Epilogue
The week before Thanksgiving
Wyn
“The logo is perfect,” I said on speakerphone.
“Yeah? I think so too,” Poet said. “I can’t believe Brooks drew it. He’s so talented.”
I bit my tongue as my best friend gushed about her fiancé. I was happy for her. But when all your friends were in love and you weren’t, you were a little bit salty.
And by you I meant me.
I’m saltier than a dirty martini.
Poet ended her gushing monologue.
“How’s the chalet?” she asked, changing the subject.
“It’s not a chalet. Chalets are in the Alps. I’m in Colorado,” I said as I looked around the expansive kitchen that was bigger than the entire pre-war Manhattan apartment I’d once shared with my three best friends.
“I’ve seen pictures,” she said. “It’s a chalet. American or not.”
“Fine, we can call it a chalet.”
“I thought you weren’t going to the chalet until December.”
“They changed plans once they saw the snow forecast.”
“Ah.”
“It’s fine. Their kid is in ski school every day until about three. We got fresh powder last night, so the parents went out this morning. I’ve had the place to myself.”
Mildred, the cream-haired mini-dachshund terror, wandered into the kitchen, her collar jangling as she trotted toward me.
I leaned down and scooped her up. She stuck her head underneath my neck.
“Mildred says hi,” I said.
“So does Lottie. I miss you.”
“I miss you,” I said. “I’ll see you in a month for your wedding.”
“A month is too long,” Poet whined.
“I don’t want to have this conversation again,” I warned her. “We have it every time we talk.”
“Fine.”
“I better go. I have laundry to cycle.”
“Talk to you later,” Poet said.
We hung up and I sighed. I looked at Mildred. “You want to help?”
She nuzzled harder into my neck.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I carried Mildred to the laundry room and set her down. She began to whine.
“Just give me a second,” I said to her.
I pulled the warm towels out of the dryer and put them in the laundry basket to fold. And while I was transferring the wet clothes to the dryer, Mildred took it upon herself to hop into the laundry basket full of toasty linens.
“You’re not supposed to be in there,” I said with a laugh, leaning down and booping her snoot.
I removed her from the laundry basket and then took it to the folding table. As I folded towels, I got lost in my head about Christmas time and being back in Huckleberry Hill.
I was so deep in my own world that I didn’t hear Mr. Carrington come into the laundry room still dressed in his ski gear.
“Oh!” I squeaked in surprise. “Hi.”
“Sorry,” he said with a smile. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“How were the slopes?”
“Crowded,” he said. He unzipped his ski pants and shucked them off, leaving him wearing nothing but his long underwear—and a stubby erection.
Alarm trumpeted in my head.
“Uh, I’m basically done here,” I said as I grabbed the laundry basket full of clean towels. “I’ll just get out of your way.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he said, his beady eyes tracking me.
“It’s fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “I promised Mildred a walk, so we should get to it before the temperature drops.”
He took a step toward me. “You want company?”
“I’m good.”
When I tried to move around him, he blocked my exit.
“My wife is having lunch at the lodge. She’s about a glass of white wine in right now.” His hand skimmed my arm.
My skin broke out in gooseflesh, and I trembled.
Mr. Carrington—middle-aged, potbellied, thinning hair atop his head, married man—took that as a sign of acceptance.
He kept his hand on my arm as he moved even closer.
I dropped the laundry basket.
His too small eyes glistened with hunger.
And with my open palm, I whacked him right in the junk.
He recoiled and groaned in pain, his hand dropping from my arm as he reached down to hold himself. Mildred began to bark loud, high-pitched yelps.
I scooped her up and attempted to silence her, but she would not be shushed.
Mrs. Carrington—fifteen years younger than her husband, Botoxed and bleached out the wazoo—appeared in the doorway of the laundry room.
She glanced from me to her bent-in-half husband. With a bereaved sigh, she said, “Really, Stuart. Another one?”
I blinked. “Another one?”
“You don’t really think you’re the first nanny he’s tried to sleep with, do you?” When I couldn’t find the words to speak, she continued, “I assume this means you quit, yes? I’ll be happy to give you a good reference and a severance package. That is, if you understand discretion, of course.”
My eyes widened. “Are you kidding me?”
She looked from me to her husband. Disdain flashed across her mouth. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“Why on earth do you stay with him?”
She twirled the gargantuan diamond ring on her finger. “Divorce is for the poor, dear. Love has no business in marriage anyway.”
I glanced at the man who was still clutching himself in pain. I then looked at his wife.
“I don’t need severance or a reference to keep quiet,” I stated. “I’m taking the dog.”
I brushed past the woman who smelled like expensive perfume and resignation.
“I rather liked that little thing. Oh, well. Sure, dear. She’s yours.”
Disgust rolled through me.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Stuart,” she snapped. “Can you try and be more discreet next time?
I clutched Mildred tighter, wanting to give her the love her previous owners never had.
She licked my face.
I looked down at her and smiled. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
My phone rang and pleasure blasted through me when I saw Salem’s name.
“You have impeccable timing,” I said to her in way of greeting. “You won’t believe what just happened.”
“Wyn.” Her voice cracked.
I stopped walking, icy fear permeating my body. “What?”
“It’s Hadley . . . and the baby. You have to—”
“I’m on my way.”
Thank you for reading Prospector’s Peak!