Chapter 2
MADDIE
Ibite back the tired little giggle that tries to burst out of my chest. I’m literally staying in a broom closet.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Another favorite of Dad’s. And even though I never really saw myself as very mighty, this is still a pretty big step down from the spacious and comfortable rooms my dad and I used to enjoy.
“Thank you,” I say, finally remembering my manners as Michael opens the door. “I’m just so happy to have a roof over my head.”
The words die in my throat as I look at the small windowless space where I pictured myself sleeping on the cold floor in a tangle of mops and buckets.
Fortunately, Michael has put a cot in here and set it up with a thick comforter, like the ones in the nicest rooms. There’s a bedside lamp that he must have brought in as well.
It’s set on top of an empty milk crate, along with an alarm clock and a well-worn paperback copy of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.
Could it be the same copy I read obsessively the year we stayed here when I was ten? I must have yelled out, You there, boy, what day is it? and then replied, Why, it’s Christmas day! about a thousand times during that visit, until my normally patient parents actually asked me to stop.
True to the sign on the door, the mops and brooms are all lined up neatly along the far wall with the shelves of cleaning supplies and the sink.
With it all on one side like that, I won’t have to look at any of it if I don’t want to.
It’s clear that he did his best to help me forget I’m in a closet.
“Oh, Michael,” I say, feeling overcome. “Thank you. It’s wonderful.”
“Welcome home, Miss Foster,” he says with real affection. “I hope we can get you into better accommodations soon.”
Now that I finally feel safe, the fear and exhaustion of the last few days really come crashing down on me and tears prickle my eyes again.
“Why are you doing this for me?” I murmur.
“This town will never forget your family,” he says with a gentle smile. “And what your father did for us.”
“What he did?” I echo stupidly.
I know there’s a Foster’s Figurines factory here, but there are lots of those all over the place.
“My sister had a job at the soup factory,” Michael says. “Her husband had been too ill to work for a year by then and the whole family was relying on her paycheck. When the place got shut down, she told me they were going to have to move to the city.”
“The factory here used to be for soup,” I remember out loud. Most of the factories my dad owned were built just for his business, but the one here in the Poconos was different. It still had the soup company logos on the walls.
“You really don’t know this story?” Michael asks me, looking incredulous.
I shake my head.
“Well, your father heard about the factory closing,” Michael continues. “And he knew how much it would hurt this community. So he bought the building and started up production here. He even retrained the workers to paint his figurines.”
“Oh,” I say, a lot of things suddenly making sense at once. “Oh, wow.”
We always visited the factories regularly. It was important to my dad to know that the quality of the sweet little sculptures was consistent and the workers were happy.
Normally, the people who painted the figures were young, artsy types in jeans and ripped t-shirts who scowled as they worked and moved their paintbrushes with a flourish of authority.
Looking back, I’m pretty sure they were all disillusioned art school grads who had pictured themselves doing something very different with their talents.
But here in the Poconos, the factory was smaller, and I remember all the workers as motherly figures, squinting and smiling as they brought the little characters to life.
They would stop what they were doing immediately anytime my father stopped in and they would always come over to hug him or shake his hand, or ask his advice on shading or technique for a new piece.
They also remembered my name and knew exactly how old I was and what grade I was in. And someone always fished a homemade treat or two out of their packed lunch to spoil me with.
Knowing that my dad had done something so special for them made my heart ache with pride, and even more with missing him.
And his investment had paid off, I always thought the little figures made in the Poconos were the nicest. And the community loved them. Little displays of Foster’s Figurines could be found for sale at just about every hotel and gas station on this side of the mountain.
“I’m sorry, Miss Foster,” Michael says when he sees the tears in my eyes.
“Please don’t be,” I tell him. “That story is the best Christmas present ever.”
He smiles at me, his blue eyes crinkling.
“I’ll call around in the morning and see about finding you work at another hotel,” he tells me. “I’ve got a few friends around here who might know of something.”
“That would be wonderful,” I say, feeling a sense of relief that I might have a little help in my job search.
“Bronson isn’t polite,” Michael says, frowning. “But he’s correct that the new owner of this place is coming tomorrow, and you probably shouldn’t be here when the old man arrives.”
“I won’t,” I promise him. “Thank you again, for everything.”
“Sleep well, Miss Foster,” he says as he slips out.
I lower myself to the edge of the cot and sit for a moment, just breathing. The fresh memory of my dad is a welcome one, something I’m sure I’ll treasure and think of often as I find my footing.
Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, Maddie, I can hear him say. If a fool like me could do it, anyone can.
And boy, had he.
I honestly didn’t even know we were rich until my mom died. I just knew that my dad worked hard and considered himself really lucky to earn a living making art.
Up until then, we still lived in the same small brick house my parents had moved to when they got married. Our only real indulgences were home-cooked meals and road trips, and of course our Christmases here on Angel Mountain, in the lodge where Mom and Dad spent their honeymoon.
But after we lost her, women came out of the woodwork to “express their condolences” to my dad. The estate attorney warned me that there would be women after him for his money, and she hadn’t been wrong.
But Dad paid no attention to those women. We kept on with our old traditions as best we could, just the two of us.
Until Delilah showed up. And he couldn’t resist her—not when she found his weak spot.
I frown and launch myself off the cot, shaking off the old memories and digging through my backpack to find my bathroom stuff. I brush my teeth at the utility sink and do my best to focus on the positive things.
I made it here and Michael remembers me.
I have a new and beautiful memory of my dad.
Once I get a job, I’ll be able to finish my book.
I never wanted to follow exactly in my father’s footsteps.
But I always wanted to do something creative.
He didn’t blink when I told him I wanted to be a creative writing major in college—he just told me he couldn’t wait to read my first book.
Neither of us ever imagined that he wouldn’t be around long enough to get that chance.
But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up. The manuscript I’ve been working on since the beginning of senior year has kept me sane through the sudden tragedy of losing him, and also during the spin-out of my entire life when Delilah did what she did.
Of course if I’m honest with myself, I’ve mostly just been re-reading past chapters lately, instead of actually writing anything new.
I’m here now, though. And this place always sparked my imagination. Up among the snowy trees of Angel Mountain, you could almost believe in real magic.
I do my best to ignore the fact that the whole place is muddy and brown right now instead of cheerful and snowy—like my dad took all the magic in the world with him when he went.
I’ll just have to bring it back, I tell myself.
I pull an old family photo out of my bag and use a dab of toothpaste to affix it to the wall over my cot, then step back to look at it.
In it, my dad is holding me on his lap in the horse-drawn carriage and we’re both smiling fondly at my mom, who is laughing with her eyes closed and her head tossed back.
I wish I could remember what Dad had said to her just before the carriage driver snapped the photo. I wish even more that I could go back to that moment and feel their arms around me and hear their laughter one more time.
Tomorrow will be better, I promise myself firmly. I’ll find a job.
I try not to think too hard about what it means that even the lodge doesn’t need workers right now. My dad always told me that Angel Mountain would take care of me when I needed it, but now I’m wondering if that’s possible when the little town can’t even take care of itself.
With all the thoughts swirling around in my mind, I’m expecting another restless night, but I fall asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, thinking about that Angel Mountain magic and how I sure could use some right about now.