Chapter 19
Over the next few days, I didn’t hear much from Charles, as the family was out of the house more often than not.
If I was honest, there was a tiny niggling seed of paranoia in my mind that wondered if our date day had somehow given him the ick and he was done with me.
Or that his mother had found out and was purposefully keeping us apart.
Then I reminded myself that there was an entire genre of fiction about people who went mad while secluded in snowy mountain retreats, and that maybe I should stop overthinking it.
Instead, I browsed the Maplewood Creek town Instagram account for photos from last year’s Thanksgiving Throwdown.
As expected, those bakers didn’t skimp on the grandeur.
It was like Holiday Wars run amok. There were Home Alone houses with working booby traps, and life-size reindeer on snowboards.
Every new image exploded my preconceptions of what was possible to construct from sugar and flour.
Enough that I started to feel a little jealous.
And a lot inspired. Even if I couldn’t rig up a fully articulated Charlie Brown out of chocolate, I wanted to be part of the experience.
That evening before I started prep for dinner service, I found Ali in the dining room arranging the place settings.
“The family should be back by seven,” she said, wiping spots from the wine glasses with a microfiber cloth.
“Actually, I wanted to ask about the schedule next week. There’s a baking competition in town and I was thinking about entering. It’s about six hours. I could leave right after breakfast service and still make it back in time for dinner. If the family planned to be out for lunch.”
They usually were.
Ali paused, holding up a glass to the light to inspect for more spots or errant specks of dust. “I suppose that’s alright. As long as it doesn’t interfere with your event prep. I’ll reconfirm the family’s plans with Mrs. Hawthorne and let you know tomorrow.”
“Thank you. I’d really appreciate it.”
She placed the glass down on the table and moved on to polishing the next. “Of course, if the family did suddenly come home early, you’d have to accommodate them.”
Meaning drop everything and haul my ass back up the mountain to push out a gourmet meal on zero notice.
“Understood,” I told her, already fizzing with ideas. “Thank you, Ali. I’ll get back to it.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding indulgently. “Off you go.”
Between obsessing about the ramifications of my day with Charles, and wondering how to top a scale model of the Overlook Hotel complete with film-accurate hedge maze, I decided that after dinner service, the best cure for my rampantly accelerating imagination was a night out with the girls.
So, I finally took Mia up on her invitation to hang out in town.
After dinner was complete and washed up, I texted her and got a reply to meet her at The Goggle, where she was already a few drinks deep with Bea and Delilah.
Entering the bar, I shook the snow from my shoulders and shrugged out of my jacket while I scanned the room for the trio. The place was packed, with sports on the several overhead TV s mingling with the noise of conversation, glasses clinking, and the crack of pool balls in the billiards area.
I quickly spotted Mia and the twins, who waved me over to their high-top table sandwiched beside a group of ski bros playing beer pong on a purpose-built table.
“Look who made it,” Mia announced, kicking out a chair for me while she downed the last of a beer and whistled to an unseen waiter for another. “Finally!”
Her wavy red hair was down and blow-dried, flowing like lava around her shoulders to compliment her V-neck sweater that put her own set of twins on full display.
“Thought we’d never get you down the mountain for a drink,” Bea said, sliding over to make room for me.
“I know,” I said, sitting. “Sorry. My schedule’s a little unpredictable at the moment.”
“What are you drinking?” Delilah said when a young waiter with shaggy hair reached our table with Mia’s refill.
As usual, the sisters couldn’t have been more different in their fashion choices. Bea was rocking a simple blue flannel shirt tied at the waist—clearly her signature—while Delilah wore a pink check crop top and coordinating leggings.
“Shots!” Mia exclaimed, throwing her arms up.
“Definitely not.” I glanced up at the waiter. “Something cheap. Anything but the mulled cider.” That stuff was dangerous.
“Bring her the Face-plant IPA ,” Delilah told the waiter.
“I don’t know if I like the sound of that,” I laughed, a little nervous.
“You’ll like it. From a local brewer. Trust me.”
I suppose they’d earned the benefit of the doubt.
“Hungry?” Bea asked.
“Starved, actually. I spend all day around food, but constantly forget to eat.”
“Hazard of the job,” Mia said, nodding. “Not easy being a boss bitch.”
“Let’s do two dozen hot wings, grilled, and some potato skins, please. And more waters all around,” Delilah said to the waiter, who jotted down our order and scurried away.
“I noticed the decorations outside The Snowdrift are really coming along,” I said to the twins. “At least twice as many since the last time I swung by.”
“Pops is singlehandedly causing a national tinsel shortage,” Bea chuckled. “Keeping him off ladders is becoming my new full-time job.”
“Oh, no.” Mia slunk down in her seat, covering her face like she could hide behind the wall of half-empty bar glasses crowding the wet, sticky table.
“What?” Delilah glanced over her shoulder, searching for the sudden cause of Mia’s disappearing act.
“Tom. Two o’clock.”
“Yikes.” Bea cringed, slouching in her seat with nowhere to run.
“Evening, ladies.” A tall, skinny guy with curly black hair, wearing an expensive wool coat and too much cologne, stood behind Bea’s chair, with the sort of toothy grin you only saw in local car commercials. “Mia, always a pleasure.”
Her face turned sour as she reluctantly sat up in her chair. “What do you want, Tom?”
The man held up his hands in mock defense, smile never faltering in the face of her obvious disdain. “Whoa. Cease fire. Just came to remind you about our little opening next weekend. I didn’t see your name on the RSVP list.”
“That’s because I put the invitation through a woodchipper and turned it into mulch, Tom.”
“Isn’t she hilarious?” He laughed, glancing at the rest of us while we sat in awkward silence and slight fascination at their testy exchange. “You’re all invited as well. The more the merrier.”
Tom plopped down several business cards on the table. They immediately turned soggy in the condensation from our glasses.
“They’d rather suck a tailpipe, Tom.”
Undeterred, he just laughed and shook his head as our waiter returned with four waters, my IPA , and refills for the girls.
“If you change your minds,” he said. “We’re having some live entertainment and an open bar. I’ve never known you to pass up a free drink, Mia.”
She lifted her glass with a sarcastic sneer. “First time for everything.”
“Pleasure as always,” he answered, walking away with a nod.
“The guy seriously can’t take a hint,” Delilah groaned. “What a douche.”
“Somebody fill me in,” I said. “What was that all about?”
“Tom thinks he’s John D. Rockefeller or something,” Bea responded.
“Okay . . .” That didn’t tell me much.
“He went to school with us,” Delilah said while Mia began chugging her beer with grim-faced determination.
“Just a regular local boy who lucked into business school and came back to town with delusions of grandeur. Now he’s intent on replacing as many small businesses as possible with huge obnoxious chains. ”
Mia slammed her empty glass down and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Tom is the demon spawn of Ebenezer Scrooge and Hans Gruber.”
“And he stole Mia’s business idea,” Bea added.
“Really? What was it?”
Mia slouched back in her seat, sighing. “It was stupid.”
“No,” Bea told her forcefully. “It was terrific. It still is.”
“I want to hear it,” I said eagerly.
Mia rolled her eyes. “I wanted to do, like, curated foodie vacations to Maplewood Creek that would include accommodation and seasonal activities, but mostly focused on the local farm-to-table culinary scene. Tours and demonstrations. Let people come to learn about our agriculture and local brewers, maybe take cooking classes. Wine pairings. That kind of thing.”
“Sounds fantastic,” I told her. “That’s exactly the type of vacation I’d love to take.”
“Only I made the mistake years ago of mentioning it to Tom. Back when I thought I had an investor. Then suddenly, the money guy bailed on me and Tom got super into the Airbnb boom. Buying up properties to turn into outrageously expensive rentals. Then last year, he announced he was partnering with a new restaurant chain to do basically the exact same thing I’d told him about, except squeezing out all the locally owned businesses that were supposed to be the whole point. ”
“Once the new money came in from all the rich folks up the mountain,” Delilah interjected, “big chain corporations got interested. They want to turn this whole place into ski-themed Disneyland and completely wreck the vibe.”
“Don’t get us wrong,” Bea said. “Tourism is great. It keeps the lights on around here. We’re not allergic to money.”
“But you all were here first. It’s only fair locals should reap the benefit,” I said.
Mia pounded the table, rattling our glasses. “Exactly. She gets it.”
“So, what happened to your investor?”
We shared a pointed glance just as our waiter arrived with our food, putting an end to the topic.
“Let’s just say, never rely on a man for anything,” Mia answered flatly. “They’ll only let you down.”
Once we had put down a few dozen wings, the four of us pulled on gloves and scarves as we prepared to brave the cold and check out the progress of the holiday decorations down Main Street, in all their lighted glory.