Buns

by Alice Clayton

  “Thank you!” I called out as I rolled my window up against the chilly spring rain that had begun to fall. Heavy and sloppy, it’d be slushy ice by nightfall if it kept up.

  I stayed to the right as directed and began to wind my way up up up. The road twisted and turned to the top of the mountain underneath the late-afternoon sky, which was thickening with storm clouds and an ever-increasing gloom. On my left the hillside was covered in trees and thick brambles that’d be bursting with green in a month or so. On the other side the road fell off sharply, the trees giving way every so often to showcase fallen boulders, craggy and rough. I spied a trailhead, clearly marked for guests of Bryant Mountain House, winding into the forest.

  The hiking must be incredible up here.

  Making a mental note to investigate the off-season trails, I continued up the hill, which at this point was quickly becoming the Mountain in Bryant Mountain House. Turning my wipers up another notch against the now-steady rainfall, I turned around the final bend and there, finally, was the resort.

  At least, there was part of it. The enormity of this single structure was too great to be captured in just the windshield of my tiny, impractical, and wholly unsuited for mountain terrain sports car. But what I could see was impressive as hell.

  I drove under a stand of weeping willows planted along the road like soldiers, arching across and creating a tunnel effect that in summertime must be stunning. At the ass-end of winter and the equally-as-ugly beginning of spring, the bare limbs feathered together, slick with slush and almost gnarled. Not entirely welcoming.

  Shivering slightly, I continued through the archway, getting my next peek at the resort. Rising high into the air, the east wing loomed up suddenly—the real money shot being either the mountain view to the west or the lake view to the east. Six, no, seven stories climbed against the wintry sky. I slowed to a stop to appreciate the architecture—fieldstone mixed with deeply burnished redwood, green shutters, soaring high gray stone chimneys. I whistled as I hit the gas again, once more twisting into the dark woods that surrounded the property. I passed several barns, the stables, the summer garden, and glimpsed just the edge of the championship golf course.

  And then the road swung me back around to the front of the resort and the edge of the parking lot. One look at how fast the rain was falling and I immediately opted for valet and gunned it for the covered entryway.

  Gunning it in a rain that’s bordering on icy sleet isn’t wise in a boring beige Corolla, and it is for damn sure not recommended in a shiny red sports car with rear-wheel drive. I spun out on the last turn, my back end slipping wildly as I clutched the wheel and tried to straighten out. I overcorrected, swung wide, and out of the corner of my eye I caught a man dressed in a green slicker and matching hat gesturing, holding out his hands and yelling.

  “Look out!” I cried.

  “Stop!” he cried.

  I thumped the curb and by mere inches missed hitting the rain-slicker guy, who threw himself to the side at the last second, tumbling into a large shrub.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered to myself, everything suddenly quiet. I looked through the wipers and saw galoshes kicking in the air, the shrub branches thrashing wildly as the man I’d nearly hit fought to climb back out. “Oh my God!”

  I jumped out of the car, ran over to the shrub just as he was pulling himself loose. “I’m so sorry, oh no, are you okay? I’m so sorry!”

  His raincoat, emblazoned with the words BRYANT MOUNTAIN HOUSE, was caught on a limb, his hat was hanging off the back of his head by the string, and one of his galoshes had come loose.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” he exclaimed, tugging at the branch.

  “Can I help you?” I asked, reaching for the tangled limb.

  “No no, I think you’ve done enough,” he snapped.

  “Well, let me at least see if I can—”

  “It’s fine, don’t do that—”

  “I think I found where it’s stuck, just—”

  “Don’t do that, it’s going to tear, it’s really fine, it’s—watch out!”

  The branch tore free, taking with it half of the raincoat, thwapping him upside the head as it rustled and resettled back into the bush.

  “Wow, I can’t believe that just . . . I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s. Fine.” He spoke through gritted teeth.

  The two of us stared at each other. I felt terrible. He looked frustrated.

  I clasped my hands behind my back, looked around, then tried to smile. “So, where do I check in?”

  Chapter 2

  Turns out the man I’d tried to hit with my car was the bellman tasked with assisting me inside.

  “You’re Ms. Bixby, yes?” he asked, once he’d brushed himself off.

  “How did you . . . ah. They called up from the guard shack?” I asked.

  “Indeed,” he replied drily.

  Just then another attendant dressed in a similar rain jacket came running out. “Sorry about that, Mr.— Whoa . . . what happened here?”

  “Ms. Bixby had a little trouble navigating that last turn,” the guy from the bushes said, walking over to the car and turning it off, tossing the keys to the other attendant. As I watched, he seemed to compose himself, straighten up, and put his game face back on. “I’ll just retrieve your bags from the trunk and we’ll see about getting you checked in, shall we?”

  “Yes. Please.” I nodded, wanting to stay out of his way and not cause any more problems.

  I followed him into the lobby, catching my first glimpse of the opulence in this great old hotel. A graceful staircase made of thin spindles and sturdy oak stretched up several floors and down at least one from what I could see, bisecting a large receiving room. Conversational chairs and love seats were grouped around one, two, no three fireplaces, all roaring and chasing away the outside chill. Each fireplace was unique with mantels carved of dark woods and flanked by ceramic bricks in deep greens and golden yellows. Victorian through and through, it was beautiful, though somewhat . . . fussy? No, dated was a better word for it.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Hmm?” I asked, turning toward the bellman who’d been watching me, taking in my reaction. “Oh yes, it’s lovely.”

  “Those were found on-site when they dug the original foundation,” he said as we passed by five enormous amethyst-colored crystals displayed above another enormous fireplace, this one made of stacked stone.

  “Really?” I asked, nodding in appreciation. “And when was that?”

  A look of pride came over his face, as though he’d been the one to dig that first shovel of dirt. “1872. In fact, right where you’re standing was where the original boardinghouse kitchen was.”

  He smiled then, the kind of smile that makes you want to invest in toothpaste and sunshine. I found myself unable to resist offering my own pearly whites back in response. If all the employees took as much pride in Bryant Mountain House as the bellman, we were in better shape than I thought.

  I followed him toward the check-in desk, noticing his black wingtips, his crisply ironed tan chinos paired with a forest-green fleece with the resort name emblazoned on the back. Little bit of a mishmash for an employee uniform, but on a rainy afternoon like this, I certainly wasn’t going to stand on formality.

  “Hello, Trish, this is Ms. Bixby, checking in.”

  “Of course,” a pretty blonde behind the desk chirped, and just as I went to pick up my tote bag, the bellman reached for it at the same time. I don’t know which one of us tipped it over, but the entire contents of my bag spilled out all over the carpet.

  “Must be something in the air today, sorry about that, let me help you,” he said, kneeling next to me as I began stuffing everything back in—notebooks, pencils, iPad, wallet, my planner . . . hey wait, where was my planner? I looked left and there was the bellman, studying my planner with a strange look on his face.

  I coughed pointedly, and his eyes snapped up to mine.

  “Here you go,�
�� he said, smoothing the engraved cover and handing it back.

  “Thanks. I’d lose my head if this ever went missing,” I said with a laugh, popping it back into my bag. Not just my head but anything and everything about whatever job I was currently working on. Filled to bursting with newspaper clippings, photographs, red-lined spreadsheets, and handwritten notes, my planner was the single most important item in my tote bag. Setting aside the practical aspect, it was also sentimental to me. Barbara had given it to me the day I went out on my own, working a job in Colorado.

  “Here you go, kiddo, this’ll help keep all those plates in the air a bit longer,” she’d said, handing me the leather-bound planner. Embossed on the front cover was my name in silver letters.

  “Barbara, you spoil me,” I replied, running my fingers over my name. “Thank you, it’s very sweet.”

  “I’m protecting my investment.” She laughed. “It’s in my best interest that you stay focused out there on the road.”

  And on the road I’d been ever since, planner of grand ideas by my side.

  Speaking of by my side, my bellman was studying my face with an appraising expression. I couldn’t help but do the same.

  Now that we were out of the rain, I could really see him. Auburn hair, closely cropped but threatening to wave and curl given the chance. Tall, slim build, sharply cut cheekbones and a strongly chiseled jawline. A sprinkling of freckles across his nose and sun-kissed cheekbones hinted at someone who enjoyed the outdoors, even in the wintertime.

  He wore tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, the tones mimicking the reddish-blond hues in his hair, and his eyes were the deepest blue I’d ever seen, almost ink-like. Eyes that searched mine as though looking for something, and then widened when he found whatever it was he was looking for.

  The left corner of his mouth turned up, and he flashed me an easy grin.

  “Ready to go upstairs?”

  “Sure?” I replied, realizing as he grinned again he knew exactly how cheeky he was being. I rolled my eyes, slinging my tote over my shoulder and silently berating myself for flirting with a bellman not five minutes after arriving.

  Never. Get. Involved. That was a rule that was as firm as the buns this guy likely had under those perfectly ironed chinos.

  Pocketing the honest to goodness actual gold key to my room, I resisted the urge to give him my own cheeky grin. “Lead the way.”

  It was quiet, so very quiet when we reached the sixth floor and made our way down the hallway. It was almost too quiet. The hotel, like many old hotels, had been added on to over the years, creating a bit of a rabbit-warren feeling. A few steps up at the end of this hall, a turn at the end of that one, another few steps back down, the hallway went on forever!

  “Good lord, I’m going to need a map to get back to the lobby,” I said, after our fourth turn. “Why’d they stick me all the way down here?”

  He looked casually back at me over his shoulder. “They gave you one of the best rooms in this wing. Very private.”

  I’d heard nothing coming from any of the rooms I’d passed. No TVs, no radios, no conversation. But I’d heard each and every step I made, creaking and squeaking as the old wooden floors beneath the floral runner announced to any and all that someone was coming. “Private. Great.”

  This place was old school, and everything about it said it’d been here a long time. The ceilings were at least ten feet high, and above each door was a transom, harkening back to the days before air-conditioning. Each window was dark, no lights on inside. There was literally no one else staying on this floor. The walls were covered in damask pink floral wallpaper with about two feet of dark cherry wainscoting, details that were lovely if a bit dated. And hung in a perfectly straight line down the hallway were photographs of the hotel’s heyday, black and white and filled with pictures of unsmiling people holding tennis rackets and croquet mallets.

  It wasn’t that they weren’t happy, it was that in old-timey photographs people had to hold these poses sometimes for ten minutes or more, and who the hell wanted to smile that long? Logically, I knew this. But in the back of my mind as I walked down the hallway all I could see staring back at me were long-dead, angry-looking people.

  Now. Let me just say. For the record. I don’t spook easy. I don’t scream at scary movies, I don’t hide when things go bump in the night. But this hallway . . .

  Remember in The Shining when Danny goes riding his Big Wheel around and around the hallways at the Overlook Hotel? Yeah. That.

  Why Are the Hallways so Effing Creepy was going straight to the top of my to-do list when I had my first sit-down with the Bryant family.

  “Come on.” He laughed, noticing my reticence. “It’s not too much farther.”

  Finally we arrived at my room, number 668.

  “Oh, you’re joking, right?” I chuckled in disbelief. The spooky hallway, the twists and turns, the dead guys in the pictures. “Why not just put me in six-six-six and be done with it?”

  “Oh no, no one stays in room six-six-six,” he said gravely, shaking his head as he reached for my key. Clicking the door open, he looked back over his shoulder at me. “Except for a certain bestselling writer who specializes in horror novels, typically based in Maine . . . you might’ve heard of him?”

  He was enjoying this too much. I cast one more look down the long hallway, at the darkened room across the hall, then hurried past him into my room.

  Flipping on the light, not at all in a panicky way, I looked around. The same Victorian theme was running strong throughout this entire hotel. The room was large, though, a nice surprise for a building as old as this one was. But even given the size, there wasn’t the expected king bed, the size I’d requested when I booked my reservation, but instead twin beds, each made up with bedspreads—actual bedspreads!—the fabric of which consisted of pink cabbage roses set against deeper pink stripes. At the top of each bed was a single pillow, the bedspread pulled tightly up and over and tucked underneath in a manner and style I had never actually seen in real life but had glimpsed in many pictures from the 1950s. An antique dresser with an actual ironstone pitcher and bowl—wow!—sat against the far wall, and though the edges of a beautiful wide-planked wooden floor were visible, the rest was concealed beneath a mauve-and-turquoise nightmare of a rug.

  It was The Golden Girls meets Titanic by way of 1970s motor lodge. But hello, what’s this?

  “A fireplace?” I said, staring down at a small but beautifully ornate hearth. “That’s impressive. Where’s the switch?”

  “Switch?” he asked, stacking my bags in the closet.

  “To turn it on?” I asked, looking around. “Wait, it can’t be—”

  “Wood burning? It is,” he replied, pointing at the card on the mantel. “Just call guest services and someone will be right up to start a fire for you.”

  “No way,” I breathed, momentarily stunned. A fireplace in a hotel room was already a luxury, but wood burning? “That’s pretty unusual.”

  “Bryant Mountain House is an unusual place, Ms. Bixby. You’ll find we’re full of surprises.”

  “I’m getting that,” I murmured, running my hand along the intricately carved wood along the mantelpiece.

  “Now, just through there is the bathroom, and your private balcony is through there. With this rain there won’t be too much of a view this evening, but if it’s clear in the morning you should be able to see all the way to Hyde Park. Will you be dining in your room tonight, or in the main dining hall?”

  “Hmm? Oh, dining hall,” I said, still looking around the room. Something was missing.

  “Very good, will there be anything else, Ms. Bixby?”

  “Yeah, actually,” I said, confused. “Where’s the TV?”

  “No TV.”

  “Wait, what?”

  He smiled. “The Bryant family has always felt very strongly that nature should come first and foremost up here on the mountain.”

  I crossed my arms across my chest. “What the hell does that ha
ve to do with my TV?”

  “The Bryant family feels that television can be a distraction, and detract from the natural world that is literally right outside your door.”

  “I don’t necessarily disagree with that concept in the abstract, but in the practical shouldn’t guests be allowed to decide whether or not they want their nature with a side of prime time?”

  “The Bryant family would argue that guests do make that very decision when they decide to vacation here. That by choosing a hotel such as this they are making a clear and distinct choice to leave the outside world behind and commune with nature without distraction.”

  “Your website says this hotel is the proud host of the annual Hudson Valley Polka Festival and Accordion Race. How the hell is that not a distraction?”

  His eyes widened, his expression heating. “The Bryant family feels that—”

  I held up my hand. “You know what, enough with the Bryant family feels. Which frankly sounds like it could be a soap opera, playing out on the exact contraband I’m talking about. So come on, out with it. There’s got to be a television here somewhere, right?”

  “Of course.” He nodded, adjusting his glasses. “You’re welcome to visit the Sunset Lounge on the first floor anytime you like, there’s a communal television there.”

  “The Sunset Lounge? You can’t be serious.”

  He blinked. “Of course I’m serious.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “What’s absurd is a person’s inability to be fully inside nature.”

  I shook my head, eyes widening. Was this guy for real? “ ‘Fully inside nature’? How in the world can you make the leap between ‘hey I’d like to watch the Today show in the morning while I get ready’ to my inability to be fully inside nature?”