Buns Page 8

  Now I heard them all saying it, chanting it, singing it. Loud voices, nasty and cruel, razor sharp and thin. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong here.

  I ran, suitcases banging against my little-girl shins, which were covered in bruises, not from falling down on the playground but from those never-ending doors, those never-ending suitcases, bruised inside and out and crying, crying so hard as every single door slammed shut behind me and I was alone. In the world. Alone.

  Until I woke quick, thrashing in my bed, tears streaming down my face as I whispered the words I always did . . .

  “Let me come home.”

  Fucking hell I missed that television.

  I got out of bed and headed for the bathroom for a cool cloth to wipe my face and neck, the sweat now feeling cold and clammy. I looked at myself in the mirror, knowing sleep was now a goner for the rest of the night.

  That nightmare was singularly capable of taking me down, knocking me out, and getting me completely off track. For years it’d been my Achilles’ heel, my soft spot. If I let it in, if I let those damn demons back into my head and my heart, it was bye-bye, Clara. Frustrated at the thought of endless hours lying awake thinking thoughts I truly didn’t want to think, I realized there was only one thing to do.

  I hit the gym hard, running on the treadmill until my lungs burned. I needed the sweat. I also needed the focus.

  The running had always helped. It shut out the dreams and the memories, my feet slapping the pavement or the grass or the packed sand or the rubber of the treadmill. Right then left. Right then left. A rhythm, a pattern, something that was always there, always constant, always waiting for me when I needed it. Right then left. Right then left. Eventually, if I ran fast and hard enough, it was all I heard.

  And then the magic happened. The world fell away, the nightmare itself fell away, and my brain took over. The good part of my brain, the part that helped me plan and create, solve and fix. I thought not about my past and the pain that existed there, always in the past, no pain in the present, never pain in the present, and I focused on my job, my work, my literal salvation.

  By the time dawn broke over the Catskills, I had an entirely new approach to the Bryant Mountain House problem.

  “So I’ve been going over the bookings for this summer. And the last few years. How do you think you’ve been doing?” I asked.

  I was in a meeting with Jonathan, Archie, and a few other members of the senior team, including the heads of guest services and reservations. I’d been somewhat surprised at how cordial Archie had been when I arrived this morning, pleasant even. Maybe we were over the hump, and he’d realized I was here to help, not hurt, his family’s legacy.

  Don’t trust it . . . he’s up to something.

  “Summer is always our busiest time, with a burst around each holiday,” he answered a bit haughtily. Wearing another perfectly pressed gray suit, it was accented with an orange tie and pocket square today. “We even have a waiting list in case any of the regular families cancel over Memorial Day weekend.”

  “That’s great, that’s really great. But what concerns me are the other weekends, the non-holiday weekends, when bookings seem to be down across the board almost seven percent.”

  “Seven percent over last year?” Archie asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not too bad, I’m sure we’ll make it up by summer’s end. We always have a huge party Labor Day weekend, everyone looks forward to it, almost every room is booked,” Jonathan interjected, but his son looked concerned.

  “Seven percent,” Archie repeated.

  “Over last year.” I nodded, then pursed my lips together. “On top of a five percent decrease the year before, and a whopping eleven percent the year before that.”

  “Well, we’re still recovering from the hit everyone took in ’08, no one was taking vacations that year.”

  “Or the year after that,” I added, watching as Archie did some scribbling on his notepad. “Bottom line, even taking ’08 into account, your summertime bookings are down almost twenty-five percent when you compare them with a decade ago. And yet you’ve raised your rates every other year.”

  “Well, that’s just in line with our normal rate increase. We’ve always done that, our guests know and expect that even an institution like Bryant Mountain House has to keep our pricing current with the market,” Jonathan answered.

  “That’s just it, Jonathan,” I said, passing out some printouts, “you’re now overpriced. At a time when people are still struggling to get back the money they lost in their retirement plans and value is at a premium.”

  “But we provide a premium product,” Archie said, two spots of red appearing high in his cheeks. “We can’t possibly offer our rooms at bargain-basement pricing. You mentioned value? The value of a vacation at this resort is incalculable.”

  “Actually, it is calculable. Very much so. And while a rate increase is standard when costs are commensurate, you’ve implemented those same increases while your growth has slowed, effectively pricing out the most valuable commodity in the hotel industry—butts in beds.” I looked around the room at eyes that weren’t wide with shock but focused. They were listening. “Those old families are the life’s blood of your resort, no one is disputing that. The fact that you have a waiting list is incredible, bravo. But what happens when those old families are no longer? What happens when those last few dozen matriarchs pass away, and the old family stories and traditions of summers up at Bryant Mountain House are just memories that the younger generation can’t afford?”

  “Those rate increases reflect things like the cost-of-living wage adjustments we provide to our staff every single year.” Archie spit these words out in a chillingly quiet way. But now his voice was rising, as well as his body, right up out of his chair. “Maintenance alone on a resort of this size is astounding. If we reduce our rates, how do you expect us to stay in business?” Archie snapped, throwing his notepad to the table.

  I stood as well, leaning across the table, challenging him. “By getting your town involved. By getting local merchants involved. By bringing in the people of Bailey Falls and including them in this dynasty, instead of just sitting high up on your mountain and catering only to the wealthy.”

  I heard gasps from either side of me, but I kept my eyes solely on Archie’s. He was the key here, the linchpin this entire operation rested on. Jonathan Bryant may have been the CEO and he may have been the one to hire me, but he was retiring. Archie was who I needed. If I didn’t have his buy-in, the rest of the staff would follow his lead and this place, and their entire way of life, would pass into the faded pages of history of what was once great.

  I took a deep breath, and continued. “Now, I’m sorry if you think my words are harsh, but based on the numbers, we need to do something significant in order to save this hotel. It starts with what I like to call my Five R Plan. Number one, Refresh. We identify costs that we can offset over the years by upgrading to more cost-effective technology, like the HVAC systems. Two, Refurbish—we look into ways we can update the guest rooms and use some of what’s already there. Three, Rejuvenate and breathe some new life into stagnant areas, specifically with our menus. Revive is number four, not all that is old is boring. Let’s bring back some of the traditions that may have gone by the wayside and couple them with new customs. Let’s revive the partnership this hotel used to have with Bailey Falls in a much more specific and targeted way. And finally, Renovate. The specifics on this are TBD until I can drill down some very specific cost projections, but expect this last point to be a whopper.”

  I looked around and saw wide eyes. It was time to make sure they knew they were still very much a part of this. “Believe me, I’m open to any and all suggestions, however outside the box they may be. In fact, the zanier the better, the more outlandish the better, the furthest away from ‘but this is how it’s always been done,’ the better.”

  The room was quiet but not a good quiet. I knew it, I’d pushed
too far too fast, and now I’d find out I was fired and bye-bye, partnership.

  So when it was Archie who spoke first, I was the most surprised. But it made sense, since it was Archie and only Archie who could turn this around. “While I may not care for the method of delivery,” he said through gritted teeth, “Ms. Morgan is correct. We do need to do things differently, and boldly, if we’re to keep this hotel afloat. And as long as your plan does not call for filming an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians on our mountain . . . then I think we . . . I . . . need to give you the benefit of the doubt and hear your plan in its entirety.”

  His eyes pierced mine, the challenge clear in those indigo depths.

  “To be fair, the Kardashians would bring a tremendous amount of coverage to the resort, one tweet from Kim alone could—”

  “Ms. Morgan, I think I speak for everyone when I say not on your life.” But he said it with nasty smile, like he’d just tasted something terrible.

  “Okay then, let’s get to work.”

  We broke for lunch around noon, and an enormous amount of work had been accomplished. I could feel plans beginning to take shape. Everyone had a scratch pad full of notes, dry-erase boards covered the walls with parking lot questions and to-do lists, chairs had been pushed back and rearranged, and by the end even Archie had taken off his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves.

  Which just made my eyes flicker back and forth almost nonstop to his forearms. I was a sucker for a nice forearm.

  Forget the forearm.

  No, you forget the forearm.

  Wonderful, now I was literally, and most adult-like, fighting with myself.

  When we broke for lunch, I headed over to the picture window at the far end of the conference room overlooking the lake. Stretching my arms over my head, I could feel my back crackle and pop. Hard work wasn’t always good for the spine, but luckily my current job site included a world-class spa. Occupational hazard and all.

  “Ms. Morgan?”

  “What’s up, Mrs. Banning?” She’d had some of the most interesting ideas so far this morning. It was nice having someone on my side.

  “I just wanted to tell you, I’m really glad you’re here.”

  “Well, that’s nice of you to say, Mrs. Banning, I’m glad to be here.”

  “Oh please, call me Hilda.”

  “Only if you’ll call me Clara. This Ms. Morgan stuff is for the birds.”

  She shot me a mischievous look. “Jonathan likes things a bit more relaxed, although once he retires I have a feeling Archie will want us to return to a more formal working environment.”

  I laughed. “Well, we’ll just have to show him how much fun it can be to loosen up a bit, right?”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, you already have,” she said, lifting her chin in the direction of a laughing and smiling Archie, who was worlds away from the buttoned-up aristocrat I’d met yesterday.

  “He has to loosen up, at least in the way he’s thinking about this place, or he’ll lose it.”

  She looked stunned. “Oh, is it really all that bad?”

  I looked at her sadly. “I’m afraid so. Not this year, maybe not the next, but if we don’t get things turned around . . .” My voice trailed off. They needed to know, they needed to see what was coming. And as I spoke, my gaze was pulled back to Archie, who had pulled away from the rest of the group and was now pacing in front of all the notes I’d left on the dry-erase boards lining the walls. “I’m sure it’s not easy for him to hear that, he seems like he lives for this hotel.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right. You know, he’s just never been quite the same since his wife passed away.” Her face clouded in sadness. “I’ve known him since he was a baby, he literally grew up here with his parents, coming and going from this huge hotel like it was one giant backyard. I feel, we all feel, actually, that he needs this hotel to succeed almost more than anything. Ashley would’ve wanted that for him.”

  “Ashley, his wife, right? Had they been married long?” I asked, my cheeks heating. Much as I had no business knowing the details, I couldn’t help digging to try to find out what made this guy tick.

  “Married only a few years, but they’d been together forever. Known each other since grammar school, high school sweethearts those two, why, he even proposed here down on the croquet field at the end of a game one evening. Their lives were fully wrapped up in each other, and wrapped tightly with this hotel too.” She sighed then, remembering. I pushed my luck.

  “How’d she die?”

  Her face blanched. “Cancer. Ovarian, which then spread to her liver. Came out of nowhere, by the time they knew what it was, it was almost too late.” She blinked. “She never stood a chance.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  I gasped. “Jesus Christ, she was only thirty-two when she passed away?”

  Mrs. Banning nodded, but then suddenly her eyes widened and a look of shame crossed her face, before she looked down toward her feet.

  I knew he was there before he spoke.

  “I realize you think you have access to anything and everything that has to do with the Bryant family, Ms. Morgan, but let me be the first to tell you that my wife”—I felt a hand on my shoulder, turning me around. His face was pale, his eyes absolutely blazing—“my wife is off-limits.”

  “Of course, I was only—”

  He cut me off, waving a hand in the air. Without taking his eyes off me, he said, “A word, please, Mrs. Banning.” Not a question.

  And with that, he turned on his heel and exited the room, Mrs. Banning hot on his heels.

  I’d not only gotten her in trouble, I’d literally lost every nanometer of ground I’d finally gained with Archie.

  Fuuuuuck.

  Chapter 8

  The weather had finally broken. The ice had been melting for a few days, the sun had been shining, and a warm wind was blowing from the south, bringing with it the first real taste of spring. It hadn’t rained again in almost a week, the mud had finally dried . . . and it was time to run again. Outside.

  Spring had sprung.

  I’d been dying, dying to run outside, sick to death of the treadmill and the inside air. And this morning was finally my chance to get out there and tear it up a bit. I’d been poring over the trail maps, plotting out a course, and chatting with a few of the recreation guys to see what paths would be best this time of year.

  I scrambled out of bed, the sun not even yawning yet, and pulled on a pair of leggings, a Dri-FIT shirt, and a thin Gore-Tex pullover. Spring had sprung, but it was still chilly. I filled my water bottle, laced up my shoes, and literally bounced down the stairs.

  I’d been here long enough now to have established a routine. There weren’t many people up this early, but the few that were let me do my thing. I said hello to Howard, the nighttime guy at the front desk. I nodded a quick hey to Paul and Shawn, the modern-day scullery maids who were tasked with running around each morning and starting fires in the million and one fireplaces that covered this joint. The first urns of coffee were being put out in the Lakeside Lounge by Nancy, who helped out in the kitchen overnight and managed any late-night room service requests. I sniffed longingly at the scent of those heavenly roasted beans, but only after my run would I have any.

  Slipping out onto the long porch, I raised one leg and then the other, stretching and feeling the good burn along the back of my quads. By now the sun had begun peeking over the tree line, the sky lightening to a soft gray rather than the charcoal it’d been when I left my room. I consulted the map I’d tucked in my jacket pocket once more, and trotted off in the direction of the trailhead.

  I warmed up slowly, gradually picking up speed as my muscles relaxed and fell into their natural rhythm. The birds were chittering away by now, talking to each other and reporting their feathery news. I moved deeper into the forest, the trail twisting this way and that with a steadily increasing incline that a treadmill could mimic but never
fully replicate.

  My lungs filled with air, good clean mountain air that was chilly but invigorating. Chilly. That was the word to describe Archie at this point. Soooo chilly. The weather may have been thawing, but good lord, that man had icicles in his blood. Well, icicles when it came to me. When it came to the rest of the world, his beloved staff on his beloved mountain, he was all smiles. But for me? For me he reserved the iciest of everything, even when he managed to address me directly.

  On at least three separate occasions he’d left the room when I’d entered. Literally left the room before I even had a chance to say a good morning or a howdy-do or a hey that bagel looks good are there more?

  During the morning meetings when the entire team was required to be together he avoided asking me questions directly and when he did deign to address me personally, he did so in such a dismissive way that even his father had raised an eyebrow. And when he did argue with me about something, which was often, it wasn’t friendly fire.

  “Wrong.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wrong.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m sorry too, Ms. Morgan, that I had to sit here through an entire presentation on whether or not we need to change how we make our hot chocolate. We have always had homemade hot chocolate here at Bryant Mountain House, since the original lodge was here we—”

  “You had hot chocolate waiting in a kettle over a roaring fire for guests to enjoy when they came in from their horse-drawn sleigh ride, complete with jingle bells and mashed potatoes tucked into their pockets to keep their gentle little East Coast hands warm and toasty,” I interrupted, having been painted this particular picture numerous times since I’d been here. Currier and Ives might actually be buried on this property for all the nostalgia I was being fed on the daily. “And I get it, I do. But for God’s sake, Mr. Bryant, you use three different types of imported chocolate to make the stuff! It’s ridiculously expensive! Do you have any idea how much money you could be saving in just one year in imported chocolate alone? Guests barely even drink it anymore, but that damn kettle is filled to the brim with hot freaking imported chocolate every day at teatime like there are still gaggles of horse-drawn sleighs zinging all over this mountain!”