Blue Ridge Hideaway

by Cynthia Thomason

  “I’m not her keeper, Pop. But I certainly don’t want her driving that beat-up truck of hers down the mountain in the dark. And it’s freezing out there. The only place she can stay is that fleabag motel by the convenience store.” He tapped the phone against his thigh. “I’ll tell her she can stay here tonight.”

  “Okay, you do that. And I’ll make sure my door’s locked.”

  * * *

  DORIE JUMPED WHEN the knob turned, and she quickly put a few feet between herself and the door. The men came out of the kitchen. Bret looked at her, but his face was unreadable. In fact, father and son could have been a pair of granite bookends for all the clues she could derive from their expressions. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to get good news. She stood straight, hooked her thumbs into the pockets of her jeans and said, “Well?”

  His gaze never wavering, Bret rubbed his hand over the nape of his neck and said, “I need to sleep on this, Dorie. There are extenuating circumstances I need to consider.”

  “What extenuating circumstances?”

  “Well, for one, you can’t possibly think I have five thousand in cash in this building.”

  That would be nice, but also unlikely.

  “But I might have a plan.”

  A plan? The only plan she was interested in was one that put five thousand dollars in the palm of her hand. She narrowed her eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m going to try to work something out that is fair to everyone.”

  “Everyone?” She glared at Clancy. “I couldn’t care less about being fair to your father. He cheated me. He obviously doesn’t understand the meaning of the word fair.”

  “I know it seems that way,” Bret said. “But you have to admit that I’m not responsible for his mistakes.”

  Yes, she supposed she did have to admit that. But doing so wouldn’t get her the money, so she said, “What about the Donovan family honor? Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  A grin tugged at his mouth. “I think our family honor, if we ever had any, went up in smoke at the craps table in Mountain City.”

  “So I’m supposed to go away and let you two ‘sleep on this’? I guarantee you I won’t be having such a good night’s sleep while you’re deciding my future.”

  “About that...” Bret said. “There are no places I’d recommend for you to stay in this area. So I’m suggesting you don’t have to leave here.”

  “Yeah, right. Like I’m going to stay with you two.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m hoping you decide.”

  She put her hand up to stop all discussion of bunking anywhere within a mile of Clancy Donovan. By morning, he’d have devised a plan to steal back the fifty bucks he’d given her. “Thanks, but no—”

  “You can’t attempt the drive down the mountain in the dark, Dorie,” Bret said.

  “That’s why they invented headlights.”

  “Still, one wrong turn and you could end up in a gully or wrapped around an oak tree. In these temperatures, there will be icy patches, and I’m guessing you don’t have all-weather tires. You’re used to driving near the beach. This mountain is a whole different story.”

  She pondered her options. She didn’t want to accept what these guys believed might pass for hospitality. The last thing she wanted was any reason to be grateful to them. One night under their roof didn’t compensate for the money Clancy owed her.

  Apparently assuming her silence meant she was considering his advice, Bret continued. “You can stay here or your closest choice is the Sleep Haven Motel next to the convenience store. Did you get a good look at that place?”

  She had, and she’d been glad she planned to get her money and leave for Winston Beach without a layover. The only kind of “haven” the motel appeared to offer was for roaches.

  Her attention switched from son to father. Bret seemed to be sincere. And he’d more or less promised her an answer, or a plan by the morning. Clancy hadn’t looked at her since he’d come back into the room. His eyes remained fixed on a knot in the wood plank flooring.

  She huffed in frustration. “Okay, I’ll stay. But I’m sleeping with one hand wrapped around my can of mace.”

  Bret placed his hand over his heart. “Ouch.” And then he smiled, and she felt that sense of comfort again. And she didn’t like it all that much. A girl gets to feeling too comfortable with a man, and that’s when her life starts unraveling.

  “We’re perfect gentlemen, aren’t we, Pop?” Bret said.

  Finally Clancy looked up and met her gaze. “You might be, son, but I don’t think Dorie will believe it of me.”

  “Anyway, I’m glad that’s settled,” Bret said, glancing over his shoulder at the kitchen door. “When I was talking to Pop just now, I opened a couple of cans of stew and set a pot on the stove to heat. It might be ready by now. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  Her mouth watered just thinking about it. “I could eat, I guess.”

  “Fine. I think a meal will do us all some good. Have a seat and I’ll bring out the grub.”

  She almost laughed out loud. “Grub? What is this place, junior? A Boy Scout camp?”

  He gave her a serious stare. “Funny thing. That’s exactly what it used to be. But not anymore. Now it’s for grown-up Boy Scouts. Ones with money who are looking for a whole new level of merit badges.”

  He went into the kitchen and Dorie wondered what he meant. What kind of a place had she wandered into?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DORIE USED A thick slice of bread to soak up the last of the gravy in the bottom of her bowl. “This came out of a can?” she said when she realized Bret was staring at her, an amused expression on his face. Let him laugh if he wanted to. It wasn’t a crime to be hungry.

  “Sure did. Got it at the big box store in Asheville the last time I went for supplies.

  “Well, it’s good.”

  The wine was good, too. Dorie had been surprised when Bret had brought out the bottle and two glasses. She’d smiled at the images of moose on the tumblers—the glasses were definitely more suited to iced tea or, as in Clancy’s case, a frothy serving of Guinness.

  Bret held the bottle over Dorie’s glass, but she covered the opening with her hand. “No more for me. I need a clear head to deal with the Donovan men.”

  He added an inch or two to his own glass. “Oh, come on. You don’t think we’re all that scary, do you?”

  “No, I guess not.” But this place is. She stared out the window to the exterior of the porch where a single exposed lightbulb attracted hardy insects not burrowed in somewhere against the cold. Beyond the porch, the woods were black. “Does it always get so dark up here?” she asked.

  “On this side of the mountain, yes. On the other side, the direction the sun sets, it stays lighter a bit longer. But this is the country. We don’t exactly have streetlights on every corner. We don’t even have corners.”

  She definitely wasn’t used to outdoor living of this magnitude. Living so close to the beach when she was growing up, Dorie had gone to the ocean nearly every day, but then her mother had run off, and at eighteen, Dorie had suddenly been in charge. Her beach visits had become less frequent. The brief note her mom had left saying she was sorry, and they’d be better off without her hadn’t excused her abandonment in Dorie’s mind.

  But the small wood-framed cottage her mother had purchased for the family worked just fine for Dorie and Jack and, amazingly, had been paid off a couple of years before Linda Howe’s departure. Dorie had had to borrow against the house on a couple of occasions, and she’d only been late on her loan payments a few times. Though built in the fifties, the bungalow was Dorie’s pride. The house wouldn’t last forever in the punishing sea air, but she kept the appliances up and regularly painted and repaired what needed attentio
n. And she enjoyed the lights that illuminated her street every night.

  She casually stretched to cover any sign that the darkness bothered her. Then she picked up her bowl and glass and headed toward the kitchen.

  Bret rose and took the dishes from her. “I’ll take care of this.” Glancing at Clancy, he said, “On second thought, Pop, the least you can do is clean up.”

  “I suppose I could.” Clancy stacked the dishes and went into the kitchen.

  Dorie put on her jacket. She didn’t look forward to going outside in the cold but she needed a bag from her truck. Luckily she’d packed a change of clothes and a few grooming products just in case.

  Bret gave her a quizzical look. “Where are you going? I thought we’d decided you’d stay here. I really don’t think you should drive on that road tonight.”

  She almost smiled. “Worried about me, junior?”

  “I’d worry about anyone foolish enough to attempt that narrow path in conditions like these.”

  “Well, don’t be. I’m not going anywhere. Despite your announcement of a possible plan, we didn’t actually come up with a solution that works for me.” She fumbled with her zipper. “But a girl can only carry so much in her pocket. Mine was used for mace, so I have to get my toothbrush out of my truck.”

  “Want me to go with you?”

  “You’re offering to escort me a few feet out your door? I don’t think so, junior. I’m not afraid of a few fireflies.” Lies, all lies. In Dorie’s mind there could be plenty of larger creatures out there that would scare the daylights out of her.

  “Leave the door open and yell out if you need me.” He covered her hand with his and helped yank the stubborn zipper to her neck. When the pulse in her wrist quickened, she pulled her hand free.

  “I’m glad you’re staying,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, I’m hoping you’re my fairy godfather and you’re going to slip five thousand dollars under my pillow tonight.”

  “I don’t exactly keep five grand in small bills around this place,” he said.

  “And I don’t believe in fairy tales.”

  She went out the door and, without looking in any direction other than her truck, she dashed off the porch and flung open the passenger door. With one quick swipe, she had her pack under her arm and was running back.

  Bret had settled at the picnic table again and was rubbing his thigh much as he’d done before. She set her pack on the table and sat across from him.

  “What’s wrong with your leg?” she asked, surprised that she might actually care.

  “Job-related injury. I’m still in recovery mode.”

  “Related to your painting-and-scraping job or your cop job?”

  “The latter.”

  “So were you a cop here in North Carolina?” She thought that because of Jack’s involvement in a shooting, that might be an important detail to know. Maybe this ex-cop was one of the good ones, and she could actually tell him why she needed the money and how Jack had been treated so unfairly by the police in Winston Beach. On the other hand, maybe he was part of some brotherhood of North Carolina cops and wouldn’t feel a bit of sympathy for Jack. Because the local police believed Jack was guilty, Bret automatically would, as well.

  “Miami,” he said without adding details.

  “And so you gave up the excitement of police work in a city like Miami, Florida, to commune with nature?”

  “I moved here because I wasn’t crazy about working a desk job,” he said. “Among other reasons.”

  Earlier, she’d come up with a few explanations for his hermitlike existence—an unfavorable internal affairs incident at his old job, a love gone sour or being stalked by a vengeful parolee he’d put away. Now, hearing this scant bit of information, she figured he was in the mountains because he’d suffered an injury and could no longer serve as an active-duty police officer. That had to be tough.

  “So what is your purpose here?” she asked. “Besides peeling off old paint?”

  “That’s just part of what I’ve done to this place,” he said. “And what I still need to do. The Crooked Spruce is more or less the realization of a dream of mine. I don’t know if you looked around when you first drove up, but the property extends for a couple of acres. There are a few rudimentary cabins out back of this one. An old bathhouse and a shed. The buildings are pretty weathered but still stable enough.”

  Once she’d arrived on Crooked Spruce property, she hadn’t seen anything but the main building and Bret Donovan up on the ladder. Still, after Bret’s description, she didn’t think she’d missed much. “So this really was an old Boy-Scout camp?” she said.

  He nodded. “It was closed down almost thirty years ago when attendance fell off. The state of North Carolina took over the deed and held on to the acreage. Why, I don’t know. They didn’t do much to beautify the place. But I guess even the minimal upkeep needed to stop the structures from falling down wasn’t justified, so some bureaucrat up in Raleigh convinced the state to put the place up for sale about a year ago.”

  “And you bought it?”

  “I did.”

  “Cops make pretty good money in Miami, I guess.”

  “We make a little higher than the national average, but I had only saved enough for a down payment on the property.” He leveled his index finger against his brow. “I’m up to here in mortgage debt. And I’ve just about maxed out my credit cards.”

  She was sorry to hear that, for Jack’s sake, but couldn’t help pointing out the obvious. “But you had enough to loan Clancy three grand when he needed it.”

  “Yeah. I wish I still had it. I didn’t realize how much fixing this place up would set me back. If I had that three grand now I’d hire plumbers and carpenters, and other experts who wouldn’t have to dance around the code-enforcement guys.” He shook his head. “Never mind. I’m learning a lot thanks to the library of do-it-yourself books I’ve collected in the past few months. And they know me pretty well at the Home Depot.”

  “I guess you’re not planning on bringing back the Boy Scouts.”

  “Not hardly. The Boy Scouts haven’t been interested in this property in years. No reason to think they would be now.”

  Dorie looked around the lodge room. “This must have been the main structure.”

  “Yep. The kitchen was here when I bought the place. I put in the fireplace and shelves and bought the furniture.”

  “It’s kind of a shame, you know,” Dorie said. “I would think all this woodsy-ness and outdoor living would still attract young people. But I read somewhere that there aren’t as many Boy Scouts as there used to be.”

  “I read that, too.”

  “Too bad,” she said. “In my opinion, that leaves a void that should be filled somehow. Kids need guidance, even if it’s not from a parent.” She paused. “Especially if they don’t have parents.” She thought of Jack and how staying in a place like this might have helped him on his road to adulthood. Under the mentorship of a good adult he might have learned responsibility and finished high school. He might have been saved.

  “Maybe so, but it won’t be filled by me. I’m catering to an entirely different clientele. Grown-ups with money, I hope.”

  She stared out the window where the bugs had increased in number and were circling the lightbulb in a frenetic search for warmth. Right. Rich people with designer insect repellent were going to flock to this backwoods location. “You know, junior, this isn’t exactly the Ritz-Carlton.”

  He frowned. “Would you quit calling me junior? I told you my name’s Bret.”

  “Okay, Bret.”

  “And this wasn’t meant to be the Ritz-Carlton. It’s an outpost.”

  “Which is what exactly?”

  He explained the dual purpose of his camp. An outpost was a sort of refuge for folks on the tr
ail, a spot where they could shower and sleep one night in a bed. But The Crooked Spruce would also serve as an outfitter’s store, a place where hikers could purchase gear they had forgotten or suddenly decided they needed.

  “So what’s your plan for attracting the jet-set crowd?” she asked.

  “I’m planning to cash in on one of the latest fads of corporate ladder climbers.”

  She snickered. “What fad is that? CEOs like freeze-dried food and sleeping bags now?”

  He shrugged. “As a matter of fact, they do. Believe it or not, Dorie, guys like to prove their mettle on the open trail under seemingly harsh conditions.”

  “Seemingly harsh?”

  “Oh, sure. The weather, the setting, the wildlife. All that can be harsh, but comfort is only a matter of the gear you invest in.”

  “And where do you find these adventurous CEOs?”

  He proceeded to tell her how he hoped to market his new enterprise by saturating the internet with advertising about his Blue Ridge Mountain outback experience. He’d started to put together a list of sites frequented by over-stressed executives and people looking for a different vacation experience, one that got them about as far away from city life as possible.

  “This part of the Blue Ridge, what’s called the old Timber Gap Trail, is just far enough from the well-traveled Appalachian Trail to be tempting to men wanting to hone their survival skills,” he explained. “On this mountain you won’t find campers every few hundred yards, so the guys who’ll come here are on their own until they hit The Crooked Spruce.”

  “And you think that’s what the modern executive is after?” She gave him a skeptical look. “What makes you think the Caribbean or Europe isn’t their destination of choice?”

  His eyes burned with a secret enthusiasm she had yet to fathom. “Look at all the reality shows on TV now,” he said. “Bosses disguising themselves as workers, millionaires going into ghettos, normal suburbanites taking on survival experiences. I’m telling you, the modern man secretly yearns to explore his wild side.”