four | will
FOURWill
My gut clenches as I pause at the foot of the stairs.
Brighton dusts out the studio when she comes home to deep clean the cabins every spring, but so far, I’ve avoided it for the past seven years.
Would still be avoiding it if the sign Mom had hung on the wall of the entryway hadn’t caught my eye.
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.
My mom didn’t practice hospitality. She lived it.
Not by providing the guests with fancy gift bags on arrival or turn-down service at night, but by calling everyone by name.
Sharing her “top secret” blueberry picking spot with anyone who asked.
Pausing whatever she was doing to admire a fish they’d caught or listen to their stories.
At the risk of sounding cliché, people checked in as strangers and left Pinehart feeling like part of the family.
Emberly Lockwood might resemble a pre-Raphaelite angel with her flame-colored hair and bright green eyes, but I know better. The Summer Barbies have got looks and money and they’re used to getting their way.
The fact she offered to pay double to convince me to break the rules is proof.
Mom would have handed over the extra key the moment Emberly explained the situation, but her genuine surprise when I told her the cabins booked out a year in advance—and the bribe—rubbed me the wrong way.
Pinehart might not be a fancy hotel. Might not even qualify as a resort, based on some people’s definition.
Our furnished cabins include a full kitchen and fireplace, the use of the lake, and not much more.
For those who want to get away, though, watching an eagle soar over the water or waking up to the haunting call of the loons makes up for our “charmingly rustic accommodations”. Okay, yes. I read the reviews.
I glance over my shoulder.
Emberly doesn’t look charmed. And in her short white skirt, a tank top that shows off a lot of sun-kissed skin, and, you guessed it, pink heels, she stands out from the other guests like a goldfish in a minnow bucket.
More country club than country girl.
Why did I agree to this again?
Oh, right. Mom’s sign. Because guilt works on adults, too.
“Beep beep,” Emberly whispers behind me.
Country club and amateur comedian, apparently, but I take the hint.
Some of the stair treads buckle underneath my feet as I begin the ascent. Since general maintenance, and pretty much everything else around here, falls on me, I make a note to replace them.
When I reach the landing at the top, there’s no avoiding the signs of neglect. The yellow paint on the door is crackling, the butterflies on the stained-glass window coated in pine pollen. I brace myself as I reach for the handle.
I was the one who helped Dad fix up this space as a surprise for Mom on her fortieth birthday. I picked out the paint color for the walls. Refinished the floor. Helped Dad partition the large, open space into three separate rooms.
Cab slips past me, a grin on her face, free from the weight of the memories.
I follow her inside and feel them settle over me.
Sunlight ignites the dust motes suspended in the air. I pull in a breath and they fill my lungs. Sting my eyes and nose.
That’s what I tell myself anyway.
Nails mark the wall where a trio of paintings used to hang and I wonder what Brighton did with them.
Cab flits around the room, eager to explore.
“This is so cool!” She runs her hand over the spine of the red velvet fainting couch Dad had bought at an auction. He’d promised that Mom would love it and she did.
I doubt Emberly feels the same way.
On second thought, maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe she’ll take one look at the studio, run back to her toy car as fast as she can, and check into the nearest Hilton. Which happens to be a three-hour drive away.
She smiles instead.
“It’s perfect.”
Her smile is, too.
“You—” For some reason, I stumble over the one-syllable word. “You’ll need some blankets. I’ll be right back.”
It’s my job to take care of the guests and Emberly falls into that category now.
She’s also, I remind myself sternly, a Category Two. Which means I’m not going to notice Emberly Lockwood’s perfect smile. I’m not going to notice anything about her until she turns in her key at the end of the week.
She’s no different than anyone else who stays at Pinehart.
But when I reach the bottom of the stairs and realize I left Cab behind, it feels like I’m the one who’s running away.