Chapter 1 #2
I’m really not sure how to tell him I can’t afford a room, so I just blink at him some more, hoping for divine inspiration and wondering if it’s possible to hurt your eyes by over-blinking.
Come on, Maddie. You’re supposed to be a writer. Coming up with the right words is literally your entire job.
“We were very sad to hear about your father,” Michael offers. “He was a great man.”
It’s funny to think of my dad as a great man. To me, he was an absentminded, warmhearted artist, prone to wandering the house in a clay-encrusted t-shirt and jeans with his hair sticking up at odd angles.
But he would gladly give you that t-shirt off his back, that much was true. And Michael’s kind eyes remind me that he would probably do the same.
Even though I remember everything about this place, I honestly wasn’t expecting anyone here to remember me or my family. But just a few minutes with Michael is enough to remind me that it was always the people that made this place so special.
“Thank you,” I tell him, giving up on finding the right words and settling for the truth. “The thing is, I can’t really reserve a room right now. I don’t have any money.”
“Oh, Miss Foster,” he says softly.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, plastering on a brave smile. “I’ll figure something out. You don’t have to worry about me.”
My stomach chooses that moment to growl like a cat in an alley fight.
“Let’s get you something to eat,” he suggests. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”
“Thank you,” I tell him meekly. I want to argue, but I just can’t.
He leads me outside and the chance to see the grounds of the lodge in the pale moonlight lifts my spirits, even if it’s just for a moment.
The back lawn stretches out past the cabins and the pavilion to a big cedar shake barn where the horses wait for guests to take them on trail rides.
There’s even a carriage, which was always my favorite—I have so many happy memories riding in there, tucked between my parents under a warm blanket, the horses’ bells jingling as we travelled the paths that cut through the snowy woods.
“This way, Miss Foster,” Michael says.
He opens a back door with a little hand-painted sign over it that says Staff Only, and gestures for me to go in.
I step into the kitchen and look around.
It’s even warmer than the lobby and it smells amazing.
The space isn’t large but it’s strikingly neat with all the stainless steel polished and shining.
My dad would have called it as clean as a nun’s conscience.
It’s kind of funny how thinking of him can either be the happiest or the saddest thing.
This time, it makes me smile in spite of everything else going on.
“No guests in the kitchen,” a tall, thin man in a chef’s hat announces loudly.
“This isn’t a guest, Bronson,” Michael tells him. He’s not wrong about that. “Miss Foster is an old friend. Can you fix her a plate, please?”
Bronson frowns, his nose wrinkling a little like the mere thought of charity smells bad to him.
“Consider it a favor to me,” Michael adds.
“Fine, I’ll make her a sandwich,” Bronson says dramatically, turning to me and gesturing like he’s shooing a fly. “You. Go sit over there. And don’t touch anything.”
“Thank you,” I tell him meekly, scurrying over to a wooden chair in the corner as Michael steps out.
I’m already sitting down when I notice a mousy-looking woman standing at the counter right next to my chair, shucking corn, and I almost jump out of my shoes. How did I not notice an entire person?
“Hi,” I say, recovering myself. “Is Shirlene still working here?”
The woman’s eyes get a little bigger, but she simply shakes her head and keeps working.
“Died,” Bronson says flatly. “On the job.”
My heart aches at the idea of Shirlene passing, but I know she loved this place like I do. Maybe it’s good that she was here until the end.
“I’m going to do the same, if things keep up like this,” Bronson adds.
I look around, but they definitely don’t seem to be busy in here, so I can only assume he’s talking about my sandwich. I’ve never seen someone slice bread in anger before.
“We can’t have this kind of thing going on,” he says to himself, gesturing vaguely in my direction. “Vagrants wandering around the place, demanding food. It’s undignified and unacceptable. The new owner is coming in. How would this look?”
“New owner?” I echo, and immediately regret it. If my corn-shucking companion is any indication, Bronson likes a quiet kitchen.
“A tech billionaire from the west coast,” he says almost dreamily.
He’s surprisingly happy to talk about this new subject.
“He will expect nothing less than perfection. A well-organized hotel with a clean kitchen that can produce a hearty meal worthy of the best mountain lodge. And if he finds what he’s looking for, I expect we’ll finally have some upgrades around here.
We could make Angel Mountain the new Tahoe. ”
He narrows his eyes as he surveys his kitchen, seemingly dissatisfied with everything in it, including me.
I picture corn-shucker and myself being miraculously upgraded by the new owner—both of us suddenly taller, better-dressed, and more capable, like something out of a cartoon with a fairy godmother.
I must be really tired, because it strikes me as funny and a giggle bursts from my lips before I can stop it.
“You find this amusing?” Bronson demands, his chef’s hat practically shaking with indignation.
Maybe a little.
“No,” I tell him. “Of course not. I was just thinking about a joke my cab driver made.”
“So she has money for a cab, but not for a meal,” Bronson sniffs to his invisible audience.
I know I should be offended, but when he walks over to me with the sandwich on a plate I can only be deliriously happy. It’s turkey and provolone with tomatoes and delicate bean sprouts on thick slices of homemade multi-grain bread. And it tastes like heaven.
While I scarf it down, he pours me a glass of milk and sets it on the counter beside me along with a napkin.
He takes a step back and looks a little alarmed, like maybe I’ll eat him too if he gets too close.
I have another cartoonish thought about a cat and a canary, but I keep my giggling in check this time.
I force myself to slow down a little, and I’ve still got half of my beloved sandwich left when Michael comes back in.
“Miss Foster, I have an accommodation for you,” he tells me with a warm smile. “It’s not much, I’m afraid.”
“No,” Bronson says. “Absolutely not, Michael. This is ridiculous. We’re not running some kind of shelter here.”
“Miss Foster and her family have been honored guests for years,” Michael says, straightening up. “We don’t leave our friends out in the cold.”
“Friends?” Bronson thunders. “Friends? Friends don’t ask for handouts.”
“She’s looking for work,” Michael tells him softly.
“Well, we don’t have any work for her,” Bronson says firmly.
“Then she’ll look elsewhere in the morning,” Michael tells him, gesturing for me to come with him.
I grab the napkin and wrap the rest of my sandwich in it, shoving it in my coat pocket as I scurry after Michael.
“One night,” Bronson thunders. “She absolutely cannot be here when the owner comes tomorrow night.”
“That’s fine,” I say right away, not wanting to get Michael into an argument. “Thank you for the sandwich. It was the best I’ve ever eaten. The sprouts really put it over the top.”
“Oh, now she’s a food critic too,” Bronson says to himself. But he can’t hide the little smile that’s tugging up the corners of his mouth.
Michael gives me a real smile, and takes me through a door in the kitchen that leads to the back hall.
I follow him to another door with a little copper plate in the center. I’m expecting a room number, but instead it just holds two words that would almost be funny if they didn’t fit in so well with how the rest of my night was going.
brOOM CLOSET