Chapter Three
“Y ou’re late,” Celeste said, sliding into the passenger seat of her Jeep Compass. Quinn sat at the steering wheel, a lollipop stick hanging out of her mouth and Ella Fitzgerald blaring from the speakers. Quinn’s car was a vintage 1967 Mini Cooper in British Racing Green, which not only broke down every few months but could only safely operate on the roads from May to October when there was no snow on the ground, so in the in-between season she was always borrowing Celeste’s or their parents’ vehicles.
“It’s 8:08,” Quinn said.
“Class ended at eight.” Celeste reached over and turned down the music.
“Does that mean I can’t take your car next week?”
“Well,” Celeste said, tucking the kit of materials into her tote bag, then pulling on her seat belt, “I won’t be coming next week. Here, at least. Ava scheduled me for the wrong class.”
“Oh no,” said Quinn. “She’s always in such a rush.”
It was true. Despite Ava’s brilliance, she had a tendency to quickness which sometimes made her overlook details—everywhere except for in her spreadsheets.
“So what did you do, just sit there? You could have called me.”
“It’s all right. I knew you were busy.” Quinn had met up with her knitting group at a café in Canmore. She often got a ride with one of the others in the group, but Elsa had just undergone a hip replacement and was still in the hospital. “I stayed in the class I showed up to. It was pretty random.”
Someone exiting the building caught her eye. It was the cute instructor, carrying a milk crate with the materials from the class. “That was the teacher, actually,” she said.
Quinn slowed the car to a stop and craned her neck. “Ohh, he’s dreamy,” she said. “He’s giving me Cary Grant vibes, His Girl Friday era.”
“Drive,” Celeste said, laughing. “He’s going to see us.” She glanced back at Jack, watching as he balanced the milk crate while he fiddled with his keys, then put everything into the passenger side of his truck. He looked up as they drove by and gave Celeste a quick wave, the corners of his mouth turning up in a delicious grin. She waved back, the buzz of attraction that had struck her the moment she’d walked into the classroom showing no signs of fizzling out. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn’t going to be her instructor. She’d have a hard time being a focused pupil.
Quinn navigated onto the main highway leading back to the lodge. Daylight savings time meant the clocks had moved forward an hour a few weekends before, so the unseasonably warm early-spring days were blessedly longer now, and the tree line glowed tangerine with the late setting sun. “What was so random about it?”
“Two words: fly-fishing.”
“They teach fly-fishing at the college? That is random.”
“No, not the actual fishing. It’s a whole class on making these doodad fishing-tackle thingies. Here,” she said, digging hers out of her pocket.
Quinn glanced away from the road, and her eyes widened when she saw Celeste’s fly. “OMG! I love that! Those feathers are gorgeous.”
“I knew you would. I told Jack.” Celeste rolled her eyes.
“ Jack. ” Her sister made an exaggerated kissing sound. “Can I put it on my Insta when we get home?”
“Knock yourself out,” Celeste said. Quinn ran a popular social media account called For Old Times’ Sake, which partly focused on DIY in the old-timey— timeless —way of doing things, like making soap, using sourdough starters, and darning socks, and profiling her love of all things vintage and old, from movies and music to antiques and trinkets to old-school table etiquette. It blew Celeste’s mind that Quinn had over one hundred thousand followers, but she was proud of her sister. If it weren’t for the fact that she was glued to her phone most of the day, she might have been mistaken for someone who’d been plunked down in the twenty-first century by a time machine.
“But seriously, that guy was hot,” Quinn said. “Debonair meets outdoorsy. Like an L.L.Bean model or something.”
Celeste had to agree with her sister, even though she didn’t say it out loud. Jack was handsome, in a just-rolled-out-of-bed-but-owning-it rugged kind of way. And she liked the way his eyes looked like he was always smiling, even when he wasn’t.
She stared out the window at the forested highway that would soon be blanketed in darkness. This wasn’t a time to be daydreaming about hot teachers. She had a career to hang on to. And for the first time in her life, it was going to be up to her to make things happen.
*
Quinn pulled Celeste’s SUV into the parking area behind the lodge, where the McCarthys all kept their vehicles, next to the main house where Everett, Jeannie, and Quinn lived and the small cabin a little farther down the path that Jeannie and Everett had built for Celeste when she’d shared her intentions to work at the lodge. They’d wanted her to have some space of her own, and she’d agreed that it would be most convenient to be on the property for any emergencies or issues that arose.
When Everett had initially proposed he construct a cabin for her in her midtwenties, she hadn’t been certain if it would be too close to her parents’ place. But they gave her the space she needed, and it was handy to be close to work…and to her mother’s pantry.
They walked the path together until the fork that divided the main house and Celeste’s cabin. “’Night,” Quinn said. “What’s on for tomorrow?”
“Wedding prep,” said Celeste. “And I have to get this course sorted out.”
“’Kay, love you. If you need anything let me know.”
“See you tomorrow,” she said. “Actually, I could use your help with something.”
“Shoot,” said Quinn.
“Apparently the bride is some kind of social media influencer.” Celeste had only found out because the groom had emailed her separately from the main email chain they had going on with wedding plans. He wanted to surprise his fiancée by releasing some butterflies at the end of the ceremony, which he thought she’d love and would be great content for her account.
Celeste had to break it to him that the local butterflies, which were omnipresent in the summer due to the unusual concentration of knapweed thistles, bee plants, and willowherbs growing thick in a meadow near the south shore, were wrapping up their time in Mexico for the winter. She’d given him a few other ideas for visually interesting surprises, including a fresh-flower chandelier that could hang in the lodge’s great room (something she’d seen on Pinterest and had always thought would look stunning) or a VW bus owned by the local brewery that could be ordered to various events and would serve pints and soft-pretzel poutine from the window.
“Who is she?” asked Quinn, opening her phone.
Celeste pulled her notebook from her purse and flipped through the pages. “Kassie Harris. Her handle is @KassieOnTheMove.”
Quinn tapped on her phone, then her eyes widened in surprise. She looked up at Celeste. “Wowee. Let’s make sure the lodge is showing at its best this weekend.”
“What? Why?”
Quinn flashed her phone at Celeste. “Half mil followers. Looks pretty glam.”
Celeste grabbed the phone from her sister’s hands and scrolled through Kassie’s social media profile. It was a mix of fitness, food, hair and makeup looks, outfits, and most recently, wedding planning, all curated with a consistent pale pink look to tie everything together. Many of the posts were sponsored content, and Celeste recognized the names of some musicians and professional athletes who followed the account.
Obviously the Butterfly Lake Lodge was about to be featured heavily on Kassie’s account, and Celeste had to make sure that it not only showed at its best. This weekend, she would make it sparkle.
*
The lodge was quiet and still when she let herself in the mudroom door the next morning. Six rooms were occupied, and it seemed like everyone was still asleep.
It was at these quiet times of day that Celeste could take a moment to assess the lodge and its common spaces and make sure everything was just so.
In her mind, the Butterfly Lake Lodge was the most perfect vacation spot on the planet. The fact that Jeannie and Everett had kept the lodge as a small, family-run establishment was part of the appeal for their guests, many of whom were return visitors. They came from as far as New Zealand, Belgium, and Hong Kong, and no matter where they came from or who they were, they were welcomed with open arms. There was even a couple, the Hendersons, who for many years had stayed at the lodge every August twenty-second, despite the fact that they lived a four-minute walk down the street. The twenty-second was Sharon Henderson’s birthday, and until last year, her late-husband Leigh had booked it as a gift for her because she loved nothing more than the warm cinnamon buns that would appear at her door in the morning that they would take back to bed and enjoy while lying in the soft Frette sheets with a hot coffee.
Celeste moved through the space quietly, tidying the tourism pamphlets and fluffing the pillows on the chairs.
The lodge had some modern touches but maintained a traditional, timeless feel with the restoration of classic details, such as the stained-glass window panels at the top of the picture windows and the oil lamps that lit the path from the parking lot to the reception area. There was also the old stone fireplace that was only dim during the warmest summer days and even then would often be lit for a few hours in the evening, when the mountain air shifted from humid to frigid on a dime.
She left the front reception and entered one of the lodge’s most popular rooms, the puzzle room. It was a small nook off the great room, which housed a collection of jigsaws in a tall glass curio cabinet. The room also contained floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with the McCarthys’ vast collection of paperback mysteries, a love shared by the whole family.
Just off the reception area and before the great room, in an alcove that opened to a covered porch, was the inn’s pub, the Errant Elk. It was named after an incident the night of the last traditional Carmichael Christmas party in 1978, where an inebriated elk had wandered in through some open doors, surprising the guests and requiring quick thinking on Everett and Jeannie’s part to lure it back outside. Now the pub was a cozy spot for the guests to order a pint and play darts or pool. It opened now and then to the public for an open mic night or intimate event.
Outside, there was a climate-battery greenhouse, where Everett puttered every morning, and their newest building, the gallery, a light-filled space near the water where local artists could showcase their work and where art workshops and book-club meetings were hosted.
And then there was the office, the least attractive and scenic room in the lodge but where Celeste spent the majority of her time. After making her morning to-do list, which she fastened to her clipboard, she picked up the phone and dialed the number for the college.
“We’re very sorry for the error, Ms. McCarthy,” said the woman who’d picked up the phone. “We’d be more than happy to move you to the Accounting for Beginners class, but the only option available at this point is an online course on Sundays at noon.”
Celeste considered. Sunday afternoon was the busiest checkout time, and since the cleaning staff had Mondays off, there were always extra chores to delegate and pitch in to get the lodge in good shape for the week.
But then again, there would be no lodge or hotel work for her if she didn’t get some sort of accreditation.
“Okay, that’s fine,” she said. She noted the details for the class on a sticky note, then hung up and went to the kitchen to get a snack. As she approached, she heard her parents speaking in hushed tones. She paused by the entrance.
“Personally, I think the sooner the better, so we can start making plans,” she heard Jeannie say.
There was a moment of quiet. “Do you think we should just do one more Christmas? I think the girls would really appreciate it,” Everett said.
“And sell in the winter? Forget it. The lodge will show perfectly in July.”
More quiet. Celeste’s mind raced. July? That was in less than three months.
“July’s too soon to get everything in order,” her dad said. “I think August could work. Probably September or October.”
Celeste cleared her throat loudly, waited a beat, and then entered the kitchen. “Hey,” she said.
Her parents were sitting at the kitchen island, a coffee in front of her dad and a tea steeping in front of her mom. It wasn’t an unfamiliar scene, and if she didn’t know better, she’d have just thought they were having their regular morning sit-down together.
“Good morning,” her dad said in a forced chipper voice. He was wearing his old blue Patagonia fleece and a pair of khaki pants, his silver hair poking out from under a gray beanie.
Her mom stood up. “Can I get you something, honey?” In contrast, Jeannie wore her “uniform”: black leggings with a long crisp white dress shirt over top and clogs with an apron, her gray hair in an angled bob. Celeste’s parents got away with a more casual attire because of their responsibilities around the property, but Celeste, as the face of the lodge, generally wore a dress or a suit, something elegant and well-tailored. “A snack or a drink or something? I can make you an omelet.”
What she really wanted was for her parents to stop acting so weird.
“Just getting myself a coffee,” she said.
“Croissant with that?” her mom said. Everett pulled out a chair for her.
“Uh, sure,” Celeste said and grabbed a mug to fill with black coffee. “I’ll have it in the office, though. Where’s everyone else?”
“Elodie’s on a virtual panel until noon, Ava took Sam on a hike with some friends, and Quinn is over at the house.”
So, she got the unenviable task of hanging out with her parents with a curtain of awkwardness in the air. She took a sip of her coffee and accepted the plate her mom passed her.
“Quinny told us about your class last night. Fly tying! Maybe I should join you,” Everett said.
“It was kind of fun, actually,” she said. “Too bad it’s completely useless to me.” She thought about the glint in Jack’s eye when he’d complimented her work. “Turns out I was pretty good at it, though.”
“No surprise there,” Jeannie said. “You’ve always been good at whatever you put your mind to.”
Celeste looked up at both of her parents beaming at her. It was time to go. “I’m going to go check over the table-and-chair rental and catering order for the wedding.”
The soon-to-be-Instagram-famous family wedding for the upcoming weekend was a property buyout for the young couple and a group of twenty-four family members and close friends, exactly the number of rooms required to house the group, with both the ceremony and reception set to take place in the great room. She’d already checked it over twice an hour earlier, but she couldn’t take another minute of her parents looking at her like she was as fragile as crepe paper.
Back in the quiet of the office, she picked up her phone, clicked on Instagram, and started some mindless scrolling. She smiled and shook her head when she saw that Quinn had already posted a photo of her fly and a short description of the craft followed by a number of hashtags like #DIY and #HandCrafted .
She also saw that Quinn had tagged a company called Wallace Expeditions in the photo. Celeste clicked on the tag, which brought her to the page of a local fly-fishing outfitter and tour guide. The very first photo was of Jack, standing in a knee-deep river and holding up a fishing rod and some kind of big fish, grinning widely, the forest emerald green behind him. The description below the photo advertised the upcoming season’s expeditions.
Celeste zoomed in on the photo, on Jack’s bright eyes and confident grin, and felt a warm tingle of desire dance through her core. The picture had likely been taken in the summer; his skin was nicely tanned, and he wore a T-shirt with his company logo, his sleeves clinging to his sturdy, muscular upper body.
She thought back to that brief moment when she thought he’d invited her to join him on the river. Just her, not the entire class. Not that wading through freezing-cold water in the late-April drizzle to try to catch a fish that could be easily purchased at the local grocery store or fishmonger had any iota of appeal to it, but she’d felt silly that she’d thought for a split second that the invite had been specific to her—the woman who’d worn a dress to Fly-Tying101.
Jack was for sure the kind of guy who favored women who liked backpacking and sleeping outside and wearing the same clothes for days on end. Celeste and that whole scene were two opposing poles of a magnet.
Not that dating was a priority right now. The coming months needed to be focused on setting herself up for continued employment and helping her sisters through what would be a challenging time for their family. And then there were her parents. They were clearly trying to appear to be fine for their sake, but surely they’d both be dealing with many complex emotions over the course of the sale. All Celeste could hope was that things proceeded as smoothly as possible.
There was no time to dabble in fantasies of nature-loving men who hooked fish for a living.
Was there anything wrong with a little daydreaming, though? She navigated back to Quinn’s post and hit Like , then threw her phone onto the table and looked around the office, trying to decide what to do next.
“I knew you liked him,” a voice sounded from directly over her shoulder, causing her to yelp and drop her phone. She whirled around to find Quinn, a satisfied grin on her face. “And I don’t blame you.”
“I was just looking at your post. For god’s sake,” Celeste said, pinching her sister on her forearm.
“I bet you’re counting down until Monday.”
“Actually, I just called the college to ask them to transfer my class.”
“Too bad,” Quinn said. “He’s like the first guy who’s made you blush since Matt.”
Celeste shot her sister a look. “I don’t want to talk about Matt,” she said. “And he didn’t make me blush.”
“Uh-huh,” Quinn said.
“When did you become such a brat? That’s Ava’s job.” She sat back in her chair. “Don’t you have some mothballs to tend to? A penny farthing to ride into town? Candlesticks to drip?”
Quinn took a strip of licorice from Celeste’s desk and went to exit the room, then turned around. Her expression changed from playful to serious. “You know, not all guys are dicks like Matt. You really should start dating again sometime soon. Even if it’s not Professor Dreamy.”
“Thanks for the life talk, small fry. Maybe you’ll take your own advice soon and join the twenty-first century.”
“I’m only twenty-seven. People my age don’t date.”
“I don’t want to know what that means,” said Celeste. “Close the door on your way out.”
Quinn took an exaggerated bite of her licorice and grinned before closing the door. Celeste spent a few minutes sending emails and surveying the reservations for the next few weeks. After the wedding that weekend, they were about 75 percent booked for the next month, which was quite good for the early spring. Once the summer came around, they’d be operating at capacity, with a healthy waiting list, for May through August and often a couple of weeks into September. Their prices reflected the busy season but were never unreasonable, and the online ratings, Quinn’s social media–marketing efforts, and the praiseworthy press they’d received in publications like Travel and Leisure , the Globe Travel , and even a mention in the Goop travel section always ensured the Butterfly Lake Lodge was on people’s radar.
Celeste knew she was a key part of the lodge’s success. There was no guarantee, however, that the new owner would want to keep the lodge the same. She needed to solidify her plan B.
She opened up a local job-search board, but most of the postings were for server or housekeeping positions. Instead, she went on individual hotel and resort websites to see what might be posted, but again, no luck.
After doing a quick walk around of the lodge to check in on guests and staff, she popped in her earbuds, pulled on a light jacket and set off down the gravel road to get a few steps in, and make a phone call she didn’t want eavesdropped on.
The sun was high in the sky, but the forecast was calling for rain that afternoon. Every conversation in the area lately started with remarks about how early spring had come this year. Usually there would be snow on the ground and frozen lakes until mid-May, but this year, the snow had already disappeared and people were cautiously optimistic that they’d made it through the winter.
Regardless, it was always four seasons in one day in the mountains, so there was a chance on her short walk she’d either be shedding her jacket if it got too warm or popping open her umbrella to shield herself from rain or hail.
When she was a safe enough distance from the lodge, she selected Gus Evans’s phone number from her address book. Gus was the lead concierge at the Halcyon Retreat Center two lakes over…and the area’s biggest gossip. If anyone had the scoop, it would be him.
“Why, are you looking?” Gus whispered as soon as Celeste inquired about any openings he might be aware of.
“Uh, no, why would I be looking?” she said, hoping she sounded convincing. “I’m just…curious.”
“Hold on—let me move to the back office,” Gus said, and Celeste heard shuffling in the background, then a door closing. “Okay. You didn’t hear it from me, but word has it that Annie Flint is retiring at the end of the next month.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not kidding. My sources tell me she’s moving to Palm Beach. She’s had a boy toy there all these years, and she’s finally agreed to retire and move in with him.”
Celeste’s mind whirled. Annie Flint was renowned in the area as the iron lady at the front desk of the Keystone Ridge Resort, the area’s most storied and expensive luxury hotel. There were rumors she used a UV light to inspect the cleanliness of her employees’ uniforms before every shift, and most people took it as a general fact that Annie would be queen of the castle until the day they rolled her dead body out the inn’s service door.
“Okay, that’s some hot gossip,” Celeste said. “Anyway, see you at the BIA meeting next month?”
“Maybe. We’re short-staffed here, so I’ve been working doubles twice a week. I might have to miss the boxed wine and stale shortbreads this time around. Gotta go.”
Celeste hung up and took a deep breath of the fresh early-spring air. Right on cue, a gentle mist started to fall. She pulled on her hood and opened her umbrella and decided to keep walking a little longer to burn off some nervous energy.
The Keystone Ridge Resort could be an interesting opportunity. It belonged to a large chain and they had their own business office, so the role was probably more about bookings and some concierge work, which she was sure she could talk through without official credentials.
She did an internet search of the resort on her phone, then zoomed in on the write-up of the amenities and offerings and types of packages they offered. Honeymooners, family getaways, weddings…she knew all about those. She scrolled down farther to find that the Keystone also hosted some of the most exclusive hunting-and-fishing expeditions in the area. Annie Flint could probably tie a Silver Blue in her sleep.
Would it be helpful to stay in Jack’s class, to learn a bit more about the sport, to be able to casually drop some lingo in an interview and converse with her clientele? It wouldn’t hurt—that was for sure.
With the lodge at 75 percent over the coming weeks, she could definitely handle the online accounting course and Jack’s class. Besides, tying flies was kind of fun.
She would do it. A night away from the lodge and her strangely behaving parents, and a new way to connect with her guests, wherever she ended up working. And if the rumors were true about Annie Flint’s retirement, she’d have to start getting her resume together too.
The mist turned to rain. Celeste turned back toward the lodge and picked up her pace.
Things were falling neatly into place—just as she liked it.