Chapter 4
JAKE
Iwatch as the girl blushes to her hairline and I shouldn’t be proud about it, but a burst of satisfaction warms my chest for some reason.
Mr. Moneybags, the stuffy new owner, huh?
That part isn’t so great, but I’ll definitely have the last laugh.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Stone,” Michael says politely. “May I fetch your bags from the car?”
This old guy is so earnest, not like that aggressively smiling lady at the counter. It’s kind of a shame that he’s carrying people’s bags at his age.
“I’m staying in one of the chalets up the hill,” I tell him. “But thanks.”
I clap him on the back and shake his hand again, slipping him a couple of bills.
“You coming with us, Nora Roberts?” I ask the still-blushing girl.
The doorman’s brow furrows in concern, but she smiles up at him.
“Mr. Stone wants me to do some babysitting for him,” she tells Michael, who nods, looking guardedly relieved.
Smart man. The girl is cute, and just my type—anyone’s type, probably, with that long, dark hair and the light sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks.
But that doesn’t matter. I’ve got to keep things professional. I’m starting to realize that this project might take longer than I thought. And if I’ve got someone to keep Dylan occupied, it will make things a lot easier.
“You need to grab anything before we head out?” I ask the girl.
She shakes her head and scrambles up, surprising me when she shoves her laptop in a bag that costs as much as a mid-sized sedan. I should know, my wife—ex-wife, I remind myself—has three of them.
It’s a classic rich girl move to slum it in the mountains without her fancy clothing and jewelry so she can write the great American novel—like nice things have to be at odds with making art.
But I’m not here to judge her, because she might just be saving my bacon.
“Are you coming with us?” Dylan asks her.
“Yes,” she tells him. “If you want me to?”
“Definitely,” he says. “But I have to put my letter in the box.”
“Of course,” she tells him, not even checking with me first.
We both watch as he finishes writing the last part of his message. Please send snow.
Yeah, little buddy, that’s a good wish right about now. Too bad there isn’t really a Santa Claus to make it come true.
The two of them approach the box. She’s walking slowly and he’s skipping to keep up with her.
She shows him how to pull down the top of the mailbox and he shoves his note in there with the others.
Surprisingly, there are already a bunch in the box.
I haven’t seen many guests, so people from town must be bringing them.
Or maybe it’s the employees—they certainly have a lot to ask for.
This place seems to be held together on a wish and a prayer.
I wince at my own grim humor and head to the door. By the time they’re finished, I’m holding it open, even though the old couple on the sofa are scowling at me for letting in the cold air.
I keep my head high and scowl right back. I might not be who I used to be in my own social circles, but I’m still a gentleman. And that means I hold doors open.
On the way out, the girl gives me a shy half-smile and I’m surprised at how gratifying it is.
It’s probably just been too long since I’ve sensed a straightforward emotion from anyone but Dylan. These days, everyone else seems to be either whispering behind my back or holding their hands out for something.
The wind whips the girl’s hair as we step out onto the porch with its rotted wood planks. The scent of her peppermint shampoo swirls right to me, as fresh and bright as she is, and I have to stop myself from imagining what the rest of her smells like.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
“Right here,” I tell her, indicating the Porsche SUV.
She nods without a second glance at the car, and I’m settled now in my opinion about exactly who she is—definitely a rich girl playing at being a starving artist.
In fairness, the car is actually a rental, so she shouldn’t be too impressed. But I guess it’s the kind of thing I’d drive if I lived up here.
She does seem surprised when I move to the passenger side and open the door for her. I help her up, holding my breath against that sweet peppermint scent, and then head back to get Dylan strapped into his booster seat.
“Is your name Nora?” Dylan asks her as I check the strap at his chest.
Of course not, it’s…
Wow, I didn’t even stop to ask her for her name. Not exactly a high-level vetting process on my part. Thank goodness for Dylan.
“Your dad was only teasing me,” she tells him. “My name is Maddie. Maddie Foster.”
Foster…
Yeah. She’s got money.
It doesn’t take a genius to put her name together with the fact that one of the original Foster’s Figurines factories is in this town. If Maddie is that Madeline Foster, then she doesn’t exactly need a babysitting job.
But I’m glad that she wants one. The way Dylan is smiling at her in the rearview mirror tells me he feels comfortable with her, that he likes her.
I swallow hard and remind myself that I’m in control.
After getting nothing but indifference from his teachers and pleas from Dylan that he doesn’t want to learn to read and write, I spent most of the fall feeling powerless about my son’s education.
It’s not a feeling I’m accustomed to, but he was in the best private school in the Bay area, and the second best didn’t have a spot open, even for me.
Normally I wouldn’t have pulled him out of school for a business trip like this, but it was close to the holiday break anyway, and honestly, I was just glad to have a reason to get him out of there, even if it’s only until January.
He’s been so miserable about school that I’ve been afraid he would never want to learn to read and write.
But there must be something special about Maddie Foster. I almost fell over when I saw the two of them bent over that letter today, Dylan applying himself enthusiastically to his task.
Dylan has always been such an openhearted and happy kid. I still don’t know how that stupid teacher stole away so much of his confidence in such a short time.
But I’m glad to see a smile on his face again now.
“Here we go,” I say, jumping in and starting the engine.
“We won’t fall off the mountain,” Dylan says, as if he’s not sure.
“Absolutely not,” I tell him. “We’re just going to climb back up a ways and then we’ll be home.”
“Not home,” Dylan says a little sadly.
I glance over at Maddie Foster to see what she makes of that, but she’s gazing out the window looking a little sad herself.
“Home for now,” I amend. “And we can make grilled cheese for dinner.”
“Yes,” Dylan says.
The ghost of a smile pulls up Maddie’s lips and suddenly I’m dying to know what made her sad before, and what I could do that might make her smile again.
Down, boy.
Focusing on the road, I can’t help admiring the way the tree branches meet overhead. In the summertime, this would basically be a leafy green tunnel.
For now though, it’s just a spectrum of browns and blacks with gray sky peeking through—the perfect setting for my dark mood.
Thoughts of my best friend and my wife—ex-wife—try to resurface and I push them back down where they belong.
Before long, we pass the first of the chalets on the way up the hill. Like the others, it’s basically a massive wooden box with walls of flat glass. If it’s anything like the one I’m staying in with Dylan, the inside is just as sparse.
If this is what’s selling, then it’s good news for developers because I can’t imagine anything cheaper or faster to build.
“Slow down,” Maddie says, her small hand reaching for my arm. “Look.”
I take my foot off the gas and follow her gaze. Just off the road, a mother deer and a fawn are nibbling at the bark of a tree.
“What is it?” Dylan asks.
“I’m going to pull forward very slowly,” I tell him. “Look out on Maddie’s side.”
“I can’t see it,” he whines.
I hate when he whines. I know he’s just a little kid, but I don’t want him to be a whiner.
“It’s okay,” Maddie tells him calmly, clearly not annoyed at all. “Your dad will make sure you can see it before we go. Now look between the trees…”
“I see them,” Dylan exclaims. “It’s a mommy and baby.”
“Yes,” Maddie says. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
“They’re eating a tree,” Dylan says, clearly delighted.
“In the wintertime they don’t have nice grass and leaves to eat,” Maddie tells him. “So they eat bark from trees and sticks, and anything else they can find.”
“They eat sticks?” Dylan asks, sounding thunderstruck.
“Sure,” Maddie says. “They’re just like us, they do what they have to do to survive.”
You’ve got that right, honey.
“I don’t eat sticks,” Dylan laughs.
If I were the one talking about this with Dylan I would see it as an opportunity to educate him on survival. I wait for her to talk to him about poverty and necessity.
“I’ll tell the hockey team not to worry then,” Maddie says instead.
“What?” Dylan asks her.
“I’ll tell the hockey team you won’t eat their sticks,” she says, smiling and winking at him over her shoulder.
Dylan howls with laughter over her dumb joke, and I can’t help smiling myself because the two of them are so happy.
As we continue up the mountainside, I think to myself that this girl is going to be good for him. Maybe he’ll even be a little better in school once she’s done with him.
I pull up the gravel driveway of our rented chalet.
The scant sunlight that manages to penetrate the trees glints off the windows, but it still looks sort of unwelcoming.
I don’t care though. It’s not permanent, and besides, there’s something nice about the tall trees.
I’ve lived in the cities of California most of my life, but this mountain feels oddly like home for some reason.
“Wow,” Maddie says, looking up at the house.
It’s an act, of course. The Fosters probably live like kings off her father’s empire.
I pull up and park, jumping out quickly. But she’s out before I can open the door for her again, already looking around the wooded property.