“Never mind, Beverly, just kidding.”
“Oh, this place is gonna be fun.” Caroline laughed, setting down her bag and taking in the three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the lobby. “And gorgeous.” She wandered over to the wallpaper, running her finger down the seam. “Linen. Expensive. A solid choice.”
“Really?” I asked, my heart sinking. Maybe I didn’t know as much as I thought I did, maybe the look of the hotel was exactly right and on point.
“A solid choice,” she repeated, then looked me straight in the eye, “if it were still 1982.”
I let out my breath. “Which it is not.”
“Nope,” she agreed, taking a few steps farther in. Looking down at the carpet, she rocked back and forth a few times, thunking her heel down. “There’s hardwood under here, you just know there is.” Her eyes danced.
I decided at that exact moment that no matter what she wanted to do, I was going to do my damnedest to make sure she got hired. As long as I could get Archie to cough up the money.
“I literally can’t wait to see this place, I’ve been reading up ever since you contacted my office last month,” Caroline said as I picked up her bag and led her to check-in. “I’ve already got some great ideas, although I’m sure you’ve got some of your own since you said we needed an overhaul of epic proportions.”
“She said what?”
Dammit. I set the bag down, looked sideways at Caroline, and we both turned with the sweetest possible grins plastered across our pretty faces.
“Epic proportions only in the sense of the scale of the rooms, Mr. Bryant. Of course, when I emailed Jillian Designs and requested the world-renowned interior designer Caroline Reynolds—”
“Hyphen Parker,” she chimed in.
“—of course, hyphen Parker, she was delighted when I told her how big and grand the rooms were, how truly luxurious and exceptional this property was,” I continued, nodding at Archie.
“Oh yes, and can you imagine how thrilled I was that I’ll be able to say that I worked in the famous Bryant Mountain House? Why, it’ll practically ensure I can work at any hotel, I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Bryant. Archie, I presume?” Caroline smiled, batting her lashes just enough that I knew he was done for.
Archie stood there, looking back and forth between the two of us, slightly befuddled but too gracious to show it. Bless his heart. He’d never be able to go up against the two of us.
But we’d let him think he won a few rounds.
I spent the morning giving Caroline the grand tour and reassuring Archie repeatedly that we wouldn’t go overboard and that yes, this was necessary.
“I just can’t get over the fact that these are all antiques, real antiques, not reproductions,” Caroline gushed. We were standing in one of the Victorian rooms in the east wing, the wing I’d suggested we close down next winter to begin the renovations. “And the fireplaces, my God! Who would ever build a hotel these days and put fireplaces in every single room? Wood burning, no less.”
“No one, is the easy answer,” I replied, moving to the window and looking at the mountains. “No one would ever build a place like this again. It’s too big, too fancy, the raw materials alone would price any builder right out of the market, to say nothing of the liability from an insurance perspective of having wood-burning fireplaces in every single room.” I sighed. “A place like this will never be built again.”
“I hate to say it, but you’re right,” Caroline said. She ran her fingers over the wall, tapping at the wallpaper. “There’s plaster under this, actual plaster. Laid over chicken wire, and likely three layers of lath. That plaster is held together by lime, sand, possibly seashells, and almost definitely mixed with horsehair to bind it together. Can you imagine?” She pointed up at the ceiling where pictures hung by wire from the molding. “That’s why there’s almost always a picture rail in everything constructed before the turn of the last century, sometimes even through the twenties. That plaster is strong, almost like cement, but you drive a nail through it, something that was never supposed to be done, and it’ll crumble like sand. But taken care of? You almost never need to repair it.” She smoothed her hand over the wall. “Not even a ripple. They literally built this place to last.”
I smiled. She got it.
“The interior design, however,” she said briskly, grabbing her camera and beginning to work. “That was not meant to last. This we can change.”
“Change?” Archie asked, standing just inside the door. He’d excused himself for a bit to finish up some work before rejoining us for the room inspection.
“Easy, Mr. Bryant,” I cautioned. “Nothing crazy, just a face-lift, right, Caroline?”
“Exactly,” she answered, moving around the room as she took several pictures. “Here’s the thing, Archie, do you know why so many houses from the 1920s have white-painted woodwork? Wood paneling, floor to ceiling in some cases, like in a dining room, but it’s been painted over, do you know why?”
Archie looked at me, then back at Caroline, his face draining of color by the second. “You’re not planning on painting over any wood paneling, are you? Because when I mention the words ‘heart attack’ and ‘myself’ in the same sentence, I can assure you it is not an exaggeration.”
Caroline ignored the question. I couldn’t ignore the way his freckles stood out against his imaginary heart attack face in the cutest way.
“The wood paneling got painted over, Archie, usually in the forties, because housewives then didn’t want a house that looked like their mother’s. When those homes were built, everything was beautiful wood paneling. Now we look at it as gorgeous, beautiful, exquisite craftsmanship and timeless detail. Right?”