Chapter 8 #2
Her face drains, then floods with color so fast it’s like watching a time-lapse storm.
“What did you do?” she breathes.
John does the smart thing and evaporates under the guise of needing to get more equipment, effectively escaping and throwing me under the bus in one shot.
Traitor.
“You’re looking chipper after your nap.”
She ignores me. Of course she does. All her focus is on the alcove, on the exposed bit of framing, on the spot where weather chewed through wood and time.
She crosses the room, boots squeaking on the floor. Her fingers hover over the damaged trim like she wants to touch it but is afraid it’ll crumble.
“She’s taking on water. We have to open her the rest of the way up, replace the rotten section. Before it takes more with it.”
“You’re opening the wall.” Her voice is tight. “Behind the seat.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re… what, exactly? Just going to slice into it right in time for this festival and a reality TV show coming in. Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“It’s either that or wait for it to come crashing down on someone.” The words hang heavy in the air. “Or worse, a guest.”
She flinches. Two days ago I would have celebrated her reaction… before I kissed her. Now, I pick up the pain slicing through her.
Nice. Nailed that, Morgan.
“We’ll put up a temporary wall while the work’s happening,” I add quickly. “Decorate it. No one will even realize what’s going on back there. They’ll be too busy taking selfies and pretending the snow situation doesn’t suck.”
Her eyes flick to the empty space around the seat, then to the built-in display cabinet crammed full of Bee’s glass snowmen. Her shoulders go rigid.
“You’re moving those?”
“For a few days. To protect them. We’re not barbarians.”
She makes a strangled little sound. “Don’t joke about this.”
“I’m not joking. We’ll box them, tuck them somewhere safe, put everything back when it’s done.”
“Convenient timing.” Her eyes narrow. “This isn't about your second bar plans, is it?”
“Yes, I waved my magic candy cane and made a season’s progression of water damage appear overnight just so I could get my goddamned bar for that unexpected packed house bestowed upon us when we got four feet of much-needed snow.” I lean in. “But shhhh, the snow is shy. So shy it's hiding.”
I might be really fucking tired. And stressed. And filterless.
But the second bar plan is a problem for Spring Everett. Present Everett is hanging on by a thread and negotiating with exactly zero more people today.
“You’re not touching the seat, then?” she presses.
I look at it. At the curve where it meets the wall. The places where paint wore down to raw wood.
I should tell her the truth.
That the storms forced my hand on the inside of the wall, but the rest of it was already living on borrowed time.
That my head is full of numbers that don’t add up and this room—this whole building—has to earn more than sentiment if it’s going to make it through the next decade.
But Dad’s voice is still ringing in my ears.
John’s list of urgent repairs is getting longer by the day.
I’m one more argument away from losing it, and if anyone can drag me there, it’s the woman standing in front of me with her jaw clenched and her eyes too bright.
I can’t fight them both today.
I can’t fight her today.
“We’re addressing the stuff that has to happen so this place doesn’t literally fall apart. That’s it.”
It’s not a lie.
It’s just not the whole truth.
She studies my face like she’s trying to peel it back and read whatever’s underneath. Sierra’s always been like that—seeing more than she should. Catching the small creaks before the break.
“That wall is part of the original ’54 addition,” she says. Business now. Clipped. “It’s part of the story that earned this place its designation. You can’t alter that without documentation. Without oversight.”
“You mean without you,” I say.
Her fingers tighten around the strap of her camera. “I agreed to help with this festival, but don’t forget my actual job, Everett. Preservation. Making sure you don’t modernize it into a generic lodge and lose your designation… and the grant that comes with it each year.”
My temper sparks. “I’m not trying to turn it into a generic anything. I’m trying to keep it open. The grant is a drop in the bucket compared to what we need. This place doesn’t survive on a certificate and a pat on the back.”
“And it doesn’t survive at all,” she fires back, “if you strip out everything that makes it what it is. You think people come up this mountain for stainless steel and Edison bulbs? They come because Grammie Bea sat in this window every night with her whiskey and her knitting and asked them about their kids. They come because they remember falling asleep on this seat while their parents drank cider by the fire. If you start erasing pieces of it then you’re just another lodge. ”
God, she’s infuriating.
And absolutely right.
And that somehow makes it worse.
“Nothing about this repair erases anything,” I say, forcing my voice back down.
“We open the wall, fix what’s broken, put it back together.
You want photos? Take them. You want measurements?
Knock yourself out. You want to declare the damn baseboard historically significant while you’re at it?
Go wild. But the work is happening. I’m not rolling the dice on safety so you can sleep better hugging your guidelines binder at night. ”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You think this is about paperwork?”
“I think this is about you trying to control one more thing in a world you don’t control,” I say before I can stop myself.
Yup, that was too fucking far on too little sleep.
Her lips part. The hurt that flashes there is fast, but I see it. Of course I see it.
I spent a year learning every micro-expression on that face.
Then her chin lifts. The shutter slams down. “And I think this is about you bulldozing anything that makes you uncomfortable,” she says. “Wreck it or run from it. Am I right?”
The whole room feels smaller. Tighter. Like the air itself is wedged between us, bracing for impact.
John, the coward, reappears just long enough to mutter, “I’ll, uh, go see if the crew answered,” then vanishes again.
Sierra turns back to the snowman cabinet. She reaches out and touches one of the glass figures Grammie Bea loved so much—a little dude with a knit scarf and a crooked smile. Her fingers trace the edge of the shelf. Then the seam where the built-in meets the wall. Then the corner.
She mutters something under her breath. I can’t make out the words, but the tone is… breathless, full of relief.
“You developing a new religion over there?” I ask, because apparently I like getting stabbed.
She startles, then glares. “I’m figuring out how much of this I need to document before you let some contractor go wild with a Sawzall.”
“We’re not touching the cabinet,” I say. “Relax. I’m not about to be haunted by Grammie Bea and you at the same time.”
Her hand curls into a fist at her side.
“Barrett.”
She looks up.
I don’t know what she sees in my face—exhaustion, probably—but whatever it is, it halts her rant. Just for a second.
“I’m not the enemy,” I say quietly. “Not of this place.”
Her throat works. For a heartbeat, the fight bleeds out of her. I catch a glimpse of the girl who spent hours in the darkroom, watching photos of this lodge bloom into existence under red light, like magic.
Then she blinks and the armor’s back. Stepping around me, camera swinging around her neck, she studies the light. I’ll need time with this alcove before anyone touches it,” she says briskly. “Fine,” I say. “You can have it this afternoon. I’ll hold John off until you’re done.”
“And the wall cover?” she presses. “You’ll let me see what you’re putting up? I need to know what’s happening where.”
“It’s a temporary Christmas mural, not a secret vault,” I say. “But sure. You can inspect the garland for historical accuracy if it makes you feel better.”
Her eyes narrow. “Careful, Morgan. I’m exhausted, probably hungover, and I’m one snowman joke away from declaring your stapler culturally significant and filing an injunction.”
“There it is,” I murmur. “There’s the crazy.”
She flips me off. Very mature. Very on brand.
And god, I’ve missed her.
I watch her stalk off, my chest a mess of heat and ache.
I scrub a hand over my face and head for my office while I wait for Roman, Caleb, and Nolan to join us.
I have three voicemails from vendors worried about our meager orders and what they mean for our contracts.
I’ll take those over a father who thinks I’m dismantling his legacy just to make my mark, and a preservation officer who’d happily shackle herself to a baseboard to stop me from changing a light bulb.
Because the truth is simple and heavy and not going anywhere:
The lodge is in my name now. I have investors now. Those investors are friends—brothers.
And if I’m going to save it—for Dad, for Grammie Bea, for the idiots who fall in love here, for myself—I’m going to have to break a few things first.