Chapter 1
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THE KIND OF RICH people I hate the most are the ones who say they aren’t rich.
Sometimes it’s hard for me to make eye contact with the guests when I’m giving them the Welcome to Sonnet spiel, the one where I talk up the amenities of the resort and the natural beauty of the nearby national park.
I tell them about our restaurant, our food truck, the gourmet s’more kits on offer, the gift shop, the drive-in movie theater where you can sit in vintage cars eating popcorn and watching classic movies after a long day of hiking.
You know, like all the other un-rich people in the world.
Yes, yes, they say as they nod, we’ve seen pictures online, the drive-in is so charming, we are so delighted to be here, oh, that’s wonderful that you have a farm-to-table menu, we expect nothing less, even though we also want authenticity (but not the wrong type of authenticity).
Oh really, sometimes the hot water runs out during the busy times of day?
Um, okay. No, no, that’s quite all right, yes, yes.
We do understand we are right at the edge of a national park.
But the thread count on the sheets? Could you tell us about that?
Wonderful. Oh, we’re very outdoorsy, can’t wait to get out on those hikes / go canyoneering / see the stars / bathe in nature.
You should see their faces when I tell them there’s a wood-burning stove in each of their tents and that that’s what they’ll need to use if they get cold at night.
At first, they wear expressions of total shock, because they didn’t think glamping would be quite that close to actual camping and they didn’t read the website description all the way through.
Or, if they did, they thought the wood-burning stoves were for charm, not the primary source of heat.
Most guests rally, though, and pretend like they know how to light a fire.
This cracks me up and pisses me off at the same time.
I watch them leave for their tents, knowing we’ll get front desk calls later.
The guests will say that their stoves “don’t work.
” They’ll never admit that it’s for sure and one hundred percent user error.
One of the staff will take care of it. If it’s my shift, it might be me.
I’m great at lighting fires. I’ve been doing it all my life.
It only really gets to me if they don’t say thanks or don’t bother keeping their personal lives out of the way for the few minutes it takes me to get the fire going.
I don’t need to hear your argument or how much you love each other or how horny you are right now.
I’m a person. You don’t have to talk to me the whole time, but don’t act like I’m not here when I am.
I also hate it when they refer to the park as Edens National Park. I’ve been corrected by guests when I say it right. I have to grit my teeth when I respond. Actually, I say, there’s no s.
Really? they ask. Are you sure?
Oh, I’m sure.
And now and then they like to point out that I’m spelling my name “wrong.” “Did they forget to put the i on your nametag?” they’ll ask.
Or, “What an unusual spelling!” That second one’s more subtle, but the subtext is still crystal clear: We are smarter than you.
We know more than you do. We can tell you the right way to spell your name.
Anyway. Rich people.
I have my eye on that group of women right from the moment they duck inside the main tent.
You don’t have to duck—the ceilings are high and the door is tall and wide—but people seem to have that tendency with tents, even when they’re enormous and multi-peaked, like this one.
The main tent houses a restaurant, a reception area, a gift-and-snack shop, restrooms, and a sporting-goods outfitter.
One of the women puts her hand up to touch the side of the tent, which is also something a lot of people do.
From a distance, it looks smooth, like ceramic or porcelain, maybe, but up close you can tell that it’s made of extremely sturdy fabric.
The floors are weathered wood, and we have electricity and running water. Of course. And Wi-Fi.
There are a few reasons why the three women catch my eye.
First, they have the right gear and they brought their own, which means at least one of them knows what they’re doing.
Second, they seem so happy. Like, actually, genuinely happy and delighted to be with each other. They’re laughing and talking like they’re getting away with or from something. “Should we sign our real names in the guest log?” the one with the long blond braid asks.
“No,” says the one with the orange Patagonia baseball cap. “That defeats the whole purpose.”
“Wait,” says the most serious-looking one. She glances at me. “Do we actually have to sign in here?”
“No,” I say. “You don’t.” The leather-bound guest log is largely for show, so people feel like they’re having an authentic wilderness-adjacent experience.
They can ooh and aah over how far other guests have come to be here.
Sometimes they take pictures of their own signatures to post on social media.
They all seem pleased with my answer. “Let’s not sign, then,” Patagonia Hat says.
I think about reminding them that they should sign the logs at the trailheads when they hike, but that info’s on the park website and what they do in Eden isn’t my responsibility.
The last reason that I have my eye on that group, the biggest reason, is that the one in the hat is famous.
An actress. She’s friendly, super low-key.
That’s what makes the other guests milling around miss who she is.
They might glance over and think she’s pretty and that she looks a tiny bit familiar, but the fact that she’s not trying to hide makes it seem impossible that she could be who they think she is.
Plus, this resort isn’t Amangiri or anything.
We’re fancy, but no Kardashians or Biebers have ever stayed here.
Can you imagine one of them having to light their own fires?
But I still know right away who she is, even though her credit card and driver’s license have a different name than the one she’s famous for.
Well hello, I think. So you’re my ticket out of here.