He cut me off, waving a hand in the air. Without taking his eyes off me, he said, “A word, please, Mrs. Banning.” Not a question.
And with that, he turned on his heel and exited the room, Mrs. Banning hot on his heels.
I’d not only gotten her in trouble, I’d literally lost every nanometer of ground I’d finally gained with Archie.
Fuuuuuck.
Chapter 8
The weather had finally broken. The ice had been melting for a few days, the sun had been shining, and a warm wind was blowing from the south, bringing with it the first real taste of spring. It hadn’t rained again in almost a week, the mud had finally dried . . . and it was time to run again. Outside.
Spring had sprung.
I’d been dying, dying to run outside, sick to death of the treadmill and the inside air. And this morning was finally my chance to get out there and tear it up a bit. I’d been poring over the trail maps, plotting out a course, and chatting with a few of the recreation guys to see what paths would be best this time of year.
I scrambled out of bed, the sun not even yawning yet, and pulled on a pair of leggings, a Dri-FIT shirt, and a thin Gore-Tex pullover. Spring had sprung, but it was still chilly. I filled my water bottle, laced up my shoes, and literally bounced down the stairs.
I’d been here long enough now to have established a routine. There weren’t many people up this early, but the few that were let me do my thing. I said hello to Howard, the nighttime guy at the front desk. I nodded a quick hey to Paul and Shawn, the modern-day scullery maids who were tasked with running around each morning and starting fires in the million and one fireplaces that covered this joint. The first urns of coffee were being put out in the Lakeside Lounge by Nancy, who helped out in the kitchen overnight and managed any late-night room service requests. I sniffed longingly at the scent of those heavenly roasted beans, but only after my run would I have any.
Slipping out onto the long porch, I raised one leg and then the other, stretching and feeling the good burn along the back of my quads. By now the sun had begun peeking over the tree line, the sky lightening to a soft gray rather than the charcoal it’d been when I left my room. I consulted the map I’d tucked in my jacket pocket once more, and trotted off in the direction of the trailhead.
I warmed up slowly, gradually picking up speed as my muscles relaxed and fell into their natural rhythm. The birds were chittering away by now, talking to each other and reporting their feathery news. I moved deeper into the forest, the trail twisting this way and that with a steadily increasing incline that a treadmill could mimic but never fully replicate.
My lungs filled with air, good clean mountain air that was chilly but invigorating. Chilly. That was the word to describe Archie at this point. Soooo chilly. The weather may have been thawing, but good lord, that man had icicles in his blood. Well, icicles when it came to me. When it came to the rest of the world, his beloved staff on his beloved mountain, he was all smiles. But for me? For me he reserved the iciest of everything, even when he managed to address me directly.
On at least three separate occasions he’d left the room when I’d entered. Literally left the room before I even had a chance to say a good morning or a howdy-do or a hey that bagel looks good are there more?
During the morning meetings when the entire team was required to be together he avoided asking me questions directly and when he did deign to address me personally, he did so in such a dismissive way that even his father had raised an eyebrow. And when he did argue with me about something, which was often, it wasn’t friendly fire.
“Wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“Wrong.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m sorry too, Ms. Morgan, that I had to sit here through an entire presentation on whether or not we need to change how we make our hot chocolate. We have always had homemade hot chocolate here at Bryant Mountain House, since the original lodge was here we—”
“You had hot chocolate waiting in a kettle over a roaring fire for guests to enjoy when they came in from their horse-drawn sleigh ride, complete with jingle bells and mashed potatoes tucked into their pockets to keep their gentle little East Coast hands warm and toasty,” I interrupted, having been painted this particular picture numerous times since I’d been here. Currier and Ives might actually be buried on this property for all the nostalgia I was being fed on the daily. “And I get it, I do. But for God’s sake, Mr. Bryant, you use three different types of imported chocolate to make the stuff! It’s ridiculously expensive! Do you have any idea how much money you could be saving in just one year in imported chocolate alone? Guests barely even drink it anymore, but that damn kettle is filled to the brim with hot freaking imported chocolate every day at teatime like there are still gaggles of horse-drawn sleighs zinging all over this mountain!”
“Baked potatoes.”
“What the hell is baked potatoes?” I sputtered, looking at him like he’d had a stroke.
“They didn’t carry mashed potatoes in their pockets, Ms. Morgan, they carried baked potatoes, heated in the very ashes beneath the kettle of hot chocolate.” He took off his glasses, cleaning them on the edge of his red paisley tie. “Mashed potatoes,” he scoffed. “Where are you going?”
“I’m off to the kitchen to slam my head in the oven a few dozen times, maybe toss in a few potatoes while I’m at it,” I shouted over my shoulder as I flung the door open and walked out of the meeting.
“Make sure you prick them first or they’ll explode” was what wafted out before the door shut, his tone telling me he thought he’d won this round.
“You know what,” I started, going right back into the meeting like I’d been using a swinging door, “I’ll give you something to prick—”
“Let’s take five, everyone, shall we?” Jonathan interrupted, as eleven department heads scattered from the conference room like buckshot, Archie being the last to saunter out casually with a satisfied grin.
“Fourteen thousand, seven hundred and thirty-three,” I seethed as he walked past.
“What’s that?” he asked, looking down over the bridge of his glasses at me.
“Fourteen thousand, seven hundred and thirty-three dollars is what you spent last year on hot chocolate supplies.”
He blanched.
I stuffed my notebook in my bag and headed for the door, passing just under his nose. “I haven’t even started adding up how much this place spends on freaking lemons for your special old-timey lemonade you serve in the summer. This is the shit, Mr. Bryant, and I’m sorry for the choice of words, but this is the shit that tanks old resorts. When you’re ready to discuss the very real and practical ideas I have to keep this place afloat, and keep your hot chocolate flowing, you let me know.”