converted into the hotel lobby, I spotted Sullivan's
notepad on the newly built receptionist's desk. He'd
probably left his pad there by mistake, since it contained measurements for the perfect Christmas tree to
grace this space. Several minutes ago, Sullivan and
Henry had headed out to cut down one of the large
spruce trees on Henry's enormous parcel of land.
When I entered the kitchen through the double
doors, a tall, angular, fortyish woman was peering into
the knotty-pine cabinets and compiling an inventory
of kitchenware. I waited till she'd completed her count
of serving spoons, then said, "Hi. I'm Erin Gilbert, an
interior designer here at the inn."
She peered at me a little too imperiously for my liking. I got the feeling that she was tabulating the cost of
my Icelandic cardigan (a gift from Steve) and designer
slacks. She was wearing a crisp white shirt with pleats
and piping, black pants, and loafers. She had limp
brown hair in a blunt cut just above the nape of her
long neck. She would have been pretty except for her
permanent-looking scowl. "Mikara Woolf. Managerto-be of the Snowcap Inn." Her voice was confident
yet flat.
"Ah, great. Henry Goodwin said that you'd be starting sometime this week. My partner, Steve Sullivan, is
here, too, and he--"
"Yeah, he's out back with Henry. Something about
Christmas decorations . . . chopping down a tree or
looking for the lights. Quite a hunk, that Mr. Sullivan."
She raised an eyebrow. "You two are sleeping together,
right? And you're not married?"
I bristled. "Um, much as I hate to get us off on the
wrong foot, frankly, I don't see why you're asking."
She gave me a slight smile. "Oh, I realize it's none
of my business . . . even though you did give me my answer just now. I'm simply checking the accuracy of the
local rumor mill. I'm a native. Ten years ago, before
Snowcap Village was turned into the new mini-Vail,
everybody in this town knew one another. Till
Wendell Barton bought the mountain . . . along with
everything and everyone else."
"If small-town life means everyone discussing who's
sleeping with whom, there's something to be said for
tourist towns and anonymity."
She crossed her arms and gave me another visual
once-over. "Spoken like a city girl. Where are you
from originally? New York? Philadelphia?"
"No, I grew up in the suburbs. Of the Albany area."
She cocked an eyebrow as if she doubted me, and I conceded, "But I went to college and trained in New York."
She smirked and nodded. "Another Easterner.
Figured as much."
I found myself adding defensively, "Steve's a native
Coloradoan."
"Yeah, I figured that out, too."
"Huh. I'll have to remind him to stop wearing his
Colorado Native sweatshirt so often."
To her credit, she laughed. Maybe she wasn't quite
as standoffish as all that. "Guess I'm coming off as a
little judgmental. My apologies. It's been a rough
week. You wouldn't believe the flack I'm getting from
my sister and my former neighbors for accepting this
job. People think I've sold my soul to the devil by
agreeing to work here . . . considering it now belongs
to Barton."
"Oh, for heaven's sake! Henry Goodwin has the final
say in everything regarding the remodel, not Wendell
Barton. Furthermore, it doesn't belong to Wendell.
He's just one of three partners, including Audrey
Munroe, my landlady back in Crestview. She's got
more integrity than anyone I know. She's not about to
cede full control to Barton, or to anyone else, for that
matter."
"I assume you mean Audrey Munroe of the
Domestic Bliss television show." Mikara gave me a
smug smile. "Did you know she's currently dating
Wendell Barton?"
"What?!" Apparently the small-town gossip express
was way ahead of me.
"Angie, my sister, spotted them together at the
Nines last Saturday night."
Much as I wanted to deny the accuracy of Mikara's
at an inn meeting on Friday afternoon. Steve and I had
gone back to Crestview immediately afterwards. During
the remodel, we had full use of any of the eight mostly
finished guest bedrooms, which we'd designed ourselves. That allowed us to make the ninety-minute commute to Crestview only when we so chose--which
generally meant on weekends, so that I could be with
Hildi, my adorable black cat, who was happier at home.
Truth be told, I disliked Wendell Barton, a real-estate
mogul who'd struck me as a blowhard. I'd yet to find a
Snowcap resident who had a single nice thing to say
about the man. Then again, from the sound of things,
Mikara hadn't found any residents to say anything nice
about me, either, so maybe this town was snooty about
all non-natives.
"In another week or two, Wendell's going to have
Ms. Domestic Bliss in his sweaty palm," Mikara continued, "and next thing you know, he'll flatten that
gazebo you just built out back and erect a half dozen
condos in its place."
"If you're so negative about the Snowcap Inn's future, why did you take this job?"
"I'm a pragmatist." She shrugged. "The inn is paying me really well. Especially compared to the pittance I used to make at the art gallery."
I heard the back door open, followed by the
stomping of snow boots on the mat and the rumbling tones of Steve's voice. I couldn't help but smile.
All the seasonal beauty that surrounded us--the blanket of pure white snow, the glittering stars, the red
sashes and green boughs on all the storefronts, the
charming cabins, town homes, and quaint shops in
Snowcap Village--was only encouraging my lovesickness.
The two men entered the kitchen. Henry, soon to
be the former owner of this large estate, was a tall,
lanky man in his mid-forties who looked like he'd
stepped out of an L.L.Bean ad. He'd been born with a
silver spoon in his mouth, although he'd apparently
traded that spoon for a camper's spork. Aside from his
current duties as mayor, he hadn't held an actual job
in his life. He'd invested his father's sizable fortune
well, and now spent his time pursuing women and the
great outdoors.
Steve's face lit up when our eyes met, and Henry
smiled broadly at the sight of Mikara. "I'm glad you're
here, Mikki," he said to her. "Just in time for you to
butter up Angie." Henry waggled his thumb in the direction of the back door. "She's here now, doing the
inspection on the new gazebo."
"Wait," I said to Mikara, instantly anxious. "Your sister is the building inspector?"
"It's a small town," she replied with a shrug.
"But you just told me she doesn't want the inn to
open!"
"She'll be reasonable, though, won't she, Mikki?"
Henry asked.
"Sure. She won't cause trouble . . . as long as you
don't have any violations. She'll be a total stickler for
detail. Don't go expecting her to cut you any slack, is
all I'm saying."
Henry stared at her. "But . . . the city codes are
chock-full of minutiae that could be used to nitpick us
indefinitely! You're the manager. And her sister. She'll
show some family loyalty, surely . . . right?"
"If that's why you hired me, Henry, you misjudged
my sister by a mile!"
Henry massaged his forehead in a silent confirmation that he had hired Mikara for political reasons. "Good thing it's just the gazebo, then. We can
tear it down if we have to. Everything inside the
inn--the plumbing and electrical work--has already
passed."
Sullivan grimaced. "But . . . wasn't Angie the one
who took tap-water samples last Friday?"
"Probably," Mikara said with a nod. "She does some
contract work for the health inspectors, too."
Henry paled a little at this news but seemed to visibly steel himself a moment later. "So, Mikki, you
wanted to make this a live-in position, right? Did you
pick out a bedroom yet?"
"Not yet. Why? Does my bedroom have to be located in the basement?"
He laughed heartily and winked in Sullivan's and
my direction. "Such a kidder. No. Just not the master
bedroom."
"Ah, yes," she said with a sigh. "I remember that
room well."
Henry winced slightly at the remark, an unmistakable implication that the two had once been
lovers.
"I'm sure you plan on charging hundreds a night for
that room," she added.
"During the ski season, absolutely we will. It's a
huge space. Erin, Steve, and Audrey Munroe, my coinvestor, are using the third-floor bedrooms until we
open on Christmas Eve. Gilbert and Sullivan Designs
is refurbishing this place from top to bottom, literally."
I gave Sullivan a quick grin, which he answered
with a wink; we were actually Sullivan & Gilbert
Designs, but clients inevitably got it wrong.
"The bedrooms just need Christmas decorations
and whatnot," Henry continued, "then they're all set to
be rented out. So . . . I was hoping you'd consider moving into my old office on the main floor."
"Fine. That makes sense," she said with a grim nod.
"You wouldn't want to confuse the guests by having
me mingle with them after hours. Otherwise, everyone
might have a hard time setting boundaries between
the paying guests and the hired help."
He clicked his tongue. "Come on! You're not the
hired help. You're the manager. I need you to lead the
troops. My contract only gives me control of the daily
operations of this joint for another ten months. As of
next October first, I'm entrusting the operations and
procedures of the Goodwin Estate entirely to you. To
be honest, I wouldn't have sold if I hadn't known you
were going to be here, watching my back."
Although I personally found his mini-speech quite
persuasive, Mikara glared at him and put her hands on
her narrow hips. "You should never have sold this
place to Wendell Barton and a couple of in-name-only
partners, even so."
"They're hardly puppets, Mikki. Audrey Munroe
and Chiffon Walters each own thirty percent of the
inn now. And this town has got to accept that fact . . .
and learn how to maintain its community ties even
while embracing the seasonal tourist trade."
"But Chiffon's just a mindless bimbo who happened to record a couple of hit pop songs some five
years ago. And promptly bought a huge condo next to
Wendell's mountain. She's no match for Barton!"
"That's not true! Chiffon's got a great head on her
shoulders. Barton's powerless unless she or Audrey
sides with him. And I trust both of them implicitly."
He added pointedly, "I set things up that way specifically so Barton could never tear down this house and
put a hundred condos in its place."
"Better get ready for the bulldozer, then," Mikara
said with a snort. "Your Ms. Munroe and Mr. Barton
are the new hot couple . . . or as hot as anyone in their
sixties can be, that is. Angie saw them necking at the
Nines."
Henry's jaw dropped open.
I needed to make my allegiance to Audrey clear before one more remark was made about her. "If
Wendell's dating Audrey strictly to win her vote, his
plan will backfire."
"Right," Steve added. "Audrey has a mind of her
own."
"So does every woman"--she glanced at Henry,
then added sadly--"right up until she falls in love."
There was an uncomfortable amount of truth in
Mikara's remark. We women do have a tendency to
adopt our lovers' viewpoints.
Sullivan glanced at me, and I felt my cheeks grow
warm. "Erin, did you see my notepad?" he whispered.
"I measured the--"
"It's on the desk in the lobby."
He nodded.
The doorbell rang. "That's probably Angie," Henry
said. "I asked her to give us the results of her inspection right away. Let's all treat her with respect, regardless of what she says."
"Oh, darn," Mikara muttered. "Now I won't be able
to spit in my sister's eye, like usual."
Ignoring her, Henry strode into the lobby. Moments
later, a blonder, younger version of Mikara entered the
kitchen, followed by Henry. Mikara forced a smile.
"Hey, Angie," she said. "You've got the work done already?"
"Yeah. But there's a big problem."
Why am I not surprised? I thought. Henry scowled
and did a double take at Angie, but Mikara merely
sighed and introduced Angie to me.
"Nice to meet you, Angie," I said with a big
smile.
"Hi, Angie," Sullivan said, giving her a charming
smile. "Good to see you again." She barely looked at him.
"I can't believe there was anything wrong with the
gazebo construction," Henry said. "You know what a
great job Ben Orlin always does."
"There's nothing wrong with the gazebo. But
there's too much lead in your tap water. I can't approve
this residence being converted into a motel."
"Fortunately," Henry promptly countered, "you
don't have to. We intend to use the house as a bed-andbreakfast inn."
"Right," Angie said with a sneer. "That's even worse.
You'll have to get restaurant approval. Cooking meals
and serving tap water rife with these poisons is out of
the question."
"We use the city water here. Same as everyone
else."
"Yeah. It's got nothing to do with the water supply.
You've got bad pipes. You'll have to replace them all."
Sullivan and I exchanged puzzled glances. Contaminants could be removed with filters, which would be
much easier and less expensive than replacing the
pipes. We needed to wait until Angie left to tell Henry
that, though; my hunch was that otherwise, Angie
would find some arcane ruling that prohibited water
filtering.
"Our pipes are copper, not lead!" Henry shouted.
"Must be the solder in all the joints," she said with a
shrug. "Or else maybe they're copper-coated lead
pipes."
"Oh, come off it!" Henry shouted. "You're making
this stuff up, and we both know it! Now, what's it going to take to get you to give the water here a passing
grade?"
"Are you offering me a bribe, Mr. Goodwin?"
"No, I'm just--"
"Good, because that would be a federal crime, and
you're in enough trouble already. What with your lead
contaminants and your faulty front steps."
"Front steps?"
She gave him a sly grin. "I must have forgotten
to tell you. They're too steep for a business . . . and particularly for a business that's going to have geriatrics
and little children going up and down them all the
time."
"Toddlers and geriatric guests can use the back door
and our handicap access."
"Or you can follow the law and rebuild them to
meet the city codes, so they can use your front steps."
"Angie!" Mikara cried. "Quit busting Henry's chops!"
She glowered at Mikara. "Hey, sis. You know, it's
like what you said to me when you left the house this
morning: 'I'm just trying to do my job.'" She used a
lilting voice and fluttered her eyes derisively, mocking
her sister.
"You're being a brat, Angela!" Mikara stomped her
foot.
"And you're being a weasel!" Angie shot her sister a
furious glare, then softened her expression slightly and
said to Henry, "The bottom line is, there are unacceptable levels of lead in the water supply. Fix it, or else
you're not going to be able to convert this place into a
bed and breakfast."
"But we're opening on Christmas Eve! In three
weeks!"
"Then you'd better get the lead out, hadn't you," she
said. "Plus, have the entire concrete stoop demolished
and rebuilt to code." She tore off a pink copy from her
clipboard and handed it to him. "Here's your official
notice. Pity your violations will probably delay your
opening. But take heart, Mayor Goodwin. There's always next Christmas."
She strode toward the front door, glanced back over
her shoulder, and said with a haughty smile, "Good
seeing you, Henry."
"Be real careful on the steps," he snarled. "We
wouldn't want you to fall and crack your head open."
Sullivan and I exchanged glances.