up on me, but I was bigger, faster, and had better aim.
I was absolutely merciless, and I loved every minute of it.