Buns Read online

  “You?” I interrupted. I could play that game too. “I know your father is the one who hired me. And I’m going to go out on a limb and say my gut tells me he’s retiring next year, right?”

  “End of this year, your point?”

  I knew it. “And you’ll be taking over after him, right?”

  “January first.”

  “January first, huh? New Year’s Day? Will that transfer be taking place before or after the Lake Plunge?”

  “After, we— How do you know about the Lake Plunge?”

  I steeled my gaze. “The Lake Plunge, one of the oldest holiday traditions here at Bryant Mountain House, I believe? After midnight on New Year’s Eve, staff and guests alike—the brave ones at least—march down to the south end of the lake and polar bear plunge through a patch of ice that’s been cleared specifically for this. Sounds crazy to me, but I think you all have been doing it since the twenties, yes?”

  He studied me carefully, searching with those indigo eyes. “Since 1919, actually.”

  “Great, then we’re coming up on a hundred years, we’ll have to make a big deal out of that. Break a record for the most fools freezing their noonies off at the same time.”

  “Their noonies?”

  I shrugged. “I assume most of the fools are men. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  He laughed then, an honest to goodness laugh. And it changed his face entirely. For the first time, there was no suspicion, no irritation, no trying to figure out what I was going to say so he could beat me to it. I realized with a start he wasn’t that much older than I was. Laughter, plain old laughter, took years off his face. “Are you ready for that tour?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, yes I am. Where should we start?”

  “Lakeside Lounge, that’s where the tours always start,” he replied, turning smartly and starting for the staircase. “You coming?”

  “You’re still gonna pawn me off on someone else?” I asked, falling into step beside him.

  “Nope, I’m taking over for Mr. Phelps. Sure you don’t want to change into more comfortable shoes?”

  I ignored the blatant challenge, although this one was delivered with less spite. Progress. I’d take it.

  “Noonies,” I heard him mutter under his breath.

  Yep. Progress.

  Chapter 5

  Every morning, since the dawn of time apparently, a house tour was conducted by a member of the staff. Could be someone who worked the front desk, could be someone who worked in catering, could be Jonathan Bryant himself. Didn’t matter, the point was that each staff member told essentially the same story, with a few personal anecdotes to personalize the history of this grand old hotel.

  It always left from the Lakeside Lounge promptly at 9:30 a.m., and it always covered, weather permitting, the main house, the gardens, and the dock. When Archie and I had arrived at the Lakeside Lounge, he was stunned to realize I hadn’t seen that side of the resort yet.

  “What do you mean you haven’t seen the lake yet?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Weather was terrible last night, and after finding out that my bellman was the owner, and not at all happy about me checking in early, it seemed like a good idea to stay in my room and not get in your way.” He had the decency to look the tiniest bit chagrined, perhaps feeling as though he’d jumped the gun yesterday. “Plus I didn’t want to go wandering around the halls late at night, all those creepy people staring back at me from the walls.”

  At that Archie rolled his eyes, any fleeting glimpse of apology gone the moment I mentioned the creepy pictures. It occurred to me that I didn’t need to mention those creepy pictures, not yet at least, but I couldn’t resist. Was I poking the bear a bit? Perhaps.

  “Nevertheless, you should take a moment and see the lake. It’s like going to the Grand Canyon and just trying to see it from the parking lot.”

  “You’re comparing a lake in the Catskills to the Grand Canyon?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “We’ve got five minutes before the tour starts, Ms. Morgan, see for yourself,” he replied, gesturing for me to head into the lounge as he turned to speak to someone from the front desk.

  I did really want to see the lake, so I headed inside. But not because he told me to.

  The Lakeside Lounge was aptly named. Relaxing and comfortable, it boasted several long trestle tables stacked with games like Monopoly, Trivial Pursuit, and for the kiddos, Chutes and Ladders. Thick, double-wide planks of pine covered the floor, smooth but pleasantly scarred with years of use. Armchairs and love seats, clad in more cabbage roses and toile, were clustered into conversation areas, the walls were covered by gorgeous inlaid-wood paneling, and there was another one of those gargantuan fireplaces.

  This one was flanked by emerald-green glass tiles, blackened here and there from years of smoke and ash. The mantelpiece was a single length of carved wood, and the andirons alone could support a sequoia. As I explored, someone from the resort hurried in with a basket of kindling, and set about lighting a small bonfire inside the cavernous hearth. Opposite the fireplace was a long and cozy-looking leather couch and several rocking chairs, and it wasn’t hard to imagine curling up here on a chilly afternoon with a good book and a hot chocolate. I looked around, expecting to see just that, but the place was almost entirely deserted, except for two older gentlemen playing cards in the corner and three little old blue hairs and their knitting needles, the silver flashing as they worked and chatted.

  Hmm. We’d need to work on bringing in a younger clientele for sure. But right now it was all about the hint of blue to my right that begged for my attention. Wide windows spanned the width of the room, opening up to a long porch where at least fifty rocking chairs beckoned. And just beyond? The lake.

  I’d seen pictures and read up beforehand, but nothing could have prepared me for the sheer beauty of this water.

  Carved into the mountainside millions of years ago, almost like mirrored glass reflecting the puffy clouds above, the lake was wide and long and filled with the bluest water, deep blue, almost indigo.

  Almost as blue as Archie’s eyes.

  The thought bubbled up quickly, unbidden. I just as quickly batted it away.

  Stay focused, Clara, there’s a job to do. And a lake to admire.

  Ringed around it were enormous craggy boulders, spilling down into the water like a giant had been tossing pebbles. They were visible under the clear water, stretching down into the depths. A forest of pine circled the lake on all sides, protecting it from much of the wind that whipped down this very mountain, resulting in the smoothest glassy surface on the water.

  A pine dock reached out from the edge, dotted with beautiful old canoes and rowboats, but I could see several kayaks and paddleboards stacked up as well.

  Twisting off from the main porch off the lounge were walking paths and hiking trails, some leading around the lake and some heading up the mountain. And high above, almost at the farthest reach of the lake, was a stone observation tower at the top of the nearest cliff.

  In a word, it was stunning. The sense of peace I got just standing on the porch for a few minutes was restorative, soothing. It was so easy to imagine carriages full of wealthy families from New York and Philadelphia, just off the sooty train into Poughkeepsie station, traveling those last few miles up to Bryant Mountain House to spend their summers out of the hustle and bustle of the big city, and the sense of wonder they must have shared at this glorious landscape.

  No wonder the Bryant family settled here, determined to share their love of nature with their guests.

  A summer up here could be exactly what world-weary families could still benefit from.

  Rejuvenated, I headed back inside, ready for my tour.

  Two other guests had joined us. Two. Both at least in their eighties, if I was being generous. Very generous. Both ladies were gazing adoringly at Archie as he chatted with them—clearly they knew him well and had been coming here for years.

  “Thank you for joini
ng us, Ms. Morgan.”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it. You were right about the lake, by the way, it’s beautiful.”

  He looked pleased. “Well then, let’s begin. Ladies, I know you’ve accompanied me on this tour numerous times, but we’ve got a new guest today, first time up on our mountain.”

  “Oh my, welcome, welcome!” one of the ladies squealed, clutching her handbag to her chest as though it were a teddy bear. “Isn’t it just the most?”

  “Yes.” I smothered a laugh. “It is the most.”

  “You’ve been a guest with us since, oh, since you were a little girl, isn’t that right?” Archie asked Handbag, and she squealed in delight.

  “Since Archie’s father was just a young boy, I used to look forward to coming here all year. My parents brought me, and then I brought my children, and that’s how it goes!”

  “I used to spend every single Fourth of July here, my family would rent out a few rooms for the entire summer,” the other woman chimed in, eager to add her story to the mix. And perhaps to bask in the glow of Archie’s grin as well. “Back then, the wives and children would stay the entire time and the husbands would drive up on the weekends.” It was like this at many of the old hotels I worked with, generation after generation full of similar memories. Fourth of July and Handbag smiled at each other, then at Archie, and I coughed to hide my chuckle.

  “Well then, I should let you ladies give the tour, I bet you know it as well as I do,” Archie said, giving them a grand smile that made them giggle once more. I was struck suddenly with an image of Cary Grant, smooth and suave and a real old-school charmer. That’s who Archie reminded me of, complete with an upper crust East Coast accent.

  Once the giggling subsided, the tour finally began. And almost instantly, I was immersed in the history of this place. It all started in 1872 when the Bryant brothers—Theophilus and Ebenezer—purchased the small eight-room Sky Inn on Sky Lake, just outside Bailey Falls proper. Construction began the following spring on a larger hotel, specifically aimed at bringing in wealthy families from around the Northeast to take in the mountain air and rejoice in the church of nature. The Bryant brothers were strong proponents of being stewards of the earth and protecting nature, buying up much of the surrounding countryside and farmland and setting it aside as a protected nature reserve for generations.

  “That’s when they began hosting what they called the Greater Good Society. The brothers felt, from early on, that if they could bring world leaders, heads of state and heads of industry together in a place as beautiful as Sky Lake, they could influence one another to work together for the greater good.”

  “Well, that’s genius,” I said.

  He whipped his head toward me, looking skeptical. “Are you speaking sarcastically, Ms. Morgan?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Bryant,” I replied, wondering if we’d ever move beyond the Mr./Ms. stage. “I actually think that’s genius.”

  “Well, yes. And very much ahead of its time.”

  “How’s that going these days?”

  “Oh, the Greater Good Society was officially disbanded back in the thirties, just before the US got involved in the war. There was talk about reviving it afterward, but by then Ebenezer had passed away and Theophilus had ceded control to his son, who was running the day-to-day operations of the resort. Remember, after the war was when things really picked up around here, every single day there were people coming and going, the lines at check-in sometimes spilled back outside!”

  I was about to ask him how he knew—his own father was only a baby in those days—but he answered my unasked question. “I’ve seen the pictures,” he explained, and I nodded. “I had a feeling more sarcasm was on the way.”

  “It was,” I admitted, but then asked, “Given the times we’re living in now, Mr. Bryant, getting that society back up on its feet might be a great way to increase community involvement. And if we can market this strategy through Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, etc., we could introduce an entirely new set of visitors to the resort. Hopefully ones with an enormous social-media presence.”

  “Are you suggesting if I get Taylor Swift up to my mountain she can solve world peace?”

  “Now who’s speaking sarcastically?” I asked, giving him a pointed look.

  He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, then hurried us along. “Now you’ll see here, ladies, as we head into the music parlor, when they designed this room they had the utmost concern about acoustics . . .”

  The tour lasted a little more than an hour, and it was the best crash course in all things Bryant I could’ve gotten. We peeked into the dining room as they were setting up for lunch, went to the fourth-floor balcony to see the view of the lake from there, and made a stop at the spa, which I was pleasantly surprised to see had been renovated recently. I’d be taking advantage of the spa as soon as humanly possible.

  And my favorite part? The old-fashioned soda fountain. Located inside the gift shop, it boasted a long counter with twisty barstools, a mirrored backsplash, penny candy, and rows and rows of barrels of homemade ice cream. In addition to all the sweet treats, they served a very limited selection of lunchtime snacks for those who didn’t want the more formal and full-service lunch buffet in the main dining room. Several signs hung behind the counter depicting some of the menu highlights, and I noticed one along the bottom called—

  “The Archie Special? Hold up, you’ve got a sandwich named after you?” I asked as Archie tried to hurry us away.

  “You betcha,” the woman behind the counter piped up. Easily in her sixties, she wore her gray hair in long twin braids down her back and her eyes danced with fun. “Wanna know what’s in it?”

  Archie looked mortified.

  “Oh, I’d literally love nothing more,” I replied, keeping my eyes on him.

  “Well, you start out with some plain white bread,” she began, and Archie shook his head.

  “Judith . . .”

  “—top piece gets ketchup, the other Miracle Whip, right, Archie? Never mayo for this kid!” Judith jerked her thumb in his direction and he shrugged sheepishly.

  “—and you add three slices of pickle—”

  “Love that pickle!” Handbag squealed and Fourth of July giggled.

  “—and you finish her off with one big glob of braunschweiger spread stem to stern.”

  “Ew, that should be illegal.” I laughed.

  “Thank you, Judith,” Archie said from the far end of the counter.

  “Does anyone actually ever order that?” I asked.

  “Sure, Archie gets the Archie Special at least three times a week, although every so often he gets the Jonathan.”

  “What’s the Jonathan?” I asked.

  “Same thing, but with onion.”

  “Good God, no,” I said, with a horrified face.

  “Thank you, Judith,” Archie repeated, ushering us all back out into the lobby.

  “When do we get to try some of that Archie Special?” Handbag whispered, prompting Fourth of July to giggle all over again while Archie blushed to the tips of his ears.

  “Let’s continue the tour, shall we?” he said, leading us away from the soda fountain where Judith was waving proudly.

  “Oh, I can’t wait to see what’s next,” I chimed in brightly.

  Handbag and Fourth peeled off with a waved good-bye and a final giggle in Archie’s direction, and the two of us ended up in the TV lounge.

  “You see, Ms. Morgan, you have access to a television anytime you want one,” he smiled, saccharine-like.

  I rolled my eyes, looking around the room. Like everything else up here, it was bedecked with beautiful dark carved wood, lined with comfortable-looking easy chairs and love seats, all clustered around an ancient console television that had begun its life sometime in the early ’80s.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was a joke.”

  “No joke.”

  “You have an actual VHS player, Mr. Bryant, and you’re going to stand
there with a straight face and tell me ‘no joke’?”

  “Look closer, it’s a dual VHS/DVD player.”

  “Wow. Just . . . wow.”

  “My grandfather did consider installing televisions in the rooms back in the ’60s, my father as well a few years later. But they saw, as I continue to see, the benefit of truly being able to come up here and escape. These days it’s even more important to be able to disconnect and unplug.”

  “You’ve mentioned this before.”

  “However,” he continued, “of course we’ve always seen the need to remain somewhat connnected to what’s going on in the world, so we’ve always made sure there was a television available when necessary. Guests love being able to watch the ball drop on New Year’s Eve together, crowded into the same room where guests watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon. Super Bowls, the Olympics, election nights, all events when our guests have remained in touch with the world but somehow connected together in such a unique way.”

  “Okay, I get it. I do, especially this shared community space you’ve got going here. It’s quaint, it’s homey, it harkens back to another time and place and blah blah blah. But for God’s sake, people like TVs in their rooms! Especially for how much you’re charging per night!”

  “Price per night, are we back to that? Ms. Morgan, what you fail to realize is that everything is included in the price. Meals, activities, afternoon tea, entertainment . . .”

  “. . . but no TV. Come on, you gotta work with me on this, at least a little bit.”

  “Why is it so necessary that you have a TV in your room?” he asked, in a challenging tone. A fair question, even if he was a nosy fucker.

  But how do you explain to a stranger why silence and quiet were simply unacceptable?

  “My reasons are my own,” I hedged, not wanting to explain why a grown woman preferred the cool twangy stylings of Classic Country brought to you by Time Life rather than let the voices of the past swoop in and drag her down.

  Conway Twitty versus your mother went to jail and left you in foster care?

  Actually, that could be a country-western song . . .