“Christmas. It’s the best time, isn’t it?”
Not for me, Hattie thought, as she checked the room occupancy. The first Christmas after Brent had died had been hideous, and last year hadn’t been much better. She’d wanted to burrow under the covers until it was all over, but instead, she’d been expected to inject festive joy into other people’s lives. And now it was the end of November again and Christmas was just weeks away.
Still, providing she didn’t lose any more staff, she’d no doubt find a way to muddle through. She’d survived it twice, and she’d survive it a third time.
“You’re in luck. We do still have a few rooms available, including one double facing the mountains. Would you like me to reserve that for you?”
“Is it a corner room? I do like more than one window.”
“It’s not a corner room, and there is only one window in this particular room, but it has wonderful views and a covered balcony.”
“There’s no way of getting a second window?”
“Sadly not.” What was she supposed to do? Knock a hole through the wall? “But I can send you a video of the room before you make your choice if that would help.”
By the time she’d taken the woman’s email address, put a hold on the room for twenty-four hours and answered the rest of her questions, half an hour had passed.
When the woman finally ended the call, Hattie sighed. Christmas promised to be a nightmare. She made a note under the reservation. Pink sheets. Linen.
How would Brent handle it? It was a question she asked herself a million times a day and she allowed herself to glance at one of the two photographs she kept on the desk. This one was of Brent swinging their daughter high in the air. Both were laughing. Sometimes, she’d discovered, remembering the best of times sustained you through the worst.
She was about to search the internet for pink linen sheets when someone cleared their throat in an exaggerated fashion.
She looked up to find Stephanie, the head housekeeper, glowering at her.
Stephanie had been another of Brent’s appointments. Almost all the staff had been Brent’s choice. Before Brent had recruited her, Stephanie had been head housekeeper at a renowned hotel in Boston. Her credentials are impeccable, he’d said after he’d interviewed Stephanie, and she’s ferociously organized and capable.
Hattie had agreed with the ferocious part. She’d pointed out that Stephanie’s manner had bordered on rude and that she might be difficult to manage, but Brent had dismissed her concerns and assured her that he’d be handling the staff so it wouldn’t be her problem. Except that now she was handling it, and it was her problem. Everything was her problem.
“Do you have a sore throat, Stephanie?” She knew she shouldn’t have said it, but she was ground down by the woman’s relentlessly negative attitude. Dealing with her was energy sapping. Stephanie had respected Brent—there had been moments when Hattie had wondered whether she’d been feeling something more than respect—and responded to his unbridled enthusiasm for everything, but clearly found Hattie’s more gentle nature nothing but an irritation.
“I have bigger problems than a sore throat. That stupid girl somehow gathered up a red item with the bed linen when she was dealing with the River Room.”
Hattie pretended to be clueless. “I’m not sure who you mean.”
“Chloe.” Stephanie’s mouth was a tight line. “She’s a disaster. I have lost count of the number of times I have warned her to shake out the linen to make sure guests haven’t left anything in the bed. I warned you not to hire her and I have no idea why you did. And now this has happened.”
Hattie had hired Chloe because she was friendly and enthusiastic, which she believed to be important qualities. An establishment like the Maple Sugar Inn survived on its reputation, and that was only as strong as its staff. Chloe made people feel nurtured and important. Stephanie was more like a Doberman guarding a compound.
“Chloe is warm and helpful and the guests love her. I’m sure she won’t do it again.”
“Brent would never have hired her.”
Hattie felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. “Brent isn’t here.”
Stephanie had the grace to flush. “I do realize the last few years have been hard for you, Harriet, and you’re not a natural manager, but you have to be firm with staff. You’re the innkeeper. You’re the one in charge now. Your problem is that you’re too nice. A good manager should be able to fire someone.”
Hattie had no intention of firing Chloe. She was one of the few members of staff who didn’t bring tension into the room with her.
“This is her first job,” Hattie said. “She’s learning. Mistakes happen.”
“This is supposed to be a quality establishment. Quality establishments don’t tolerate mistakes.”
The whole venture was a mistake, Hattie thought wearily. What were you thinking, Brent? “I’ll talk to her. Where is she?”
“In the laundry room, crying. I just hope she’s not blowing her nose in the sheets.”
Maybe they could cry together, Hattie thought as she made her way through the welcoming reception area and past the open door of the library. She gave the well-stocked bookshelves a longing look, wishing she had time to snuggle down in an armchair in front of the flickering log fire and escape for a while. The library was her favorite room and nothing pleased her more than seeing someone curled up on one of the sofas with a book.
Occasionally, she envied her guests, who were pampered and cared for, their every need anticipated, their every wish granted. Her guests did seem happy and most of them booked again, so maybe she wasn’t doing such a bad job as an innkeeper even if she was a terrible people manager. Was she a terrible people manager? Or was it just that she wasn’t good at managing terrible people?
She headed downstairs and found Chloe exactly where Stephanie had said—in the laundry room.
Her eyes were red and she scrubbed her face with her hand when she saw Hattie.
“I’m sorry,” Chloe muttered. “She told me I had to change the bed in four minutes, so I was going for speed. I messed up, I know I did, but Mrs. Bowman frowns so much that she makes me nervous and flustered and then I make mistakes.”
Hattie wondered if she should confess that Stephanie Bowman had the same effect on her.
“Don’t worry about it.” She patted the girl on the shoulder. “Everything is fine.”
“No, it isn’t. The bedding is ruined.” Chloe’s face was scarlet. “It’s supposed to be snow-white, and now it’s pink. And not pale pink, but pink. I’m going to try washing it again, but I think the color is stuck fast. It will have to be thrown away.”
“It really doesn’t—” Hattie let her hand drop. “Wait a moment. Did you say pink?”