by Trudi Trueit
“From your black leather messenger bag. In your office. I didn’t mean to see it. I accidentally bumped into the coatrack and some papers spilled out. . . .” I trail off when I see my grandmother looking past my shoulder. I follow her gaze. She is staring at Jess.
“That’s not my bag,” she says tightly.
The color is draining from Jess’s face. “I . . . I can explain, Lark—”
“Please do,” says my grandmother. “Why do you have this design plan?”
“I . . . I . . . Mr. Tolliver . . . I’m supposed to mail it for him.”
“Did you look at it? Do you know what they planned to do?”
He nods, but won’t look at her.
“You were going to tell me, weren’t you?”
“I’m sorry.” His voice breaks. “I’m so very sorry, Lark.”
I don’t understand. Why is Jess apologizing?
“Sorry? What else do you know?” demands my grandmother. “What else have you done?”
Putting a hand to his yellow bow tie, Jess steps backward. He hits the wall.
“Oh, dear,” mutters my mother and I think I understand.
Jess has been working for the Tollivers. He has betrayed my grandmother.
“The least you can do, Jess, is be honest with me,” says Grandma Lark. “After all Keith and I have done for you—given you—over the years, I think I deserve that much, don’t you?”
“I never intended for it go so far,” says Jess. “I . . . I sold them the guest list, Lark.”
I gasp.
“I needed the money and thought it was for when they were going to take over,” says Jess. “I didn’t know they were going to call guests and badmouth the lodge. If I would have known . . . ”
“And the bad reviews on the travel sites?” asks my mom.
“That wasn’t me,” says Jess. “Golden Marmot corporate was behind that. I swear, I had nothing to do with it. I told them I would have nothing to do with it.”
“So the Tollivers have been behind this from the very beginning,” says my mom. “First, they bribed Jess for the guest list so they could spread terrible rumors among your customers and cripple business. Then they posted fake negative reviews online to make sure the cut went even deeper. Finally, knowing you were struggling, they checked in here for the summer to convince you to sell to them, all the time pretending they would keep your employees on and preserve the place when they had no intention of doing either one.”
“That’s about as cold and calculating as you can get,” says Langley’s mom.
“You would have been a victim, too,” my mother says to Jess. “Don’t you know they would have gotten rid of you, too, in the end? They were just using you.”
Jess turns away.
Rose and Veranda start to leave the lobby. “Wait,” I say, pointing to Veranda. “In the library, you told your mom you would be sad to see all the beautiful wood go. I thought you were talking about remodeling the lodge, but that’s not what you meant, was it? You knew your parents planned to tear down our lodge, didn’t you?”
Veranda’s glossy pink lips slither up one cheek. She says nothing but admits everything.
As the horrible truth sinks in, nobody says a word. Nobody moves a muscle. No one even takes a breath. Until my grandmother hits the floor.
I walk down ten olive-green tiles, placing my foot in the center of each one. I turn, then walk back. Turn. Repeat. Turn. Repeat. I don’t know how long I’ve been doing this. It feels like forever. Why won’t my mother or a nurse or somebody come out and tell us what’s going on?
“It’s long past dinnertime,” says Langley’s mom, glancing up from her laptop. “Why don’t the two of you go the cafeteria.”
“Yeah, let’s get some yogurt or a slice of pizza,” says my best friend. “My mom can text us if there’s any news—”
“No, thanks,” I say, placing my palms on the back of my hips as I pace. “I’m not hungry.”
“It might take your mind off things,” says Langley.
“I don’t want to take my mind off things.” I go back to walking the tiles. Langley gets a bottle of water from the vending machine. Mrs. Derringer goes back to her laptop.
The second my mother turns the corner, I am rushing at her. “Mom?”
“She’s okay. They’re almost certain it wasn’t a heart attack. Stress, most likely. She hasn’t been eating or sleeping well since Keith passed, and then with everything else that’s been going on . . . anyway, they want to do a few more tests, so she’ll probably stay the night.”
“It’s all my fault,” I say. “I shouldn’t have accused her of lying to me. I shouldn’t have upset her that way—”
“Kestrel, if it hadn’t been for you, we might never have found out the truth. Lark might have sold to the Tollivers, thinking they were going to keep their word. And then there’s Jess. Nobody saw that coming.” My mom touches my arm. “She’s asking for you.”
“She’s not mad?”
“No, hon. She’s not mad. Third room on the right. Stay a few minutes, okay? She needs to rest. I’m going to call your dad and check in with Talia. She’s looking after Wyatt.”
At the threshold of my grandmother’s room, I pause. Her head is turned away, toward the window. She is looking at her mountain. There is something peaceful about her—maybe because I have never seen her this still. Streamers of light from the setting sun tint her tousled hair pink and orange. Against the big pillows, my grandmother seems so small and thin.
“Grandma?”
She turns her neck. And smiles. It is her same warm smile, thank goodness. She reaches for me, tugging on the cord that connects to the machine monitoring her vitals. I scoot a chair next to her bed on the window side and sit down. “Are you all right?”
“Alive and kicking.” Her voice is strong. “I got a little light-headed, is all. That’ll teach me to skip lunch.”
“Do you need something to eat? I can get you—”
“I’m good, sweetie. The nurse brought in some chicken noodle soup, and your mother made sure I ate every last bit.”
“I bet she did.” I watch the neon green line on the heart rate monitor draw tiny mountains on the black screen. The digital readout on the bottom flashes seventy-two beats per minute. I hope that’s good. “Grandma, I am so, so sorry. I should have known you wouldn’t lie to me. I got upset when I found the map and then I saw Veranda and she made me—”
“Mad enough to spit fire?”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It takes a lot of courage to stand up to someone like her. I was proud of you. Not that I could say so—hospitality etiquette and all, you know.”
“The customer is always right, even when she’s wrong. That’s what Dinah says.”
“Every rule has its exception,” says Grandma Lark. “And in this case, her name is Mrs. Jolina Tolliver. That woman and her daughters have certainly tested the limits of everyone on my staff this summer. She won’t eat anything but organic cauliflower and artichokes grown in Quebec, and she must have her $100-a-cup gourmet coffee from Indonesia every morning. Do you know she refused to bathe with anything but towels made by Imperial Turkish Plush? And they had to be Caribbean blue—not aqua, not turquoise, but Caribbean blue. We had the towels, but I couldn’t find the color. Then I discovered it’s not even available in Canada.”
“What did you do?”
“Dinah bought some teal-colored towels at the Walmart in Squamish and Nita sewed in the label.”
I snicker. “They didn’t.”
“They did. She never knew the difference. It was the label she wanted. That’s all she cared about.” Grandma Lark ruffles her short crop. “I feel sorry for those girls of hers.”
“Sorry? For them?”
“Haven’t you noticed? Mrs. Tolliver orders her daughters around the same way she does her employees. And mine. No wonder Veranda barks at everyone. She’s copying her mother.”
“Maybe, but she still has a choice. Rose
isn’t that way. Veranda’s the one that’s a huge pain in the—”
“Adams?” A nurse flings the curtain aside.
Grandma Lark and I laugh at her timing.
The nurse takes my grandmother’s temperature by placing a scanner on her forehead. We wait for the beep. “Ninety-eight-point-eight. Excellent,” proclaims the nurse. She bustles out, whipping the privacy curtain back into place with one quick jerk.
“You know, the way you took on Veranda Tolliver today reminded me of Keith,” says Grandma Lark. “He wasn’t afraid to fight for what was right. You have his spirit, Little Bird.”
That makes me feel good. I will never be able to say I truly knew my grandfather, but I am learning more about the kind of man he was. I’d like to carry a part of him with me as I go through life. If Grandma Lark is right, maybe I already do.
“Grandpa Keith gave you your nickname, you know,” she says.
“Little Bird? He did? I always thought Mom and Dad—”
“No.” She smiles. “You were a tiny thing—maybe two months old—when your parents brought you up for a visit. You know how babies tend to cry if anyone besides a parent holds them? Not you. Your grandpa picked you up and you didn’t utter a sound. You looked him straight in the eye. Then you tried to put your finger up his nose. He said, ‘This little bird has courage, not to mention a good right hook,’ and you’ve been Little Bird ever since.”
I had no idea. I’m glad I know the real story.
Grandma Lark’s eyes glisten. “Before you came in I was lying here wondering what Keith would say about everything that’s happened. I’ve certainly made a mess of things, haven’t I?”
“You haven’t,” I say. “And I know Grandpa Keith would agree. There’s nothing you could have done. The Tollivers set out to get the lodge, and they used every dirty trick they could think of to do it. Your only mistake was taking them at their word.”
“I’m certainly caught in their web now,” says my grandmother.
She is right. For all of my brave words to Veranda and Rose, we cannot stop them. Grandma Lark can sell the lodge or lose it to foreclosure, but we both know that one way or the other the Tollivers will win. They will buy our property. They will destroy our lodge. They will build their monster hotel and golf course.
I pick up her left hand. Her fingers are cool. I put my thumb on her wedding band, spinning it slightly so the lapis and turquoise mountains face out. “We’ll make the most of the time we have,” I say. “We’ll remember this summer for the rest of our lives. I promise, Grandma.” And like Grandma Keith, I never break a promise.
“I like the sound of that,” she says. “A summer to remember.”
“I wish we could save the lodge, Grandma. This is your life . . . your dream . . .”
“What a glorious dream it was. It lasted for forty-two years. How many people get to say that? I’m so lucky.” She squeezes my hand. “No dream lasts forever. Eventually, we must all wake up.”
She has lost so much in such a short time. It’s my loss, too. I already miss it—the warm brown log walls, the cozy library, the earthy fragrance of a billion and one geraniums—I miss it all.
I fight back the tears, but one gets away. It slips down my cheek.
“Don’t cry, Little Bird,” she says softly, reaching up to wipe it away.
I try to stop. I do. But the more I try, the more tears fall.
14
Don’t Talk to the Enemy
It’s not even nine a.m., and already my best friend and I have dusted the lobby, polished the front desk, refilled the courtesy apple bowl, straightened the magazines, and scraped gum off the flagstone walkway (ew!). Now we stand side by side in front of Dinah. “What’s our next assignment?” I ask.
Dinah grins. “You guys are lifesavers. You know that, don’t you?”
We know. Grandma’s coming home today. My mom is at the hospital right now, picking her up. Jess is gone. Nobody knows where. I’m sure he knows he is no longer welcome here, but his absence means Dinah is handling everything on her own. Well, not all on her own. Langley and I are here.
Dinah straightens a small stack of papers. “The day before guests check out, we give them a copy of their bill so they can review the charges and ensure everything is accurate. You’ll see that the room number and the guest name is at the top of each page. All you have to do is quietly slide the page under the appropriate door. . . .”
I can’t help noticing Dinah’s computer is open to a file that says Guest List. How did I miss that when I was snooping around for Caden Christopher’s room? I try scanning the list with my right eye, while looking at Dinah with my left eye, which is not easy. Okay, it’s pretty much impossible.
Dinah blocks the screen. “Understand?”
“Yes,” says Langley.
“Uh . . . yeah, right,” I say, uncrossing my eyes.
“And no knocking on doors or bothering anyone to try to find a certain you-know-who.” Dinah eyes me. “You’re part of the team now, and we give nothing less than top-notch customer service here at Blackcomb Creek Lodge. The safety and welfare of our guests always come first.”
I sigh. “Okay, Dinah. I get it.”
“Remember it, because something tells me one day you’ll be running this place.”
I snort. “Only if I work for the Tollivers.”
Langley and I divide the pages between us. She takes the first floor and the south wing of the second floor, while I take the north wing of the second floor and all of the third floor. I am bending to slide the bill under the door of the Summit Suite when it opens.
I groan.
“Kestrel, hi!” I look up to see Rose in a white gauze peasant blouse and matching gypsy skirt. Her blond hair is twisted into a tight bun on her head, though a few wispy tendrils have been left free to brush her collarbone. A small oval cameo dangles from her neck. Glancing over her shoulder, Rose steps into the hall and shuts the door. “Is your grandmother okay?”
“Yeah.” I straighten. “It wasn’t a heart attack.”
“Thank goodness. I was coming to find you. We’re . . . uh . . . leaving today, but I didn’t want to go without telling you . . . I mean, I knew my parents wanted to buy the lodge, but I didn’t know all of the sneaky things they were doing to get it. Or that they planned to tear it down. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for the way Veranda treated you.”
“You don’t have to apologize for her—”
“I’m not. I’m apologizing for myself. I didn’t stop her when she said all that mean stuff to you. I should have set a better example. After all, I am the eldest.”
“You’re older than Veranda?”
“By four and a half minutes,” she says. “Look, Kestrel, I know we can never be friends, but I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, Rose.”
She nervously twists her cameo. “Of course. I understand. It’s too much to ask—”
“I mean, ‘never’ is an awfully long time,” I say, the corners of my lips turning up.
Her face relaxes. “It is, isn’t it? So then . . . we’re . . . we’re . . .” She is afraid to say it.
“Not enemies?” I offer.
She laughs. “I’ll take that. I . . . I hope everything works out for your grandma and the lodge. I mean it.”
I believe her.
I say good-bye to Rose and head downstairs for my next assignment. Langley is vacuuming the lobby.
Dinah motions to me. “Kestrel, will you watch the front desk so I can run to the restroom?”
“Uh-huh.”
“If anyone calls or needs anything, I’ll be back in two minutes. Two minutes.”
“I can handle it, Dinah.” I put on her phone headset. Standing here in her spot behind the desk makes me feel grown-up. I’m not one bit scared. Okay, I’m a bit scared. I’m new at this. I hope nobody asks me a complicated question.
A delivery guy comes in with a basket of daisies. I have him put it with the o
ther bouquets on the far end of the desk. It’s the third floral arrangement this morning. The moment people heard my grandmother had gone to the hospital, the flowers started pouring in. Dinah says Grandma Lark has lots of friends and news travels fast in a small town. Something tells me the flowers are for more than just to wish my grandmother a speedy recovery. Like Dinah says, news travels fast.
The phone is ringing. I’m on! I hit the talk button. “Blackcomb Creek Lodge, front desk. This is Kestrel. How may I help you?”
“I’m sorry. I was trying to reach another room but it won’t go through.”
It’s him. It’s Caden Christopher! I’d know that voice anywhere. I wave like crazy to Langley, but she has vacuumed herself into a corner and her back is to me.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
“Yes, yes,” I say. “Uh . . . um . . . did you hit the pound key first?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hit the pound key then the room number and that should put you through,” I say. “If it doesn’t, call me back, okay?”
“I will. Thanks.”
I start to say he’s welcome but he’s gone. Caden is gone. I cannot believe that I . . . that he . . . that we . . .
“Excuse me, miss?”
“Yes?” I whirl around. “Dad!”
“Hi, kiddo!”
I start to run around the desk to give him the biggest hug a daughter can give and forget I am wearing a headset with a plug. I drag the whole phone system with me across the front desk.
“Oops!” I say, trying to put everything back.
Dinah meets me at the corner of the desk. “Took me a year to stop doing that,” she says. She turns to my father. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Dinah, this is my dad, Cole Adams. Dad, this is Dinah Sterling.”
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Adams,” she says, and they shake hands. “Your mom is always talking about you. She’s so proud of the environmental law work that you do.”
Dad grins.
The phone is ringing. “You’d better let me get this one.” Dinah takes the headset from me.
“Didn’t you talk to Mom?” I ask my dad. “Grandma’s okay. It wasn’t a heart attack.”
