“Got any guests who brought a toaster oven, a table saw, or a mini fridge with them?” His dimple shows, a joke that puts a brief smile on my face.
“Nope, haven’t seen anyone bring in any of that.”
“Could be a wiring problem.” Jim joins us in the lobby. “I might be able to fix it, but don’t sue me if you have a fire.”
“A second fire?” One of the women stands, worried.
“This place is a dump,” says the other. They leave their coffees on the table and squeeze past Nate and Jim. “Rose, pack your bags. We’ll stay in the next town over.”
“That’s an hour from here,” I remind them.
“I don’t care. Didn’t you hear me? Your hotel is a dump.”
I slam my palm on the reception desk. “It’s a lodge, not a hotel. A beautiful family lodge!”
Jim laughs at my minor meltdown, but Joss slips off her helmet and steps cautiously to my side. “Babe … take ten.” She sets her helmet on the desk.
“It’s not a dump. And it’s not gonna burn down!”
“Salem, it’s okay. The wiring is fine. The lodge is fine. Everything’s fine.” Her fingers skim along my forearms to help me relax. “Nothing’s going to burn down. Promise.”
“It will be a cold day in Hell before I stay here again,” one woman says. “I’m not ready to turn to ashes in my sleep.”
“Goody, go. She doesn’t need your business,” Joss says to her.
The woman’s eyes fly wide, finger pointed, deep creases between her brows. “Don’t you get snippy with me, missy.”
“Then stop being such a biddy.”
“W-w-w-what? What? A what?”
“Shrew,” Joss adds. “Hag. Old fart.”
“Dear Lord.” The woman gasps, holding her chest. Her friend takes her by the arm and spins her in the opposite direction. They toddle up the stairs like conjoined twins, blocking anyone from coming or going.
“God, this is so wrong.” I rub my temples to block out my mom’s voice in my head. Never works. I deserve to be chewed out over losing my cool, but with Joss, a good spat is in her blood. Doesn’t matter if her target is sixteen or sixty, if they need to be put in their place, she’ll do it.
Two other guests come out of their rooms and watch from the balcony. They whisper as if conspiring against me, then exchange concerned looks with the two women walking up the stairs.
“I’m calling AAA. They’ll send out a hotel inspector.”
“It’s not a hote—” Joss covers my mouth before I can finish.
“Go for it. This lodge is a landmark in these parts,” Joss goads them on, keeping me out of the argument.
Crackling and popping noises spill out of the outlet by the sitting room. The women shriek and climb faster. The chime begins another short jingle, only this time the door actually opens. Jim takes rapid steps to meet the unwanted guest walking in.
Brad Brenner.
Nate stands straight, puts his hands in his back pockets. More crackling. Another shriek. Smoke floats out of the outlet. Lights flicker. And in the midst of it all, Brad plods past Jim and sticks a flyer in Nate’s face.
“This you?” he asks. “Matthew Fields.”
“What?” Nate looks at the flyer of a missing child, a vein bulging on the side of his neck. “Back off, Brenner. Doesn’t look anything like me.”
Brad looks at the photo. “This kid went missing when he was six. Yeah, he looks just like you. Same age. And this one. See this.” He holds a second flyer in Nate’s face. “A girl who would be your mom’s age now, missing from the same town a few hours north of here. Tell me it’s just a coincidence. Go ’head.”
“Brad, get out.” I point to the door, leaving the safety of the reception desk. “Leave!”
“Rose, hurry. Faster,” one woman says. “They might have guns!”
“Lord, I don’t want to get shot,” says the other. “Please Lord, I don’t want to turn to ashes or get shot!”
“The lodge isn’t on fire and no one’s getting shot!” I yell, noting the small amount of smoke rolling out of the outlet. I signal to Joss to run and get the fire extinguisher.
Nate slams Brad hard in the chest, likely hoping to knock him off his feet. The jolt sends Brad back, but he’s quick to steady himself and pull his gun.
A woman gasps. “Run, Rose. Run!”
Nate freezes at the sight of the barrel. I demand Brad put it away, but I’ve become nonexistent to the male testosterone permeating the room.
“Get out, Brenner.” Nate’s face burns red. “Get the fuck out of here with that gun.”
Jim catches Nate’s right arm and pushes him back. He steps between him and Brad, his hand up for Brad to lower the gun.
“Jim, get back,” Nate says.
“No, I’ve got this.” Jim pivots to throw a punch, but Brad anticipates the move and ducks. He grabs Jim’s legs and tackles him to the floor.
“Put your hands behind your back. Hands behind your back, now! You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer.” Brad cuffs him in one swift action.
“He didn’t even touch you, I did,” Nate says.
“I can handle it!” Jim yells. “Don’t get involved, Nate. You’ve got more to lose.”
He runs his fingers through his hair, helplessly watching as Jim is yanked off the floor and led to the door. “Fuck. I wasn’t gonna punch him, Jim. You know that. You know that about me. It was just a shove.”
“It was the gun, Nate … Get my wallet and meet me at the station.”
“Brad, let him go!” Joss shouts. She hands me the fire extinguisher, grabs her helmet, and follows them outside. “Brad, stop!”
Ollie barks and paws to get out of the confines of my bedroom. An audience of four women forms on the balcony, their mouths open, wrinkled hands clenching the railing. Nate swears as he passes them on his way to his room.
Stunned by the domino of events that just wiped us all out, I’m unable to speak. I’d like to think I don’t appear shaken that the world around me is crumbling, but that’s doubtful. Honestly, I’m beside myself. The room is polluted with antsy faces staring down at me, and my hearing is lost in the magnitude of stress, stuffed to the max with cotton balls.
“Fuck,” I repeat Nate’s feelings.
This lodge has been the center of my existence forever. Doesn’t matter if the yard is an overgrown pigsty, the front sign is cracked, and only the sparrow is lit. The structure is the heart of the Whitfield family, it’s what’s important, something that can’t be replaced. I had the sense it would be a comfort until the day that I die. But it’s no longer a sure thing. This morning it’s become as fragile as a glass ornament dangling at the outer edge of a pine branch. When it drops, I won’t be fast enough to catch it. The collapse appears to be imminent.
I look to the fireplace for reassurance from my mom, her guidance absent. The response I want is merely my own thoughts and words imitating the woman I’ll never be. I could stare for days at the last place she was alive, but she’d never come back. Steadily watch the emptiness of the room for a sign, but there’d be none.
Biting my nail, I see her gray hair first, then her Robin’s-egg blue robe and bootie slippers. Virginia Pullman. Normally the first guest up and moving about in the morning, today she’s the last. She missed the spectacle.
Then again, Virginia is a spectacle.
Carrying a small cardboard box, she stops in front of me, face to the door, hesitant to leave.
“You okay?” My voice is broken and tight from anxiety.
“Not today, Salem. Tomorrow.” She places a folded slip of paper in my hand, eyes milky when she looks up. “I’m afraid my feet will get cold.”
Her slippers whisper across the wooden floor. With one hand on the box and the other glued to the door handle, she waits as if she expects me to stop her. I should ask where she’s going, if she’s checking out today, or if she wants a cup of tea, but part of
me says not to bother her, while another part wants to hug her. Virginia is the first guest who I’d happily invite to stay for eons. An apparent lost soul who belongs at Sparrow Lodge, like Joss, like Nate, like me.
She looks at the photograph of my family above the door, her hand falling from the handle. Her head tilts as she blows the photo a kiss. I see myself reflected in the glass, superimposed over Eli.
“Virginia?”
She opens the door and crosses into raw silence. No pretty jingle. No parting goodbye. Just the door closing, Ollie whimpering, the women departing from the balcony, and Nate in a whirlwind, leaving me alone with a burning plastic smell in the air.
The slip of paper handed to me by Virginia is the size of a fortune cookie message. I unfold it and finger over her exquisite penmanship, back and forth, sifting over the letters until the words sink in.
I’m not sorry.
sixteen
Tilford Lake’s electrician, Frank Ennis, arrived an hour ago to a cold and smoky lodge. My voice was edged in panic when I called him. Better now. A competent electrician at the lodge is reassuring that it won’t burn down. My brain believes that. Same as when Connor broke his arm when he was eleven. I thought he was going to die until the doctor came into Connor’s hospital room. Then everything was fine. A skilled professional would keep him safe. Just like Frank will protect the lodge. Positive thinking.
I work a glob of hand sanitizer into my palms, eyes on Frank as he kneels in front of the outlet, scratching his butt crack with a screwdriver. The same screwdriver I just picked up for him when it dropped next to my foot. How many times he’s used it for scratching his butt is unknown, the sanitizer a necessary safeguard just in case. I concentrate on his face when he looks over his shoulder, but the crack scratch … it’s one of those things that’s hard to ignore, like a piece of food stuck between someone’s teeth, or Joss’s boobs creeping out of her low-cut shirts.
He takes two chocolate donuts wrapped in cellophane out of his toolbox and tears the package open with his teeth. I have to say, not all the people in Tilford Lake are stereotypical small-towners, but Frank and his butt crack, eating chocolate donuts on the job … I guess there’s always a few who fit the part.
“The ground wire wasn’t properly attached,” he says. “How long has this extension cord been plugged into this outlet?” He takes a bite of one of the donuts, chocolate on his lips.
“About a month.”
“What was plugged in here before that?”
“Nothing.”
“Is it necessary?”
“Probably not.” I hug myself, rubbing my upper arms. It’s hard to admit I’m at fault. This is different than neglecting the playground and the pool. “Guests were complaining that the room was dark in the morning. I added a few lamps to the coffee station, but I ran out of outlets. The coffee pots and hot water are now on the extension cord. I plugged the extra lamps into the wall where the appliances used to be.”
He licks chocolate off his fingers. “You notice the pinched cord?”
“No.”
“I went over this with your mom a few years back. Use extension cords sparingly. Plug the small appliances back into the outlet and get an adapter for the lamps. The other problem with the flickering lights was the space heaters. Those are energy hogs.”
“Like I said, I didn’t see my guests bring them in, only walk out with them.”
He nods. “Add the info to your website. And tell people when they check in that they can’t use ’em. Could cause a fire.”
“Okay.”
He stands and pulls his jeans high over his gut, the remaining donut clamped between his teeth. He takes it out to speak. “Last thing. The sticker in the fuse box says you’re past your routine inspection date.”
“Is that bad? Shit. That’s bad. I know it’s bad.” I bite my fingernail. “I’ve fallen behind on a few things.”
He chuckles and looks around the lobby, spotting the tattered replacement rug, the pine garlands on the beams, and for sure he saw the charred rug on the front lawn when he got here. “Well, it’s not good. I have the rest of the morning free. Can do it now or come out the beginning of next week. Tuesday morning?”
“Now’s fine.”
He scratches his double chin, eyes on my flat hair, oversized hoodie, and sweatpants. After a night of sex and not showering this morning, I must look frumpy.
“You know, Salem. My daughter needs a job this summer before she heads off to school, in case you need an extra pair of hands to get the lodge in order.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“She’s a hard worker.”
I continue biting my nail.
Ollie opens one eye. He watches Frank gather his tools and head to the laundry room. Loafing in his dog bed, he’s satisfied with the ample behind-the-ear scratches he got from Frank earlier in the day. With a roll onto his back to stretch his stumpers, his fuzzy squirrel toy tumbles off and makes a lively squeak. It only takes a nanosecond for Olls to be on his feet to search for the source of the noise. I pick up the squirrel, squeak it, set it back on his bed. His tongue rolls out to say thanks. Ollie lives for hugs, a warm bed, and a full belly. Easy to please, I always tell people.
“You’re adorable, buddy.”
He sets his chin on the squirrel and closes his eyes.
“Talking to me?” Frank asks.
“No, sorry. My dog.”
“Oh.”
My chest shakes with silent laughter. Frank’s the one man in town that the older women gossip about. “He’s a catch,” “Nicest man in Tilford,” “His wife’s damn lucky, damn lucky,” they say.
I can see it. Frank has a stable, decent paying job. He’s overweight, but jolly, and has a big, toothy smile that ignites plump, raspberry cheeks. The kids in town think he’s Santa. And subconsciously, that could be why so many women find him attractive, seeing that Santa is the most lovable guy on the planet. That said, Brad fits the same description, but there is a significant difference between the two men.
One’s charming. The other’s a skunk.
The flyers Brad brought of the two missing people are on my desk. They have nothing to do with Nate. I checked the names online after everyone left. The boy was found years ago: a parental abduction. And the body of the woman who vanished was recovered in the woods after a bear attack. Brad’s grasping at straws, desperate to knock Nate out of the picture. All I can say is—good luck!
Ollie raises his ears, his droopy eyes set on the balcony. I look up.
A creak.
I hold my breath and wait to see if I hear it again. Seconds pass. There. There it is. A creaky floorboard, coming from the room next to Virginia Pullman’s, the room above my living room. Same spot Nate and I heard it the other day.
Room 2.
“Frank, I’m going upstairs for a sec. Holler if you need me.”
“All righty.”
I choke down a breath and climb the stairs, begging the sound be nothing. Or something easily explained, like the wind, or the age of the place. Old wooden buildings are known to creak, pop, and rattle. Or it could be the temperature drop. Wispy snowflakes are multiplying on the windows. Thermal contraction. Could be that. An evil spirit trapped in Room 2 also crosses my mind, but common sense snuffs out the absurdity of that one. But something’s in there, something other than a ghoul.
Adrenaline drives my feet, the creaking louder, faster. Blood rushes to my head as I turn the key. I open the door and see the empty rocker swaying in the corner, its curved legs creaking on the hardwood floor.
I sniff the fresh air, the room chilly from an open window. It must’ve been stuffy in here last night, smoke from the lobby drifting into this room, my guest upset. My guess, she cracked the window as a precaution to keep her quilts smoke-free.
A thin layer of snow swirls on the floor under the open window, the flakes gracefully skating like they’re on a frozen pond, a movem
ent that delays evaporation. I walk in and close the window, my fingers melting the ice flowers on the glass.
The creaking stops, the room now hushed.
I rap my knuckles on the dresser on the way out, dismissing my superstition that ghosts inhabit the lodge. Sweat has gathered in my armpits and behind my knees from the incident. I can’t account for the creaks Nate and I heard the other day, this room unoccupied at the time. Odds are it was the temperature change.
I lock Room 2 and open Virginia’s room. This will be the third time today that I’ve gone in here, confused by how spotless she left it. She made the bed and folded the towels as if she didn’t expect me to wash anything before the next guest checks in. No luggage or toiletries, nothing in the closet, not even a single piece of trash in the wastebasket. Virginia Pullman handed me a puzzling note and then she disappeared. She didn’t mention staying another day but left her car in the driveway. And I didn’t see which direction she went, whether she hit the road east, west, or wandered into the forest.
The tension in my shoulders jumps a level when Frank drops a tool.
“You okay?” I call down, closing Virginia’s room.
“All good. Only worry if the donut rolls out of my hand.” He chuckles.
“Roger that.”
I puff my bangs off my forehead, my gaze falling to Nate’s room. He hasn’t called. Joss either. And no return calls from Brad or Doreen at the station.
I walk over and lay my hand on his door, left open when he raced out. He was too busy to notice, stuffing wallets and keys inside his pockets, hopping on one foot to tie his boot. He kissed me and said not to worry. But I am worried, especially about Joss. I don’t want her to do anything foolish like I’ve pondered doing all morning. With his door open, I’m so tempted to step inside and break the rules, tempted to find out what the stack of papers is on the dresser. Tempted to do other things: sniff his pillow, dab his cologne on my wrist, wrap myself in his soft flannel shirt. Tempted to use his shower and share his towel.
I’m of two minds about it. Nate’s a guest. Guests are respected. Guests deserve privacy. But his naked body was pressed against mine. He was inside me. Only fair, I get to go inside his room.
The Release of Secrets: A Novel Page 13
