Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Sierra
Ah, my comfort zone.
Index cards with talking points.
A laminated map of the original property lines.
Photographs from every decade of the lodge's existence, carefully curated to tell the story of five generations of Morgans tattooing their legacy into this town.
I even wore my good boots. The ones that say 'I'm a serious professional' while also saying 'I could hike you into the ground if necessary.'
I even put off tackling the darkroom to be ready for this.
Not for any other reason.
No other reason at all.
Three full days of preparation, but still, I suck in a cleansing breath and scan my notes one last time before stepping onto the lodge's front porch to greet my tour group.
Seven people.
Seven.
I blink, certain I must be miscounting. But no. There are exactly seven humans standing in the crisp morning air, waiting for the Morgan Lodge Heritage Walk.
Five of them are over seventy. I can tell because two are wearing those puffy vests that seem to come standard-issue with AARP membership, and one has a walking stick that I’d bet predates the lodge itself.
The sixth is a college-aged girl glued to her phone, clearly dragged here by the elderly couple flanking her like disappointed sentinels.
Grandparents, probably.
She's already checked out, thumb scrolling at a speed that suggests she's documenting her suffering for social media.
The seventh is a middle-aged woman with a press badge and the glazed expression of someone who drew the short straw at her publication.
That's it. That's my crowd.
Behind them, Tara's camera crew sets up with the enthusiasm of people who can already tell this is going to be a disaster.
It's fine. Quality over quantity. These seven people are going to have their minds blown by the rich architectural history of—
One of the elderly men is asleep. Standing up. His wife elbows him, and he startles awake with a snort that echoes across the mountain.
Okay. Six conscious people. We can work with six.
“Welcome, everyone!” I inject my voice with brightness I absolutely do not feel. “I'm Sierra Barrett, preservation specialist, and I'm thrilled to take you on a journey through the incredible history of Morgan Lodge.”
The college girl doesn't look up from her phone.
The press badge woman stifles a yawn.
The sleeping man has already nodded off again.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I launch into my carefully prepared opening—the story of the first Morgan to set foot on this mountain in 1887, the vision he had for a place where families could gather and create memories that would last generations.
It's good material. I know it's good material. I've told this story a hundred times at preservation conferences, and it always lands.
One of the AARP vests raises a hand. “Excuse me, dear. Is there somewhere to sit?”
“We'll have rest stops along the route,” I assure her. “The first one is just a quarter mile up the trail.”
“A quarter mile?” She exchanges a look with her husband. “Harold, did you bring your inhaler?”
Harold pats his vest pockets with increasing alarm.
We haven't even started walking yet.
I press on. I talk about the original foundation stones, still visible beneath the modern additions.
I point out the hand-carved details on the porch railings, crafted by the same family of woodworkers who built half the covered bridges in Maine.
I explain how the lodge's orientation was specifically designed to capture the morning light in the great room, a technique borrowed from—
“This is so boring,” the college girl mutters to her phone. She's not even trying to be quiet about it. “Grandma, can we go back inside? There's supposed to be hot chocolate.”
“Shh, Emily. The nice lady is talking about... bridges?”
“I don't care about bridges.”
“Nobody cares about bridges,” Emily's grandmother agrees, then catches my eye and has the decency to look embarrassed. “I mean. Lovely bridges. Very... structural.”
I make a firm commitment to refrain from stabbing her with my gel pen. Not because I worry so much about her, but it’s a bomb ass gel pen. It’d be a shame to break it.
Soldiering on.
By the time we reach the first historical marker—a plaque commemorating the spot where the original ski lift was installed in 1952—I've lost the sleeping man entirely. His wife led him back to the lodge, muttering something about altitude and his blood pressure medication.
Five people. I now have five people.
The press badge woman is typing furiously on her phone. At first, I think maybe she's taking notes. Engaged with the content. Finding value in the rich tapestry of local history I'm weaving.
Then I catch a glimpse of her screen.
She's on Twitter. X. Whatever they're calling it now.
And she's posting.
@TravelWithTalia: Live from Morgan Lodge's “Heritage Walk.” Watching paint dry would be more thrilling. #SnowFestFail #SendHelp #WheresTheBar
My stomach drops.
I keep talking—something about the evolution of ski technology, I think, the words coming out on autopilot while my brain spirals into full panic mode.
#SnowFestFail. She hashtagged it. That's going to be searchable. That's going to come up when people look for information about the festival.
That's going to be the first impression potential guests get of everything we're trying to build here.
Behind me, I hear one of Tara's cameramen mutter to his colleague, “You getting this? The crowd shots are going to be brutal.”
“Oh yeah. This is gold. Tragic, beautiful gold.”
I want to reconsider my earlier restraint from turning around to stab each of them.
Preferably with generic ink, made in a country with loose regulations.
I want to scream that this content matters, that history matters, that not everything has to be flashy and viral and optimized for engagement.
Instead, I smile brighter and move on to the next stop.
The remaining tour lurches along like a wounded animal. Emily's grandparents bail at the halfway point, citing the cold. Emily practically sprints back to the lodge, already posting her own review—a series of skull emojis followed by “heritage walks are where fun goes to die.”
I finish the route with two people: Harold's wife (who came back after locating his inhaler) and a quiet man in his sixties who actually seems interested in the architectural details.
“That was lovely, dear,” Harold's wife says when we return to the lodge. “Very educational.”
Educational. The death knell of entertainment.
“Thank you,” I manage. “I'm glad you enjoyed it.”
She pats my arm with the gentle condescension of someone who's about to tell you that your casserole was “interesting.” “You have such passion. It's just...” She glances around, making sure no one's listening. “Maybe next time, less about the foundations?”
Ma’am, I will bury you under a foundation.
“More about the romance.”
“The... romance?”
“You know.” She waggles her eyebrows in a way that is deeply unsettling on a woman her age. “The love stories. The scandal. The handsome Morgan men.”
She winks at me—actually winks—and toddles off to find Harold.
I stand there, frozen, my carefully prepared index cards clutched in my hand like the world's most useless security blanket.
This was supposed to be my thing. The one area where I could contribute without anyone questioning my motives or my presence. The one place where being Sierra Barrett, preservation nerd, was actually an asset.
And I bombed it.
I bombed it so hard that a travel blogger is currently telling her fifty thousand followers that this festival is a failure.
I'm still standing there, spiraling, when I hear Roman's voice from inside the lodge.
“We need to talk.”
Through the window, I catch him pulling Everett aside, their heads bent together in urgent conversation. Caleb and Nolan drift over, forming a tight cluster of Barrett brothers plus one Morgan, and even from here I can read the tension in their shoulders.
I slip inside, hovering at the edge of the great room, close enough to hear but not close enough to be part of the conversation.
Story of my life.
“Seven people,” Roman says, rubbing the back of his neck like the number physically hurts him. “Seven. And one of them was asleep.”
Caleb winces. “I saw the post.” He turns his phone so Everett and Nolan can see the screen.
“‘Watching paint dry would be more thrilling.’ It’s already got three hundred likes.
” He glances toward the window as if he hopes I didn’t hear that.
“Sierra worked her ass off. People on the internet can be—” He cuts himself off. “It’s not fair.”
“It’s been twenty minutes,” Nolan says quietly. “That… that’s not good velocity.” He doesn’t look smug about it. He looks worried. For the lodge. For me.
Roman blows out a breath, pacing a short line in front of the fireplace.
I’ve seen this once before. Back then, he was trying to solve a problem that feels too big to hold.
“We can’t afford this. The whole point was to get people excited, fill rooms, sell the festival.
Heritage walks alone aren’t doing that.”
Everett’s jaw hardens. “Sierra put a lot of work into that tour.”
Something small and bright flickers in my chest at the way he says it—protective, certain, like the work meant something.
“I know she did,” Roman says immediately, hands up. “And it showed. It was… thorough. Really thorough. Maybe it’s not the hook people respond to. Not right now.” He meets Everett’s eyes. Then, softer: “Not with what’s at stake.”
The flicker dims. But it doesn’t go out.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” Everett asks.
Roman glances at his brothers, but none of them jump in. For once, Caleb doesn’t lead with a joke. “We’ve been talking,” Roman says. “And we think maybe the walk needs a little… atmosphere. Not replacing Sierra’s work. Enhancing it.”
Nolan adds, “People like experiences. Night tours. Lanterns. Not to replace the history, but enhance it. Package it differently.”