Wasn’t that the point of vacations?
“We’ve been in this room for twenty minutes, after a nine-hour drive. You weren’t the one at the wheel. You were doing your nails. Since when do psychologists pay that much attention to their fingernails?”
“You got something against manicures?”
“No, but why put on paint just so it can chip off?” What a waste of time. That woman downstairs, Ellery Hart or whatever, had had clean hands, tidily trimmed nails, and no glitter bombs or teensy jewels on them. Not that he’d been noticing her. Much. “Hands are our most important tools. Nobody decorates a hammer.”
“Whatever. When did you turn into such a curmudgeon? You used to be …”
What? What did he used to be? Before everything fell apart? “Almost as charming as I am now?”
“Charming! Shah! The way you rip-snorted at the gorgeous owner of the hotel? You’d call that charm?”
He had snorted, hadn’t he? “I did apologize.”
Freya rolled off the end of the bed and plopped into the recliner beside the fire. She extended the foot rest and leaned back. “This room has charm, even if you don’t.” She patted the armrest. “I love the fireplace. And if I ever get married, I’m totally going on a honeymoon somewhere with a hot tub.” She waved a hand toward the Jacuzzi in the corner. “I booked it because the reviews said it was a quiet ghost town. I wonder why no one else seems to be staying here.”
True, the parking lot downstairs had been eerily empty. “Quirky staff?”
“That big lug who lugged my luggage had a heart of gold. He even refused to take my tip. He only took loose change, he said. Bless him.”
The guy hadn’t seemed all there to Bing. “I’m just grateful for the quiet. Now, let me doze off, Frey.”
“Fine—but for no more than an hour. We’re checking out the nightlife in this town. I may be a girl-cousin-person, but this evening I’m your wing-man, and you’re finding someone to have a fling with while you’re here.”
A fling! “That’s not happening.” Not a chance in Santa’s workshop, which was what the front of this hotel looked like.
“Oh, come on, Bing. There’s abso-bloomin’-lutely no one for either of us to date in Massey Falls, and you know it. Love the hometown or not.”
“As if Wilder River is any bigger.” He pulled off his boots. Ouch. That ankle was an alarming size. Perfect start of a vacation, looking like a complete klutz in front of that pretty woman. Oh, and then snarling in front of her. For the win.
“Wilder River is obviously bigger. More eclectic. It’s got ten times as many people, and much, much cuter hotel proprietresses.”
Please. As if she’d even look at him after what he’d done. Besides, that girl downstairs was way too gorgeous to not be involved with someone. To confirm the fact, she hadn’t sloughed off the Mrs. when Freya had thrown it at her. “She’s married.”
“The way she looked at you? I doubt it.”
How had she looked at him? “What I need is some R-and-R. Not a fling.”
“Can’t rest and relaxation include a fling?”
“I wish you’d stop using that word.”
“You used it too, Bing. Bing-Bing. Bing-needs-a-fling.”
If she didn’t knock it off right now—“I’m coming off a troubled relationship, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“What! You—you were dating that female jockey? I never heard. Shayla … Shayla … what was her last name?”
Some people! “Do you even take an interest in the racing world, Freya? Her name is Shayla Sharp. Everyone who knows anything about racing knows the name of the sole female jockey in the history of the sport to take home a victory at the Torrey Stakes.”
Freya huffed loudly. “Forgive me! I’m still just in shock that you were in a relationship with her.”
But he wasn’t. “We went on one date.”
“And that’s what you deem coming off a troubled relationship?” The scoffing filled the whole room, carpet to rafters. “Bing. You know how lame that sounds, right?”
“Don’t use the term lame.” Lame horses were a sticking point. “Just don’t.”
Slowly, Freya nodded. “Oh, I get what you’re saying now.” Her face went from joking to grim. “Are they really going ahead with the burial outside the Torrey Stakes racetrack? That’s such an honor for Snow White.”
One normally reserved for the likes of Secretariat. “Yes, and the bronze statue of her.” The organizers’ mourning had mirrored everyone’s at Whitmore Stables. “Her death came so soon on the heels of her victory there, the whole community was in shock.”
And Bing was still suffering the effects of that shock. Electrocution, wasn’t that what it was called? That heart-stopping death?
Since that day, he hadn’t been able to detect his own heartbeat, other than during the terrible squeezing pressure of pain when he’d thought he was losing Rose Red, too.
“Hey.” Freya’s voice was softer now. Less chiding. “Dude. Do you really think it’s healthy to replace human relationships with horse relationships? Snow White and Rose Red are beautiful creatures, but they’re no substitute for what you really need.”
And now his cousin was asserting herself as the expert on what Bing really needed. “You sound more like a meddling aunt than a trained psychological professional right now. Just warning you.”
Freya set the chair aright and pulled her glasses down onto her nose. “Tell me about your relationship with Rose Red.”
“They’ll ride you out of Hamburg on a rail for that terrible German accent.”
“Fine. Let’s just figure out how to get you to snap out of whatever this funk is. Me, I think a beautiful woman could be a funk-snapper. Forgive me for presuming to notice that you’re a lonesome bachelor bumping along towards the age of thirty with nothing and nobody to show for it.”
“You really should be a professional. You’re totally good at this empathy and therapy thing.” Bing had had enough of this. He slid off the bed and headed for the bathroom. Chances were, Freya wouldn’t harangue him through the door. Maybe. “I’m feeling worlds better already.”
“Stop it. Fine. I’ll ask you a question from my training then. When was the last time you rode a horse? Or worked with one directly?”
Bing stopped in his tracks so fast, the soles of his feet could have had carpet burn. “I’m going to soak my ankle in ice water.”
“You can’t avoid your problems and your feelings forever. You have to face them.”
“I happen to know you’re referencing the head nun on Sound of Music right now.”
“Mother Superior.”
Right. Whatever.
“And for the record, the fact that you have watched The Sound of Music often enough to recognize quotes from it makes you an even more eligible bachelor.” Freya didn’t care that he’d closed the bathroom door and was running the cold water in the tub. “Women don’t just want money and good looks, you know. They want conversation. About topics that interest them—topics like movies, if they’re any fun at all.”
“Don’t forget charm. They want charm.”
“Bummer for you.” Freya paused. Maybe she’d gone away. Nope. “Just kidding. I was waiting for you to laugh.”
He should send her outside to fetch some snow to throw in this water for the ice-water effect on his swelling.
“Come on, Bing. That’s what you used to be—a laugher. Let’s get that back—fling or no fling—on this trip.”
With or without laughter, what Bing really needed—add some air quotes for Freya’s sake—was a detectable heartbeat again.
“Hey, hurry up in there. I’m dying for some dinner. Let’s walk up to the town.”
Ellery
“If we don’t have any more bookings coming in, I think I’ll walk up town.” Ellery handed the key to the cash drawer to Kit. “For inspiration.”
“Do you like my decorations? What I’ve done so far?” Kit pocketed the key. “It livens up the
place a little, eh?”
Not enough. For the first time in a while, Ellery eyed the lobby with a critical eye. Even though the way Grandpa had laid it out forty years ago felt sacred, maybe it was time to refresh. Just because Ellery and Mom and Lenny and Kit looked at the reception area and saw Grandpa Bell’s devotion to the hotel, that didn’t mean guests had the time-travel-to-nostalgia vision they did.
Ellery squeezed her eyes shut, mentally donned a fake identity of someone who’d never set foot in here while the ebullient Grandpa—Pops—Bell owned the place, and then opened her eyes and looked around.
Nope. It was a big, old nope.
The Bells Chalet sat squarely in the time vacuum between current and vintage—in the black hole known as dated. Pink and mint green tiles stretched across the front of the honey-oak desk. That look complemented the desert-scene printed curtains—with cactus and little step-pyramid diamonds—in pastel purples and teal. And the furniture looked like it had been salvaged from behind a thrift store, where it had been dumped because no one bought it.
Not to mention the dark-purple painted walls.
Nope. It was a big old nope.
“Where are you, Ellery? La-la land?” Kit walked up with a pile of fresh towels. “I can do some Pinterest searches if you don’t like what I’ve done to make it feel like the holidays in here. But, uh, unless you want me to raid my mom’s ridiculously hoarder-level fabric stash to make bows and things, I’d need a budget.”
That was just it. There was no budget. Not even for the loan payment. “What you’ve done is great, Kit. I’ll be back in a while.”
The door jingled behind her as Ellery left. Outside, she sucked in a sharp breath of icy air. She tugged her crocheted scarf closer to her neck. This year was going to be a cold one. Might even be too cold for the ski crowd soon.
With the slopes open for the past six weeks, surely Bells Chalet should have had some bookings. Yeah, she had an ugly foyer, and the whole place needed a refresher, now that she was ready to admit the truth—but at her prices, she should have some guests. A new chain hotel was going up down the street, and so the market should be ripe for it, right?
The spot in her brain right behind the bridge of her nose hurt. She marched up the street toward the main area of shops and cafés, every footstep pounding harder into the crunch of crusted snow. Her hotel’s location was good—within walking distance of town. What was she lacking?
A husband, her mother would say. Cue Ellery’s eye-roll again. Mom could even make her into a disgusted teenager in absentia.
“I don’t need a husband!” she said, each syllable matching a stomp.
Naturally, laughter broke out nearby, where a couple of—yup—teenage girls were staring at her from their perches at bistro tables outside the espresso shop. What kind of idiots sat outside to drink coffee in these temperatures? Ellery winced and gave a fingers-only wave. The girls just laughed more.
Nice.
First she’d flirted with a married man, and now she was humiliating herself in public. Maybe she shouldn’t have come downtown. Maybe she should have just gone to her room and done internet research. How do I save a dying hotel? Surely there were thousands of articles with great ideas just waiting to save her livelihood and Grandpa Bell’s legacy.
“Why, if it isn’t Miss Ellery Hart.” Allard Allman stepped directly into Ellery’s path, stopping her determined march toward … what? Toward nothing. “Nice weather we’re having.”
“It is if you want to go around in your drawers all day,” she mumbled. Why did quotes from the crusty Mayor George Shinn of The Music Man and other non sequitur musical quotes have to erupt at the worst times? Like when she was confronted by the man who held her—and her employees’—future in his hands?
“What was that?” Allard Allman took off his beret. “I didn’t hear you.” But he didn’t wait for her to restate. Bless him. “I mean it’s nice weather we’re having if we want the ski tourism business to boom, of course.”
“Right.” Of course. “Tourism is so important to our town’s economy.”
“Speaking of economy, your hotel’s finances are doing well, I take it.”
He knew darn well they weren’t well. “Of course. Of course! We’ve got happy guests today, for sure.”
Probably. If they didn’t need to spend the bulk of their vacations in urgent care instead of on the ski slopes.
“Good. Glad to hear it.” Allard Allman took a step closer.
Without the hat, he stood an inch or two shorter than Ellery. Not that she was a towering giantess, but she was wearing heeled boots today. Anyway, the closeness of their height meant his breath blew straight into her face. She knew because in this good-for-tourism weather, it was steamy-visible.
And it smelled like Swiss cheese.
“I’ll see you later, Mr. Allman.”
“Call me Allard, please, Ellery.”
She hadn’t exactly given him permission to address her by her first name. It rankled. She just nodded and scooted around him.
“If you’re not too busy taking care of those guests and keeping them happy, I’d like to pop by the Bells Chalet and discuss non-business topics some evening soon. Maybe tomorrow night, say, around seven?”
A pair of tall figures strolled up beside Ellery, flanking her. The Whitmores! “Oh, hello.” They’d passed the banker and possibly heard her exchange with him.
They didn’t address her, but instead, the wife spoke to Allard Allman. “I’m afraid Ms. Hart will be far too busy at the hotel.”
Yup, they’d heard the conversation.
“We’re her executive suite guests, see? And we are going to require far too much personal attention for her to break away. I’m so sorry.”
Ellery could have hugged the woman. “The customer is always right.” She tilted her head limply at Allard Allman, whose eyes tightened at the sides.
“Naturally.” He huffed and turned to go back into the bank. “Good day, Miss Hart.”
When Allard Allman disappeared, Ellery gave Mrs. Whitmore a sheepish smile. “How could you tell I needed an extraction?”
“From the rabbit-in-a-spotlight look in your eyes, maybe?” Mr. Whitmore looked even handsomer in the pink light of the fading day. “Or maybe it was the way your leg was poised to kick him in the neck if he got any closer.”
In his double-breasted pea coat, with the collar turned up, Bing Whitmore looked practically dashing. Blast him! And why was he so funny? He didn’t laugh at his own jokes, but neither could Ellery. She couldn’t flirt with a married guy. Laughing was flirting, right? Good thing she’d resisted even a snicker.
“Or maybe it was your kung fu pose with your hands out ready to chop bricks or boards or bankers’ heads in half.” Mrs. Whitmore patted Ellery’s shoulder.
“Was it that obvious?” Whether the fight-or-flight stance had stemmed from the loan conversation or the threat of spending an evening with Allard Allman didn’t matter. “What are you two doing out and about?”
“Testing my cousin’s ankle to see if it’s broken or whether he’s going to decimate my speed records on the ski slopes like he threatened.”
Cousin! What cousin?
“I’m a much faster skier than she is. Trust me. With or without an ankle.”
Ellery gave a courtesy laugh, but only because she was still trying to process what Mrs. Whitmore had said. Maybe it was the confusion that caused her to blurt the question. Maybe it was foolish, impulsive hope. “You’re not Mrs. Whitmore, his wife?”
“Me?” Mrs. Whitmore touched her chest. “Married to that guy? Ha! Fat chance!”
But they were both Whitmores, right? Their guest registration, the shared room, all clues pointed that direction, didn’t they?
“Oh, I see how you could think that.” Mr. Whitmore’s upper lip curled. “But Freya’s not just my cousin, she thinks she’s also my nanny. And she gives terrible advice, while thinking of herself as my personal decision boss.”
“Ha,
ha,” Mrs.—make that Miss—Whitmore deadpanned. Then she smiled at Ellery. “That’s pretty funny, actually. We get mistaken for brother and sister all the time, and even for twins now and then, but never for a married couple. Call me Freya.”
“You can call me Ellery, then.” They seemed to be going the same direction, so Ellery walked up the street toward the center of town. They passed Mando’s Electronics Repair, a ski equipment shop, and Newberg’s Chocolates, which smelled like heaven would probably smell, if Ellery ever got there.
“And you can call him Bing.”
“As in I’m dreaming of a white Christmas Bing? That Bing?” And Holiday Inn, and about a hundred other musicals like The Belles of St. Mary’s with those accentuating-the-positive lyrics, and … Ellery slammed on her brain’s movie-quoting brakes before she hurtled over the cliff.
“As in it’s short for Bingham, but that second syllable’s fighting words.” Freya had a laugh like a ringing bell. “So I take it you’re not married or that banker guy wouldn’t be so forward. Although, that porter at the hotel mentioned you a little possessively when he brought up our bags.”
“Lenny’s heart would tempt unscrupulous gold miners to cut him open and pull out the nugget to sell at however-many dollars per ounce gold is selling for right now.”
Bing stopped walking. “But you’re not married to him.” He hung back.
His position forced Ellery to turn around to answer his highly direct question. “Not to Lenny.” Suddenly, visions of her bridal veil with the little satin rosebuds and pearls attached to the netting slammed her like a loaded freight train. “I mean, not to anyone.”
Not to stupid Greg Maxwell. Curse him for making her chin tremble in front of these strangers after more than two years. Why had their failed wedding ceremony had to be the main topic of discussion in every beauty parlor and at every coffee shop in the county for months?
“I should probably let you guys go—” Ellery stared at the sidewalk, not interested in the pity that was probably in Freya and Bing’s eyes. Fine, they probably hadn’t heard her left-at-the-altar tragic tale, but the second they did, the pity would reside there. Just like it did in the looks she got from everyone who knew her. Even from Kit now and then.
The Sleigh Bells Chalet: A Small Town Romance (Christmas House Romances Book 2) Page 2