“Oh, for God’s sake, come on,” I said, tugging the two of them to the dining room.
As we traipsed down the hallway, Roxie was marveling at everything she saw. “I haven’t been up here in ages, not since I was a kid! Mom used to bring me here every year for Easter—they’ve got the most incredible Sunday brunch, after the egg hunt on the front lawn, of course. But what I remember best were the hot cross buns.”
“Hot cross buns, as in, one a penny, two a penny?” Natalie asked.
“Oh, I’m sure these cost more than a penny. These were the best, all puffy and flaky and cinnamony on the inside with the tiniest little currants you’ve ever seen, glossy golden brown on the outside, and this perfect white cross made out of glaze on the top. I used to take them apart piece by piece, bite by bite, to try and figure out which spices other than cinnamon they put in, whether they stirred or folded in the currants, oh, they were the best.”
Natalie and I were used to Roxie waxing poetic about her food; it was clear it’d always been her calling. Once she spent twenty minutes—and I know this because I looked at my watch when the story was over—telling us the history of the carrot and how orange carrots edged all the other colored carrots out of the marketplace and into our hearts forever. And I’d like to tell you I was paraphrasing, but she used that exact wording.
“I like hot cross buns. I like to eat them with my mouth. I don’t really care how they got made.” Natalie never could resist.
“Okay, weirdos, be on your best behavior tonight, please and thank you,” I instructed as we made our way toward the entrance to the dining room. We’d passed by it earlier on the guided tour, but I hadn’t actually been inside yet.
It was gorgeous! As we followed the hostess to our table, my head swiveled like an owl as I took in the soaring ceilings, the artistry that went into the carvings on the walls, the sheer amount of wood that went into the construction of this room. And once more, a fireplace big enough and wide enough to roast a pig.
Once we were seated, I took a look at the rest of the dinner guests. Making mental notes all the while, I realized that not only was the dining room barely half full, I only counted two couples even close to my age, and only one family with small children. Nearly everyone else was retirement age at least, older in many cases. Great for client loyalty, but realistically they’d need to be replaced with new clients, new families and couples who viewed Bryant Mountain House as their special place in the mountains.
“You’re working, aren’t you?” I heard Roxie ask, and I turned to find her looking at me expectantly.
“Hmm?” I shook out my napkin and placed it in my lap. A napkin that had been folded together and placed inside a ring, an honest to God napkin ring. And finger bowls, good night, there were finger bowls on the table. I hadn’t seen a setting like this since I toured the Queen Mary.
“You’re working. I can see those wheels turning.”
“Oh, sorry, I guess.”
“She’s always working, this one, always with the working. You can’t turn it off, can you?” Natalie pointed a finger at me.
“Excuse me, that is why I’m here,” I said, pointing a finger right back at her. “And I’m not technically working, I’m here with you fools.” They were right, though. It was hard to turn off. Even the rare vacation I took, I couldn’t help but look critically at whatever hotel I was staying in.
Usually I was alone, so no one had to watch me jump through my mental hoops.
These two, however. They knew me too well.
A waiter with a tray of glasses appeared out of nowhere. “Ladies, your cocktails.”
“We didn’t order any cocktails,” I started to say, as a glass of bubbly was set down before me.
“Every meal at Bryant Mountain House begins with a champagne cocktail,” he said, setting down the final glass with a flourish.
I inspected the flute, filled to the brim with bubbles and with a tiny sugar cube nestled at the bottom and topped off with a twist of lemon. “Every meal?”
“Or another cocktail if you prefer, maybe a Grasshopper? Pink Squirrel?”
“A Pink Squirrel? What the hell year is this?” Natalie asked through the side of her mouth.
“I’m no longer sure,” I answered, raising the glass to my lips. “Well, shall we?”
We each sipped at the same time, grimaced at the same time like we’d planned it, and quickly set them aside.
“A champagne cocktail, I can’t wait to tell my mom about this, I had no idea they were still doing this up here!” Roxie laughed, reaching into her purse and firing off a quick text to Trudy.
“I take it this is another one of those long-standing mountain house traditions?” I asked. “I’ll add that to my list of wow, seriously?”
“How’s it going, by the way? Too soon to tell?” Roxie asked.
“I’m just barely scratching the surface, but I’ve got some thoughts,” I mused.
“It’s amazing up here, isn’t it? I mean, we could never afford to stay here when I was growing up, but we still made it up here for some of the bigger events. Christmas, sometimes Halloween, and they always had the most beautiful Easter Sunday celebration.”
“With the buns,” I reminded her, and she smiled.
“Totally with the buns.”
“Speaking of buns . . .” Natalie said, and I followed her gaze. There was my tour guide, moving smoothly from table to table, chatting up the guests and charming the blue hair right off those little old ladies. Dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, powder-blue tie, and yet another coordinated pocket square, Archie filled out his attire quite nicely, I had to admit. If Leo was the rugby player and Oscar was the football player, Archie looked like he’d play water polo. Long and lean, his shoulders were broad, his waist slim. And the buns?
Yeah. Even I had to admit they were pretty great.
But I worked for those buns. So . . .
“Let us not discuss Archie’s buns, okay?” I said, picking up my menu card and examining my choices.
“How’d you know I was talking about Archie?” Natalie said, casting a quick glance at Roxie.
“You weren’t?” I asked.
“Oh, I totally was, but it’s just interesting that you knew immediately who I was talking about when I mentioned that someone in this room, other than me, had a great ass.”
I looked to Roxie for help. “Tell her to stuff it, please and thank you.”
She nodded. “I’ll tell her to stuff it right after you tell us how you knew exactly who she was talking about.”
“We’re not having this discussion, he’s my boss. And an asshole.”
“She’s blushing, she’s totally blushing. Clara never blushes.” Natalie laughed, and I held my head in my hands. “You’ve got a crush. You got here yesterday and you’ve got a crush.”