Chapter Fifteen
The week has turned into absolute chaos.
Not the kind that explodes all at once and burns out quickly.
No. This chaos has built slowly day by day.
By Wednesday morning, I am pretty sure half the hospitality team is surviving on coffee and sheer will.
And honestly?
I don’t mind it. It sure makes the days go by quickly.
This is the part of the job I thrive at—the complicated ballet of running a big property when it’s packed wall to wall with guests.
We are hosting two conventions at the same time this week.
Which probably sounded like a brilliant idea to someone months ago.
However, that someone was not me.
One is a Baptist teen leadership convention.
The other is a romance book convention.
Which means our historic mountain resort is currently full of two very different crowds—teenagers and romance readers.
Turns out, those two groups do not mix particularly well.
Who knew?
Apparently not the person who scheduled them.
Which was my predecessor.
I stare down at the booking calendar on my laptop and rub my temples.
This will definitely not happen again next year.
The teens and the romance crowd will be separated by several weeks at the very least.
Possibly months.
Because while the teens themselves are mostly sweet and enthusiastic, romance readers are … something else entirely.
They are loud.
They are passionate.
And they travel in packs like wolves.
Which would normally be fine.
Except the Baptist chaperones keep looking like they might faint every time they walk past the lobby bar, where the authors have been holding spontaneous readings and book signings.
At one point on Tuesday evening, I overheard a group of women loudly debating which fictional cowboy hero had the “best bedroom stamina” while sipping cocktails in front of one of the fireplaces in the great hall.
Unfortunately, two youth pastors happened to be checking in at the desk right behind them.
I decided immediately that we needed to keep the romance group wrangled in the bar areas in the evenings as best we could.
And the teens would have access to the grand hall and Cottonwood Court areas to congregate and socialize.
Strategic separation.
Of course, we can’t actually enforce anything, but we can make suggestions. The hospitality team and I have spent the last few days gently guiding both groups away from each other’s activities like polite traffic controllers.
The teens are occupied with an outdoor recreation schedule—hiking, kayaking, and campfire devotionals.
The romance crowd gets wine tastings, author panels, and late-night social gatherings.
And for the most part, everything is running smoothly, and the adults seem to understand and are trying their best to be respectful of the youth.
Well, mostly smoothly.
Except for this evening, when the front desk phone rings.
Mabree answers, listens for a beat, then looks up at me with an expression that says, You’re not going to like this.
I sigh. “What is it?”
She covers the receiver. “Guest in room 314.”
I nod. “And?”
She lowers her voice. “She says she can see two teenagers making out in the outdoor hot tub from her balcony.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Teenagers. In the hot tub at ten o’clock. What could possibly go wrong?
“Did she say anything else?” I ask.
Mabree shakes her head. “She just said … heavily.”
Wonderful.
“I’ll handle it.”
Because if there’s one thing I understand, it’s teenage hormones.
I slip outside to the pool area and immediately spot them.
Two teenagers.
Kissing like they’re trying to devour each other’s face. The young lady is straddling the young man, whose hands are roaming somewhere underneath the bubbles.
I clear my throat.
They jump apart like startled deer.
The boy nearly shoots out of the hot tub like a rocket.
“Hey there,” I say calmly.
Two mortified faces stare back at me.
“We’re just going to dial that back a bit, okay?”
They nod so hard that I’m surprised their heads don’t fall off.
I gesture toward the sliding glass doors. “And maybe you two should head back to your rooms since it’s past curfew.”
The teens are all supposed to be in their rooms by nine o’clock.
“Yes, ma’am,” they mumble.
I wait for them to climb out onto the deck and dry off, then follow them back inside, smiling slightly.
Teenagers.
I remember being that age.
The emotions feel enormous. Everything feels urgent and exciting.
And while I’m certainly not the hot-tub police, I also know the chaperones would have completely lost their minds if they had caught sight of that scene.
So, I handle it discreetly.
No reports. No drama. Just a gentle reprimand.
The rest of the week continues in a blur of schedules, guest requests, and logistical puzzles.
Somehow, we make it through.
And despite everything, I manage to successfully avoid Porter Garrison the entire time.
Which takes skill.
Because the man has an uncanny way of just popping up out of thin air.
But after he caught me sunbathing on my lunch break earlier this week, it feels safer to walk the other way when I see him coming.
Especially since Diana has been watching me like a hawk ever since she saw us walking into that restaurant together.
I noticed it immediately the following Monday morning.
The way her eyes tracked me across the lobby when I arrived. The way her questions suddenly turned sharp and pointed.
“Did you enjoy dinner the other night?”
“Did you and Mr. Garrison have anything interesting to discuss?”
“Oh, how nice that he is taking an interest in your performance.”
That tone. Sweet on the surface.
But underneath?
Pure cat.
And the last thing I need is a jealous coworker sniffing around me. Because I know myself. If someone comes at me with claws out, I will undoubtedly bite back.
Harder.
And that won’t end well for anyone.
So, I keep my head down. Focus on work. And avoid Porter whenever possible.
Which is surprisingly easy during a convention week because I’ve been buried in hospitality logistics.
Today, I saw the last of the teenagers and chaperones off and made my way home a little early.
When I finally make it to my bedroom, I quickly shower, washing the day’s stress away, crawl into bed, and open my book. The one I ordered online last week.
The Lady in Red: The Haunting of the Belicourt Hotel.
Despite Porter’s very firm warning that the whole story is ridiculous folklore and his stern order for me to drop the subject, I’m halfway through it now.
And honestly?
It’s even more fascinating than I expected.
The author did serious research. Actual interviews.
She tracked down former employees who worked at the hotel back in the day—bellmen, housekeepers, kitchen staff.
Even a few elderly guests who claimed they’d seen and heard things themselves.
According to the book, the rumors started sometime in the late 1930s.
The story goes that a young woman accidentally fell—or was pushed—from one of the balconies of the main inn onto Cottonwood Court below.
No official records exist.
Which is where the mystery begins. Because several employees and guests claimed to have heard the impact and saw the aftermath.
But the incident was never reported publicly.
The woman herself? No one knows who she was.
According to the rumors, she was a mistress. The kept companion of one of the hotel’s wealthy, older regular guests. A married man, of course. And the night she allegedly died happened to be the night of the hotel’s annual Christmas gala. The one that it still hosts to this day.
The entire building would have been full of music, champagne, and laughter.
Elegant gowns.
Dancing.
What happened is anyone’s guess.
One theory says she threatened to expose their affair after the gentleman had failed to leave his wife, as he had promised. He then lay in wait for her and threw her over the balcony to cover his indiscretion.
Another version had her dying by his wife’s hand, who had found her in his room, wearing one of her gowns.
Then there was the one where her lover found her in the arms of another guest and threw her off the balcony in a fit of jealous rage.
Yet another said the gentleman simply ended the affair and the distraught woman leaped to her death.
No witnesses.
No police report.
No scandal.
Just whispers of what transpired and was subsequently swept under the rug by the Belicourt’s staff.
The book gets even more interesting after that.
Because apparently, several older employees insisted the hotel wasn’t always the respectable resort it claims to be today.
According to them, back in the early days, it operated—unofficially—as somewhat of a private brothel for wealthy aristocrats and politicians.
Women brought in discreetly at the Belicourt’s request.
Gentlemen entertained behind closed doors.
Some of the employees even described secret passages beneath the foundation of the main inn. Hidden corridors that allowed certain guests to move in and out of the building without being detected by the outside world.
Paths that young women of ill repute used to visit their paramours without attracting attention.
I close the book slowly and stare up at the ceiling.
The stories are wild.
Messy.
Completely scandalous.
And I am utterly enthralled.
Because if even half of it is true? The Belicourt has a far more interesting history than any brochures will admit.
Porter might dismiss it all as nonsense.
Old folklore.
But Grandma Evelyn always says that rumors don’t grow from nothing. There’s usually a seed of truth buried somewhere underneath them.
And Grandma has lived long enough to know a thing or two about people and gossip.
So, now my curiosity is officially activated.
Which means I’m about to do something that would probably make Mr. Garrison’s head explode.
I’m going to investigate.
Saturday afternoon, once the conventions wrap up and the hotel finally returns to normal, I plan to drive into Wildhaven and visit the town library, which has a massive archive of old local newspapers.
If a mysterious young woman really fell—or worse, was murdered—at the hotel, there might be a record somewhere.
Maybe not officially naming the Belicourt or the gentleman’s name, but surely, a death—a missing woman—had to be noticed by someone.
I close the book and turn off my lamp.
I have a feeling Porter is about to get even more annoyed with me.