Snowed Inn

by Heather Horrocks

  Grant was Sharon’s husband, and Sharon was the cook who failed to show up at the appointed time, over an hour ago. “Oh, I’m so glad to hear from you, Grant.”

  “Sharon’s been in a car accident.”

  My breath caught and my head grew light as I instantly flashed back to Robert’s accident. Clutching the phone, I whispered, “Is she all right?”

  “Who?” asked Liz from behind me. I motioned her for silence.

  “She broke her leg, but otherwise, she’ll be fine,” he reassured me.

  Relief swept through me. “What happened?”

  “The road up to your place is slick as a snail’s bottom. She slid off across from Horse Feathers.” That was the dude ranch five properties below us on Porter Mountain.

  Dismayed, I replied, “I was sure the weatherman said it was only going to drop an inch of snow and move on.”

  “Not the first time Henley’s been wrong, now, is it?”

  Crossing to the front door, I touched the original Tiffany-style stained glass pane, and the cold on my fingertips made me shiver. Gray clouds hovered over the mountains on the far side of the fertile valley and a few inches of new snow frosted the ground, but it wasn’t snowing now. Apparently, it lasted just long enough to take my cook out of commission. I hoped it wouldn’t keep the guests holed up in a Park City hotel.

  “She wanted you to know she’s really sorry. The doctor’s still setting her leg. I’ll be working in Wyoming next month, so she’ll stay with her parents in Salt Lake.”

  The panic that subsided at “she’ll be fine” resurged at the realization I now had no cook at all.

  “Tell her I hope she gets better quickly. She’ll be in my prayers.”

  As I hung up, Liz raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

  Turning to her, my stomach in knots, I explained Sharon’s accident. “If I have to cook, I’m in trouble.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. I saw your failed cooking experiments in Mrs. Hughes’s class. Your blackened brownies were my favorite.” She grinned at me. “Maybe we could buy some Hamburger Helper.”

  “Liz, this is serious. Who can I possibly get to cook for me at this late hour? Cielo doesn’t do big meals. I can’t and neither can you. That leaves Zach, his imaginary dog or…”

  “Grandma. Perhaps you should rethink sending her away.”

  “The guests will be here in two hours and my only options are my cooking or Grandma’s?” Panic nipped at my edgy nerves. “Do you know how long it’s been since she cooked for a large group?”

  “Well, you never have. At least she has experience. Besides, how hard could it be? You’re just like Mom, which means you already have all the meals planned, and that’s the hardest part.”

  I glanced toward the kitchen. “I don’t know. She seemed pretty ticked off.”

  “That’s just for show; you know that. I’m sure you can sweet talk her into it.” She motioned toward the kitchen. “I’ll go with you.”

  Okay. I could do this. I could convince Grandma to cook for me. Liz was right. Grandma was the least senile person I’d ever met. So, of course she could cook for me. If she just would.

  If she was in one of her persnickety moods and said no, I’d beg her. Grovel. On my knees, if need be.

  How my perspective had changed since they first arrived and I decided to oh-so-generously give them five minutes. Now I was thankful that Grandma knew how to cook while Liz could help me serve. Between the three of us, I didn’t feel so alone anymore. “Thanks for being here.”

  “Do you honestly think I’d miss your grand opening weekend? What kind of older sister do you think I am?”

  “Seven minutes older is all.” I sighed. “And if I can’t talk Grandma into cooking, seven minutes is as long as my grand opening might last.”

  Chapter Two

  “Come on, Charlie. Here, boy.” My seven-year-old son, Zachary, skittered down the main staircase, calling to his invisible dog. When he saw Liz, he whooped in delight. “Aunt Liz!”

  Liz hugged him tightly. “Who’s my favorite nephew?”

  “Me!” His eyes sparkled. Out of our fifteen nieces and nephews, Zach had a special place in Liz’s heart, maybe because, as my twin, her own child might look just like him.

  He was the one difference between our seemingly identical bodies. It took me a year to get pregnant during my marriage, but Liz hadn’t managed it in three years of trying with her hubby, Gene. We were definitely falling down in the big, Mormon family department, but our parents did their part, and four of our other five siblings followed suit. In addition to the fifteen nieces and nephews, Paul’s wife was expecting their third any moment. My sister, Georgia, didn’t have children, which was probably a good thing, given the wildest of her ways: nurse by day, party animal by night.

  “Hi, squirt. Is Charlie behaving himself in the house?”

  “Yup, Mom. He’s sitting by the parlor door.”

  Tamping down the agitation over my problems and the approaching arrivals of my guests, I glanced over at the invisible pet— the best kind, in my opinion— that followed Zach home the day after his father’s funeral. Now my son used Charlie in his attempt to talk me into getting him a real dog. “Good.”

  “Hey, Mom. Do you know where my trading cards are? I can’t find ‘em.”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen ‘em.” I ran a hand through my son’s slightly shaggy hair— I really needed to give him a haircut— and my eyes swept the freckles sprinkled across his cheeks and nose. I couldn’t help smiling. “Cute freckles.”

  “Aw, Mom, I hate freckles.”

  “Yeah, well, girls think freckles are cute,” I teased.

  “I hate girls, too,” he said, though some of his best friends were cute, little girls. “Remember?”

  In that instant, although Zach got his freckles and brown eyes from me, he looked like a miniature seven-year-old version of his father, sporting Robert’s determined chin and narrowed gaze. My heart skipped a beat. I forced my thoughts in another direction. I couldn’t go there. Especially not today, when I needed to make sure everything went well.

  Shaking out of my reverie, I told him, “I’ve got to ask Great-Grandma a question, squirt.”

  “Grandma Ross is here? Where?”

  “She was heading for the kitchen a few minutes ago.”

  He dashed toward the saloon-style doors of the kitchen. An unfamiliar beeping stopped me, and it took a second before I remembered the new walkie-talkie Kent Freestone, my handyman, gave me this morning in case of cell phone disruptions like the one we experienced this weekend. I worked it like he showed me and his voice crackled through. “Vicki? Cielo’s finished the bedrooms and is heading home. I’ve fixed the Nancy Drew fireplace and I’ll stay to shovel snow and carry bags.”

  I smiled. At least that part of the preparations was running smoothly. Kent was an airline mechanic who took early retirement at fifty. When he and his wife, Cielo, moved in two doors down, halfway between here and Horse Feathers, I was the lucky recipient of their desire to stay busy. And they genuinely seemed as proud of the Inn as I was.

  Part-time, Kent kept things running and Cielo kept them neat and tidy. In fact, Kent was extra busy the last few weeks, making sure everything in all the rooms and the carriage house suite worked perfectly, from toilets to televisions to fireplaces. He started yesterday on the shed and equipment, but still had more to do outside. “Thanks. What would I ever do without you guys?”

  “Crash and burn,” Liz answered as I pocketed the handset.

  By the time I reached the kitchen, with Liz tagging along just to see how irritated Grandma was as well as watch me grovel, I found Grandma and Zach eating ice cream cones. Grandma reached over with her cone and, when it touched Zach’s cone, made a kissing sound and smiled.

  Good. Zach had managed to soften her mood.

  Zach asked, “Grandma Ross, why did they stop doing the wave at the BYU football games?” then paused for effect. It was his one and only joke, passed on by De
Wayne Smith, my brother’s one and only officer and an avid University of Utah fan.

  “I don’t know,” Grandma said. “Why?”

  “Because all the blondes were drowning.”

  Grandma laughed. I had no idea what her original hair color was. Actually, no one of our generation knew, and she wasn’t telling. It hovered around subtle, strawberry-blonde most times, but today, it flared to bright red, something that happened once or twice a year.

  “You look nice, Grandma,” I told her. She was still a very attractive woman, though her birthday suit was a tad wrinkled.

  She narrowed her eyes and asked, “What do you want, Vicki?”

  I sighed. “I need your help.”

  “Seventy-eight-year-old women aren’t capable of helping. In fact, I’ve heard they can’t even walk downstairs by themselves.”

  Oh, sure. Now she’d admit to her real age. I drew in a deep breath and told her about Sharon’s car accident and how she’d broken her leg and intended to stay with her parents.

  Grandma made sounds of concern about Sharon, but didn’t offer to help me out.

  “Please, Grandma,” I begged. “If I cook, the Board of Health will shut my place down before I even get started.”

  She sighed dramatically. “We wouldn’t want that to happen now, would we?”

  “So will you help? Please. Pretty please? I have all the menus planned and all the food bought.”

  “Okay, Vicki. I’ll tell you what, I’ll cook this weekend.”

  Relief washed over me. “Thank you so much, Grandma.”

  “If you let me attend the dinner party tonight.”

  I wavered for a moment. Grandma could always cause trouble, which was the last thing I needed this weekend. “There are a limited number of seats.”

  She shot me the steely gaze of an Old West gunfighter. “We can just throw another leaf in that big, old table.”

  I stared into her eyes. I knew I couldn’t win this one. I needed a cook too badly. “Okay, but the gun stays in your room.”

  “Fair enough.” Grandma shrugged. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Vicki. I’ve cooked for guests for years. I’ll make sure dinner is ready by… six?”

  I nodded and hoped she could still pull it off after all these years. “Thanks, Grandma.”

  The phone rang and I checked Caller ID. It was Liz’s husband. “Hello, Gene.”

  As soon as I said his name, Liz shook her head and fled the room, leaving me surprised.

  He wished me good luck and asked if Liz was around.

  “I’m not sure where she’s at,” I lied, uneasily. “I’ll tell her you called.” I said goodbye and followed Liz into the foyer, but she’d vanished. What was going on? Did they have a fight?

  A wave of longing hit me. I wished Robert was still here for me to fight with once in a while— just so we could make up afterward.

  * * *

  Zach tugged on my blouse. “Mom, can I get out the pretty glasses?” He was all boy, but loved drinking his favorite cherry Kool-Aid from goblets.

  I shook my head. “The table’s already set, sweetie.”

  He shrugged and grinned. “Then can I go downstairs to play my new video game?”

  I ruffled his hair again, tenderness welling up inside me. “Sure. But you have to take Charlie with you.”

  His eyes sparkled. “Charlie wants a friend, Mom.”

  I knew where this was going, and didn’t have time for the “Can we have a real dog?” discussion he wanted. “We’ll talk about it later, okay, squirt?”

  “Mom!” He pouted.

  “But you can play your game later than usual tonight.”

  “Cool.” He perked right up.

  I followed him across the lobby to the door hidden on the back side of the ornate, main curved staircase. Marked with a brass plaque announcing “PRIVATE,” it opened onto a narrower staircase that led down into our living quarters; hence, the “private.”

  Laughter burst from the exercise room a few steps away. The actors were supposed to be rehearsing their lines for the mystery dinner. Sounded like I needed to help them refocus.

  Closing the door behind Zach, I turned toward the exercise room, which was my brother, Paul’s, reluctant suggestion. I had it built on the main floor so the noise wouldn’t disturb anyone, and situated in a room that lay partially hidden behind the main staircase.

  Now— two bicycles, three treadmills and a big weight machine later— I had an official exercise room even Paul approved of. He still thought I’d gone “too far” with the renovation. That this “new scheme” wouldn’t pay off. So I just had to prove it would.

  In amongst the machines, Stephanie was ordering around the actors, just as she’d always done with everyone except Liz. Stephanie’d been our friend since she showed up in the third grade at Silver City Elementary. She was the first person I’d ever seen with skin the color of milk chocolate. The three of us became inseparable, getting into all kinds of trouble, usually instigated by my bossy sister.

  In high school, Liz and I turned heads as fair-skinned, carrot-topped twins. When Stephanie walked, sandwiched between us, her beautiful skin and black hair attracted even more stares.

  “Hey, everyone,” I called out in greeting.

  Stephanie glanced at me. “You look great. New outfit?”

  I looked down at my salmon blouse and rust-colored slacks. “Yeah. Liz bought them for me last week as a grand opening present.” I tried to remember why I was here.

  “So…” Stephanie waited for a beat. “Checking on us, huh?”

  “Just nervous. Probably because of the guests.”

  Stephanie smiled wickedly. “Think they’ll be too critical?”

  “Maybe just a bit more than if they were carpenters, insurance salesmen or programmers. You’re an awesome writer, Stephanie, but I have no clue how picky published authors will be.” New York Times bestselling authors, most of them. I hoped the mystery would be good enough for these pros and the so-called “literary guru” who rented the entire Inn for the weekend.

  “Well, relax. Everything’s going to be fine.” Stephanie put one hand on her hip. “In fact, take a few deep breaths. Right now. That’s an order, my friend.”

  I did as she instructed and smiled. I did feel better.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” she said.

  “Hey, Vicki!” My other friend, Lonny Singer, raised a hand in greeting. He wasn’t as skinny now as he was fifteen years ago, when he dragged his tattered teddy bear, trailing me around the Ross Mansion whenever his parents visited mine. He’d sprouted a good three feet since then, towering over the rest of us at six-foot-two. He grinned and teased, “Good to see you. Again. So soon.”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny.” I smiled back. I’d already checked on them twice.

  “Hi, Xavier.” I turned to Xavier Xee, an intense, dark-haired man a few years younger than I, probably mid-twenties. He was an extremely attractive and standoffish man. I knew most of the people in Silver City, but I’d never met him before I approached McCann Theater to line up actors. Stephanie raved about how talented he was, so I was glad to hire him.

  “Hi,” he said, waving his script. That surprised me. He hadn’t used his script in days, and Stephanie mentioned his near-photographic memory. As he unrolled and rerolled it, I wondered if this was how he dealt with stage fright— just as I checked and rechecked every detail of the preparations until I got on everybody’s nerves.

  Lonny said, “You look nervous, Vicki.”

  Stephanie, who never got nervous, studied me. “You do.”

  “Maybe just a little,” I admitted.

  “Climb aboard,” Lonny said, with a tight smile, swinging a leg over the stationary bicycle, seating himself, and pedaling furiously, which I knew was his way of burning off opening night jitters. “It always helps me relax.”

  “To burn five-thousand calories? I bet it does,” said Stephanie.

  Lonny looked past me. “Wow. Look at that snow.”


  I followed Lonny’s gaze out into the arboretum, where the spectacular view of the mountain revealed big, fat, white flakes falling. Lots of them. Oh, oh, oh, dear. My stomach sank. “This looks like a bad storm. It wasn’t supposed to snow this much today.”

  “You should never believe what Henley says.” Stephanie stepped beside me and shrugged. “The snow will add charm and mood to the weekend, and make for a fantastic setting. Your guests will love it. They’ll gather in the parlor, play a game of Clue, and enjoy the warmth from the fireplace.”

  “If they can make it up Porter Mountain.” There might not be anything I could do about the weather, but maybe having the actors rehearse once in front of me would calm me. I read the script several times so I knew the basic order. Partway through dinner, Lonny would stage an attack on our guest of honor, the guru, and that’s when the play would get interesting.

  A few drops of sweat appeared on Xavier’s suddenly pale forehead. He mumbled, “Excuse me,” and rushed into the bathroom. Even with the door slammed shut behind him, we heard the sounds of him being sick.

  Lonny asked, softly, “What if he can’t go on tonight?”

  “It’s probably just stage fright,” I said, trying to convince myself more than anyone else. We were already stretched far too tight on the actors, with each of them playing two roles, one with a mask. We couldn’t afford to lose even one of them.

  A soft buzzer sounded, signaling that someone was entering the Inn. It was a little early for the guests.

  “Go,” said Stephanie.

  “Right. Okay. Look, Stephanie, there’s Pepto in the downstairs medicine cabinet, if Xavier needs it. Please, please, please, whatever it takes, talk him into getting better.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” She raised one arched eyebrow. “Wave my magic wand?”

  “Please. You’re very persuasive.” I knew I sounded illogical, but I was desperate. “Just do the best you can. The show must go on and all that.”

  As I stepped toward the lobby, Lonny said, “While you’re at it, Stephanie, talk him into not being contagious.”

  * * *