by Sue Pethick
This latest bout of karmic deserts was being served up by Harold Grader, her up-until-now friendly local banker, who’d apparently decided that loaning her more money to maintain and upgrade her hotel would be throwing good money after bad.
“I’m sorry, Emma,” he said, looking anything but. “The committee just isn’t going to approve another loan when you’re only making the minimum payments on the one you have.”
“I understand,” Emma said, “and I know it doesn’t look good, but business has really been picking up.”
“Yes, I can see that,” he said, prodding the financial statements on his desk with the tip of his finger. “But your overhead has also increased. If anything, it looks as if you’re making less on a per-guest basis than you were before.”
Emma closed her eyes in silent acknowledgment. It didn’t make sense to her, either, but she’d been over the figures a dozen times and every time it came out the same. It was as if her profits were vanishing into thin air.
Maybe I’m just incompetent.
No doubt that’s what her banker was thinking. Emma had worked at her grandmother’s inn every summer since she was six and could do any job on the property, yet when people heard that it had been gifted to her, they just assumed she was a neophyte, a manager in name only who left the real work to her older, more experienced staff.
It didn’t help, of course, that Emma didn’t look like the kind of businesswoman a bank was used to dealing with. She was a little below average height; her figure was more boyish than buxom; and she considered makeup to be a waste of both time and money. She liked the convenience of shorter hair, but had grown hers out after being mistaken once too often for a preteen boy. At work, she wore a suit and the highest heels she could walk in without breaking an ankle, but her days off were spent in T-shirts and jeans.
Grader was fiddling with his pen. “What does Mr. Fairholm think of your proposed changes?”
Emma tried not to resent the question. Clifton Fairholm had been her grandmother’s assistant manager since the Spirit Inn opened, and Gran’s will had stipulated that he be allowed to keep his job when ownership of the hotel changed hands. He was as stumped by the inn’s problems as she was, but his fondest memories were of the hotel in its heyday, and convincing him to modernize the place was like forcing a fish to fly.
“I’d say he’s on board with most of them,” she said.
“Most, but not all?”
Emma chewed her lip. She’d only said “most” because she wanted her answer to sound plausible. The truth was, Clifton Fairholm didn’t think much of any of the changes she was proposing. But then, she thought, her assistant manager probably wouldn’t agree to add indoor plumbing if there’d been a choice.
“Well, you know Clifton.” She chuckled. “Always a stickler for historical accuracy. Anything new puts his knickers in a twist.”
Grader pursed his lips. “So, he’s had some objections?”
“A few. Yeah.”
She squirmed. Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask.
“May I ask which ones?”
Emma sighed. If she hadn’t been so desperate, she’d have gathered up her financial statements, told Grader what he and his committee could do with their money, and walked out. As it was, however, she didn’t think she could stay in business much longer without it. If she didn’t turn things around soon, she’d be forced to sell the Spirit Inn to pay her creditors. It’d be like losing Gran all over again.
“What about the coffee bar?” Grader prompted.
She realized that she’d dug her fingernails into the arms of the chair and released her grip. Relax, Emma told herself. There were good reasons behind every penny she was asking for. Grader was only doing his job. This wasn’t personal; it was just business.
“He thinks it’s unnecessary,” she said. “He says we already serve coffee in the restaurant.”
Grader considered that. “Does he have a point?”
“Yes, but people like coffee bars. Having to go into the restaurant, wait for a table, and then sit down to order is a hassle when all you want is a latte while you read a book.”
The banker’s face was impassive. “Anything else?”
She took a deep breath. “The automated key cards. Clifton thinks they’ll ‘diminish the historic ambience’ of the inn,” she said, making air quotes with her still-stiff fingers.
“Won’t they?”
Emma frowned. She’d have thought that improving the hotel’s security was a no-brainer. Was Grader just trying to be difficult?
“Did they have key cards in the nineteenth century?” she said. “No, but people want to know their stuff is safe when they leave their rooms. Plus, guests steal our keys all the time.”
Grader seemed taken aback. “Surely not.”
“Okay, maybe steal isn’t the right word. Let’s just say that a significant percentage of our guests leave without returning their keys, which means that before I can rent the room again I have to get a locksmith to come out, replace the lock, and make new keys for everyone on staff.”
“You could charge the guest for that.”
“I could,” she said, feeling her temper rise. “But I’d have to spend a lot of time on the phone listening to them complain about it, and in the end we’d probably lose the chance to have them back. Believe me, the costs are significant.”
“More than an automated system?”
Emma was losing patience. She’d gone in there with a simple business proposal. Why the inquisition?
“Obviously not,” she said, “but there are some things that our guests want and need that can’t be amortized.”
She saw heads turning her way and shrank back.
“Sorry.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “I know you feel strongly about this, but a well-run hotel shouldn’t have to borrow to cover its overhead, and there’s no guarantee that any of the changes you’re proposing will improve your financial position. Unless and until the Spirit Inn can show a profit, I don’t see how we can give you another infusion of cash. It’s just too much of a risk.”
Emma looked down, refusing to concede defeat. So what if Grader turned her down? There were other banks out there. She didn’t care how long it took; she would not take no for an answer. The Spirit Inn meant too much to her to give up now.
She started gathering the papers from the loan officer’s desk.
“Thank you for your time,” she said, placing them back in the Pee-Chee folder that served as her briefcase. “I guess I’ll just have to find the money somewhere else.”
Grader shifted in his seat and stared at the pen he was twirling in his fingers.
“Look, maybe I could run your request by the committee again.”
Emma’s heart leaped; she could have kissed him. Instead, she gave a dignified nod.
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” she said, handing him the Pee-Chee folder.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “To be honest, I doubt it’ll make any difference.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Emma said. “Just the fact that you’re willing to ask means a lot.”
Grader waved away the compliment and set the folder aside.
“I admire your spirit,” he said. “But I think you’re making a mistake. You’re a young woman. Why hang on to a white elephant like that? You could sell it, take the money, and see the world. If she were still alive, I think your grandmother would agree.”
“I know that,” Emma said. “But I don’t want to see any more of the world than I’ve got right here. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true.”
“All right.” Grader sighed and shook his head. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He walked her to the door and they shook hands.
“I’ll submit your request tonight and call you when the loan committee makes its decision.”
As the door closed behind her, Emma almost wilted with relief. Maybe things hadn’t gone as well as she’d hoped, but
at least he hadn’t said no. Harold Grader was probably just making sure that she knew what she was doing. Why else would he have asked her all those questions? He was a banker, after all. Bankers were supposed to be careful with their money. If he didn’t think the committee would approve her loan, he wouldn’t have agreed to run it by them.
The more she thought about it, the surer Emma was that her loan would be approved. She could pay off her bills, give herself some breathing room, and start moving the Spirit Inn squarely into the twenty-first century. And after that, she thought as she got back into her truck, there’d be no stopping her.
Emma was halfway home when the first drops of rain hit her windshield. As she started up the winding road that led to the Spirit Inn, she congratulated herself for having put the studded tires on her truck the day before. Down in the valleys, they could wait until November to prepare for winter, but up here even a moderate amount of precipitation could quickly turn to ice, making the roads hazardous.
The inn her grandmother had left her was situated on a large plat in the middle of an evergreen forest. Ski resorts and newly minted tech millionaires had been snapping up the land around her fifteen hundred acres, but Emma refused to sell. To her, the towering trees were like the spires of a natural cathedral, the ferns and wake-robin as ethereal as stained glass.
I’ve got to find a way to save this place.
The box of supplies lurched from one side of the cab to the other as her truck continued up the hill. Emma was anxious to talk to Clifton about her meeting with Grader and hoped he wouldn’t be upset that her plans were still alive. After all, she told herself, his reluctance had nothing to do with her. Some people just had a hard time with change.
As her truck rounded the last curve, the road widened and Emma smiled. The inn’s parking lot had filled in the time she’d been gone and people were gathered on the front porch, laughing and hugging the new arrivals as they hurried to escape the rain.
This would be the sixth time that the SSSPA had held their annual convention at the Spirit Inn and Emma saw several people she recognized from years past. A few of them spotted her truck and waved as she drove by. She smiled and returned their greetings, grateful for their loyalty. They were a well-behaved bunch who paid their bills and were easy on the furnishings, she thought. Who cared if they were a little strange?
Emma pulled into a parking space marked Reserved and hauled the box of supplies around to the inn’s back entrance. Two small steps led to a concrete landing just outside the back door. Emma balanced her box on the cast-iron railing and fished the key out of her pocket. In the past, the back door had always been left unlocked, but since the inn’s financial difficulties had begun, she’d had to ask the staff to be more conscious of who had access to the supplies. She didn’t accuse anyone, and had no evidence even if she’d wanted to, but in the last few months both she and Clifton had noticed a sharp uptick in the restaurant’s overhead. If someone had been helping themselves to the pantry, they needed to stop.
When the supplies had been safely put away, Emma walked down the path to her private quarters, a tiny cottage her grandmother had built shortly after buying the inn. She took a quick shower and donned her “uniform,” the green blazer, white shirt, and green-and-gold ascot she wore to work. The tie had been Clifton’s idea, ascots having been popular back when the inn was built, and her grandmother insisted it be standard attire for everyone on staff. Emma’s black pencil skirt, which she wore instead of slacks, was one of only two things that distinguished her from the rest of her staff, the second being something else that Gran had insisted upon: a name tag that said Emma Carlisle—Manager. She ran a comb through her hair and headed back up the path to the inn.
The lobby was a hive of activity. Recent arrivals, still damp from their trip through the parking lot, stood in line at the front desk, anxious for a chance to freshen up after hours on the road, while those who’d checked in earlier milled about, looking for familiar faces and discussing the weekend’s upcoming events. The bellboys were in constant motion, loading their brass carts and whisking them away before scurrying back like dandified Energizer bunnies.
At the front desk, Clifton Fairholm was projecting his usual air of unruffled efficiency, his movements as deft as a croupier’s, but the new clerk, Adam, seemed harried. When Emma asked discreetly if there was anything she could do to help, the young man gave her a look of such gratitude that her heart went out to him. She suspected that Clifton, whose standards were as high as his patience was short, had been pushing the young man hard. When this rush was over, she’d have to speak with him about it.
When the line had been dealt with and the inflow of new arrivals had slowed to a trickle, Emma went out to visit her guests. The first-timers were usually satisfied with a brief hello, but repeat customers expected to be given a few minutes to talk about previous visits and fill her in on what had been going on in their lives since they’d been there last. Clifton had never understood her enthusiasm for the meet and greet, referring to it as “politicking,” but Emma found it the most enjoyable part of her job. What was the point of owning a hotel if you didn’t like people?
She was halfway across the lobby when the sound of tinkling bells alerted Emma to the approach of Viv Van Vandevander. Viv was in her late sixties, a full-figured woman with wavy salt-and-pepper hair that fell from a middle part to just past her shoulders. Her typical outfit was a version of what Emma thought of as hippie chic—peasant blouses and voluminous skirts in deeply saturated colors—and her signature sound came from the talismanic suzu bells sewn onto her velvet slippers. According to Viv, the ringing of the suzu bestowed positive power and authority to their possessor, while at the same time warding off evil spirits. An asset, no doubt, in Viv’s line of work.
“Emma, dear, how are you?”
The older woman embraced her briefly, then studied her at arm’s length.
“Your aura is very blue tonight.”
Emma was always at a loss when Viv made one of her pronouncements.
“Uh, thanks?”
“However”—Viv frowned—“I see smudges of brown in the background, which are disturbing. Have you been troubled lately by distracting or materialistic thoughts?”
“Well, now that you mention it—”
The older woman clasped her hands together. “I knew it!”
“Knew what?” a hearty voice boomed.
Emma turned and saw Viv’s husband, Lars Van Vandevander, approaching with a beverage bottle in each hand. Lars was a professor of parapsychology and the organizer of that year’s SSSPA conference.
“They don’t carry Kombucha,” he said, handing a bottle to his wife. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with Snapple.” He smiled at Emma. “Nice to see you again, my dear.”
Viv took a sip of her drink and continued her diagnosis.
“I was just telling Emma that she must free herself from her attachment to the material if she’s to have any hope of clearing her aura.”
Lars nodded and took a sip of his Trop-a-Rocka tea. “Mmm.”
“If you embrace the things that are true and worthy in the world,” Viv said, staring deeply into Emma’s eyes, “whatever vexations you face will melt away.”
Emma doubted it would be much help with the loan committee, but she thanked Viv for the advice.
“I see Dr. Richards is here,” she said, pointing to an awkward-looking man standing by the fireplace.
Dick Richards was Lars’s rival for the leadership of the SSSPA’s local chapter, and the two men spent a large portion of every conference trying to win converts to their latest pet theories. Emma didn’t know or care much about their research, but she preferred Lars’s friendly, easygoing personality to the prickly, obsessive Richards, whose pointed nose and snow-white hair made him look like an irritated egret.
“Oh, yes,” Lars said. “Dick’s got himself another new theory this year. It should be fun helping him disprove it.”
Viv swatt
ed him playfully.
Emma glanced around. “Has Dee arrived yet?”
The other two exchanged a troubled look.
“She’s here,” Viv began. “But . . .”
“Dee isn’t well,” her husband said. “I fear this may be her last conference.”
The news was sad, but not surprising. Dee was one of the older members of the Van Vandevanders’ group, and Emma knew her health had been failing. Dee and her grandmother had been great friends, and when Gran passed away, Dee had transferred her affections to Emma. Sharing each other’s company had been like a salve on the wound left by their mutual loss. Now Emma felt hot tears pricking her eyes.
“What’s wrong, do you know?”
“Her heart, most likely,” Viv muttered. “I told her years ago—”
“Perhaps she should tell you herself,” Lars said. “Dee’s always been a very private person.”
“Of course,” Emma said. “I won’t tell her you mentioned it.”
Emma made her excuses and walked off to continue welcoming the other guests, trying not to let the thought of dying make her feel weepy. It seemed wrong, somehow, for all the vitality that a human life contained to just disappear. She believed in heaven, but it still depressed her when someone she cared for died. Maybe that was why she was willing to put aside her skepticism for a few days every year when the SSSPA showed up. If it made losing someone less painful, she thought, why not believe in ghosts?
CHAPTER 3
Claire’s doubts about Gwen and Archie continued to echo in Todd’s mind after he’d dropped her off, and by the time he took the freeway exit toward home, his confidence was shaken. Yes, he and Gwen had talked about getting a dog someday, but it was also true that neither of them had said what kind of dog they wanted or how soon “someday” might be. And if Archie wasn’t the dog she wanted, or “someday” wasn’t now, what was he going to do?