Maggie
There is so much to take in. An outdoor pool with an ice cream shop next to it. Golf greens in the distance. Trails and trails to explore—one that leads up a hill. Tears come out of nowhere and slide down her cheeks. She quickly wipes them away.
Her feet ache, and she wonders what it would be like to pull up to a vacation here, in the honeymoon capital of the world.
She imagines waterskiing on the lake, or sitting beside someone she loves on one of the benches and watching the sunset.
She recently broke up with her boyfriend Tommy, realizing she’d never really loved him.
She sees the main building up ahead and imagines the cocktails they probably serve inside: whiskey sours, gimlets, mint juleps. She imagines the dinners: bay scallops, shrimp cocktail, beef Wellington. They probably have fancy desserts, too, like crème br?lée or baked Alaska.
But most of all she imagines Chip here. What was the first thing he did? How did he get started? Had he made arrangements beforehand? He always knew what to do. Oldest children are born with the instinct.
She thinks for a second that she used to be the younger child, and now she’s an only child. Her bag thumps against her thigh.
She hates that when she pictures Chip, it’s of him dying. She remembers bringing a dish of raspberry ice cream to the hospital, his favorite, and he couldn’t eat a bite. “Sorry, Tiger,” he’d whispered, and just like today, her tears came out of nowhere.
But she wanted to tell him it wasn’t about the ice cream—of course he didn’t need to apologize. She cried because this was it, and they both knew it, and this illness was extinguishing him, pulling him into a deep well, and no matter how tightly she held his hand, she couldn’t rescue him.
A car is coming up beside her—she can feel the vibration of its engine. She moves to the berm along the lane. She hears the sound of a tennis ball being thwacked back and forth in the distance. The car is right next to her now, but she doesn’t look over.
“Did he leave you here alone?”
She turns, and there is a Camaro, late 1960s model, kelly green. The driver is a young guy who looks like one of the Greek statues she studied in her art books, chiseled jawline and all. “What’s that?” she asks.
He grins and plucks off his sunglasses. His eyes are piercing—aqua almost. He has a perfectly cropped beard, and he keeps one arm resting on the window ledge. “I thought you were a newlywed who got ditched on her honeymoon. How sad.”
“Nope,” Maggie says. She scrunches her eyebrows. “He wouldn’t dare,” she adds, and the guy laughs. He trails her slowly as she keeps walking.
“We don’t get too many walk-up customers.”
“I’m not a guest. Don’t worry.”
He winks. “I never worry.”
“So you work here?” Maggie’s bag is digging into her shoulders. The sun is in her eyes, and she feels thirsty and in need of a shower.
“I do.” She can smell his cologne from the car.
“I’m actually looking for a job.”
“Well then…” He lifts his eyebrows. “Hop in.”
She looks at him, and something flutters inside her. When he talks, his lips distract her. She clears her throat. She wants to ask him if he knew her brother.
“I’m fine to walk,” she hears herself say.
He drops his head against the back of the seat for a second. She holds his gaze and tries not to blink. “Whatever you say.” He salutes her and speeds away.
She opens the main door to Red Maple, and it almost takes her breath away.
There’s a polished slate floor, an oriental rug underneath a pedestal table with the biggest arrangement of flowers she’s ever seen.
A staircase winds up from the lobby, and she sees someone on the phone at the front desk.
She hears piano music and wonders if Mozart himself is here and looks to see a woman in a wheelchair, a little older than she is, hammering away at the keys, her hair bouncing as she plays.
Maggie feels a surge of something: disbelief that she’s here, wondering if Chip stood in the exact same place.
The music stops abruptly. “Oops,” the woman says, and comes over to Maggie. “Sorry, I got lost in that one.”
“I got lost in you getting lost.” Maggie smiles at her.
“I’m the doorman, well doorgirl—whatever you want to call me,” she says and winks. She adjusts the hoop earring caught in her hair. “There were no arrivals on the books this morning, so I thought I’d play for a bit.”
Maggie puts her bag by her feet for a second to stretch her arm. “I’m sorry I interrupted. You should be on a stage. That was mesmerizing.”
The woman blushes. “Well, thanks. My boyfriend says I’m good, but I never know if he’s just blowing smoke.” She backs herself up expertly. “I’m Bridget, by the way. How might I help you? Making a reservation for lodging or dining?”
Maggie looks down at her clothes. Her faded blouse and worn jeans and Chuck Taylors. Could anyone really think she was a guest? She wonders if she should pop into the bathroom and change into something nicer. She clears her throat. “Actually, I’m looking for a job if any are, um, available.”
“I see,” Bridget says. She looks toward an office beyond the front desk and then toward the large oak staircase. “Let me check on something.”
“Hey, Bridgey, don’t waste your time,” someone says, and Maggie sees the guy from the Camaro walking toward them.
He is taller than she thought, sauntering in their direction.
His eyes are much darker out of the sunlight.
“I don’t know what her deal is, but she wouldn’t take a ride from me.
” She can’t tell if he’s joking or not, and she suddenly dislikes him.
Bridget cocks an eyebrow. “Nice guy like you, huh?” She turns to Maggie and nods.
“You’ve got good instincts.” She mock-punches Camaro guy and moves toward a door that says GENERAL MANAGER.
Maggie smells the guy’s cologne again and detects a faint scent of pot.
She feels excited and nervous in his presence, and she can’t explain why, but he also scares her.
“Did you know my brother?” she says without thinking, and then she wishes she could take the question back.
He frowns. “Why would I know your brother?”
“He worked here last summer,” she says quietly. “Chip Bishop?”
His eyes widen. “Chip?”
“Yes!”
She can’t read the look on his face. He looks confused. He looks like he’s thinking of telling her an interesting story. She feels hope rise in her chest.
He blows out a breath of air. “Never heard of him.”
Her face falls. She shakes her head and feels like she’s been knocked over. “Okay then.”
“Hey, sorry. Shit. I’m such an ass.” He swallows. “There’s a big crowd in the summer, somebody around here will know him.”
She sees Bridget talking to a woman with short hair who keeps glancing in her direction. “Whatever,” Maggie says to the guy, wishing he would go away.
He looks down at his feet and then into her eyes and appears sincere for a second. “Sorry again. I’m Elliot, by the way. I’m sure your brother was cool.”
Bridget and the other woman are still discussing something. Maggie’s mouth is dry, so she walks over to the watercooler. She turns, and he has followed her. “Hot out today.” Elliot fills a cup and guzzles it.
“This place is so pretty,” she says, not really to him but to the room.
She gazes at the oil paintings, the arrangement of flowers.
Beyond the reception desk is a gift shop and next to that is a sign that points to the left and says BANQUET HALL.
There is a large fireplace and leaded glass windows overlook the property. It smells like pine and citrus.
“What’s your name?”
“Confidential. Only released to decent people.”
“I see.” He puts his water cup down and cracks his back. “Well then, I guess I’ll never know. Time to clock in. Yippity yay.”
“Enjoy.”
“They’re not going to hire you, you know.
” He cups his hand around his mouth. “Owner’s pretty picky.
Some say eccentric, but she’s cool to me.
But they worry about the budget more now than they did when your bro was here so probably can’t take on extra staff.
And Paige, her general manager, is like a Doberman pinscher sometimes.
” He points toward the woman Bridget is talking to. “There she is snarling in real time.”
Maggie swallows. She never envisioned it being this difficult. She imagined a whole resort full of people who wanted to help her. People who adored Chip and would answer her questions. How foolish of her. “Guess I’ll take my chances.” She wonders if she sounds convincing.
He starts to walk away, then turns back to look at her. “I hope your chances are good, Maggie,” he says.
“How…?” Her face reddens.
“Lucky guess. I mean unless you stole that necklace.” He smiles and walks up the big staircase.