Buns (Hudson Valley #3)

Fucking hell I missed that television.

I got out of bed and headed for the bathroom for a cool cloth to wipe my face and neck, the sweat now feeling cold and clammy. I looked at myself in the mirror, knowing sleep was now a goner for the rest of the night.

That nightmare was singularly capable of taking me down, knocking me out, and getting me completely off track. For years it’d been my Achilles’ heel, my soft spot. If I let it in, if I let those damn demons back into my head and my heart, it was bye-bye, Clara. Frustrated at the thought of endless hours lying awake thinking thoughts I truly didn’t want to think, I realized there was only one thing to do.

I hit the gym hard, running on the treadmill until my lungs burned. I needed the sweat. I also needed the focus.



The running had always helped. It shut out the dreams and the memories, my feet slapping the pavement or the grass or the packed sand or the rubber of the treadmill. Right then left. Right then left. A rhythm, a pattern, something that was always there, always constant, always waiting for me when I needed it. Right then left. Right then left. Eventually, if I ran fast and hard enough, it was all I heard.

And then the magic happened. The world fell away, the nightmare itself fell away, and my brain took over. The good part of my brain, the part that helped me plan and create, solve and fix. I thought not about my past and the pain that existed there, always in the past, no pain in the present, never pain in the present, and I focused on my job, my work, my literal salvation.

By the time dawn broke over the Catskills, I had an entirely new approach to the Bryant Mountain House problem.



“So I’ve been going over the bookings for this summer. And the last few years. How do you think you’ve been doing?” I asked.

I was in a meeting with Jonathan, Archie, and a few other members of the senior team, including the heads of guest services and reservations. I’d been somewhat surprised at how cordial Archie had been when I arrived this morning, pleasant even. Maybe we were over the hump, and he’d realized I was here to help, not hurt, his family’s legacy.

Don’t trust it . . . he’s up to something.

“Summer is always our busiest time, with a burst around each holiday,” he answered a bit haughtily. Wearing another perfectly pressed gray suit, it was accented with an orange tie and pocket square today. “We even have a waiting list in case any of the regular families cancel over Memorial Day weekend.”

“That’s great, that’s really great. But what concerns me are the other weekends, the non-holiday weekends, when bookings seem to be down across the board almost seven percent.”

“Seven percent over last year?” Archie asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s not too bad, I’m sure we’ll make it up by summer’s end. We always have a huge party Labor Day weekend, everyone looks forward to it, almost every room is booked,” Jonathan interjected, but his son looked concerned.

“Seven percent,” Archie repeated.

“Over last year.” I nodded, then pursed my lips together. “On top of a five percent decrease the year before, and a whopping eleven percent the year before that.”

“Well, we’re still recovering from the hit everyone took in ’08, no one was taking vacations that year.”

“Or the year after that,” I added, watching as Archie did some scribbling on his notepad. “Bottom line, even taking ’08 into account, your summertime bookings are down almost twenty-five percent when you compare them with a decade ago. And yet you’ve raised your rates every other year.”

“Well, that’s just in line with our normal rate increase. We’ve always done that, our guests know and expect that even an institution like Bryant Mountain House has to keep our pricing current with the market,” Jonathan answered.

“That’s just it, Jonathan,” I said, passing out some printouts, “you’re now overpriced. At a time when people are still struggling to get back the money they lost in their retirement plans and value is at a premium.”

“But we provide a premium product,” Archie said, two spots of red appearing high in his cheeks. “We can’t possibly offer our rooms at bargain-basement pricing. You mentioned value? The value of a vacation at this resort is incalculable.”

“Actually, it is calculable. Very much so. And while a rate increase is standard when costs are commensurate, you’ve implemented those same increases while your growth has slowed, effectively pricing out the most valuable commodity in the hotel industry—butts in beds.” I looked around the room at eyes that weren’t wide with shock but focused. They were listening. “Those old families are the life’s blood of your resort, no one is disputing that. The fact that you have a waiting list is incredible, bravo. But what happens when those old families are no longer? What happens when those last few dozen matriarchs pass away, and the old family stories and traditions of summers up at Bryant Mountain House are just memories that the younger generation can’t afford?”

“Those rate increases reflect things like the cost-of-living wage adjustments we provide to our staff every single year.” Archie spit these words out in a chillingly quiet way. But now his voice was rising, as well as his body, right up out of his chair. “Maintenance alone on a resort of this size is astounding. If we reduce our rates, how do you expect us to stay in business?” Archie snapped, throwing his notepad to the table.

I stood as well, leaning across the table, challenging him. “By getting your town involved. By getting local merchants involved. By bringing in the people of Bailey Falls and including them in this dynasty, instead of just sitting high up on your mountain and catering only to the wealthy.”