Читать книгу The Mills & Boon Christmas Wishes Collection - Мишель Смарт, Maisey Yates - Страница 17

Chapter Five

The evenings grew longer and winter crept closer, bringing moody gray skies and the promise of cooler months to come. Under such solemn light, I felt the space between me and Mom yawn wider. She still hadn’t appeared and I knew something was up. I dialed her number again and was rewarded with the robotic voice: the number you have dialed… I hung up. Enough was enough.

At the lodge, things were progressing hectically and only just behind schedule, and I supposed the world wouldn’t fall down around me if I took one night off from the endless paperwork and reconciling the figures. There was just so much to do, but I wasn’t concentrating properly with Mom’s absence on my mind.

The wind keened like a lost soul as I locked the front door of the lodge. Kai was wandering around the grounds so I set off and found him peering into the window of one of the chalets near the lake.

“I’m going out,” I said. “Are you OK to lock the front gate?” He always stayed behind, his work days longer than anyone else’s. As though he couldn’t fully relax until he’d checked every single job.

“Sure,” he said, trying to make out the chalet room configurations in the encroaching darkness.

I buttoned up my coat as the bracing winds took hold. Kai looked downright spellbound. Surely it wasn’t just the chalets prompting such a reaction? “What is it?” I asked. “You look like you’ve found Wonderland.”

“I have found Wonderland. I had no idea the chalets were so well appointed. I guess I expected them to be derelict. It won’t take much to get them ready for guests, just the usual safety checks, and a few modernizations.”

With twenty chalets on the property, it wasn’t viable for me right then, as much as I wanted them to be rejuvenated. There was new bedding to consider, mattresses, linen, and décor, as well as the TLC they needed. It would have to wait.

“I know,” I said with a sigh, wishing my funds could stretch that tiny bit further but knowing I couldn’t risk it yet. “There’s also the old stone chapel to do. It’s got the most glorious stained-glass windows that funnel in breathtaking kaleidoscopic colors. It would be perfect for weddings. But for now I have to focus on the lodge itself…”

“When word spreads you’ll be busy here, Clio. This place has a bygone-era feel to it. I’ve traveled a lot, and I haven’t seen anything like this.”

I crossed my fingers, hoping he was right. “I’ve bet my entire fortune that people will want holidays where they learn to tango, take up life drawing, sling on backpacks full of gourmet picnic food supplied by us and hike up into the foothills.”

It was as though I could visualize them: groups huddled by the fire playing cards, mahjongg, bridge, and charades.

“No shopping malls, no tearing around trying to see every single tourist attraction. I think you’re on to something here.”

“I hope guests see it that way. Without sounding like a disgruntled grandparent, I want to go back to a time where people made their own fun. Let’s pray I’m not the only one who thinks it’s a good idea.”

He ran a hand through his tangled, too-long hair. “I’d put money on it but I’m not a gambling type.”

Cedarwood had to offer something unique to draw people to such a small town, and I banked on old-school fun and frivolity. Dances, trekking, water sports on the lake, and games, canasta, bingo nights, pottery in the west wing, and still-life drawing in the east. Language lessons, cooking classes, and singing and theater for those who wanted to perform. Chalets with reinvigorated claw-foot baths and a wall of books for those who wanted peace and quiet. But I needed the numbers in order to hire the staff…

I wanted to recreate that time, that feeling, when holidays were about relaxation, or being awed by the natural beauty of the elements. Having a place where you could do as much or as little as you liked. The entire train of thought made me realize again just how much work I had to do on the marketing front. I took my phone from my pocket and snapped a picture of Kai standing by the front door of the chalet. Social media would eat him up. “Mind if I post this online?” I indicated to the photo.

“Sure, go ahead.”

With deft fingers I posted the pic with the description: Our project manager Kai at one of the #CedarwoodLodgeChalets before renovations.

“Why did the lodge close?” he asked, arms folded as he leaned against the balustrade.

I lifted a shoulder. “As far as I can tell, they struggled through wartime, and recessions, and I guess they never really recovered financially. The husband left first and then the wife, for reasons unknown, and not long after she closed the place down.”

“Why’d he leave her?”

I clucked my tongue. “That part is a little hazy. I was too young to understand.”

“It’s a shame when they had all of this.” I might have mistaken it, but I was sure I caught a glimpse of longing in his eyes. Like he had fallen under Cedarwood’s spell.

“The thing is, it’s not a broken heart. We can fix this,” I said, smiling up at him.

He faced me, and the full force of his gaze hit me. I envied the girl who’d lose her heart to Kai. Loving him would be like tumbling into an abyss – he had a depth, a magnetism, that was compelling.

“Cedarwood has a murky past, but it’s being reborn and I have this idea that it’ll be a place where people fall in love, and lives will be changed for the better.” Too whimsical? I had to remind myself I wasn’t in an office full of women who planned weddings for a living any more.

He took an age to reply, like he was absorbing my words, pondering his answer. “There is something special about this place. It’s not just you who feels it.” A blush crept up his skin.

While his words were innocent, my heart knocked a little harder. I fumbled with a response before sticking to the rudimentary. “So… don’t forget to lock the gate. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Kai stared at me so intently, I blinked and walked away, unsure of what exactly had happened, and why I felt a charge in the air.

Twenty minutes later I pulled into Mom’s driveway, my thoughts inexplicably fuzzy. I took a deep breath and focused my mind on Mom, reminding myself not to push too hard; not to say anything I’d regret. If I did, she’d shut down and I’d never get to the bottom of what was bothering her. My mom, despite having run an inn where she dealt with guests for most of her adult life, was insular. She didn’t socialize, her only real friend was my Aunt Bessie, my father’s sister. Aunt Bessie was so full of life that no one could avoid being swept into her world, so I’m sure my mom just gave in to it.

I killed the engine, and gazed up. The kitchen curtain shivered, alerting me to Mom’s presence.

Donning a friendly smile, I went to the door and knocked, waiting an age for her to open it, as if she was trying to decide whether to pretend to be out or not. How had we come to this?

Finally the door swung open and she feigned surprise. “Clio! I wasn’t expecting you.”

I held out a bag of groceries I’d stopped off to buy. “Thought we could rustle up some dinner, what do you say?” I held back the real words that threatened to pour from my lips: Why haven’t you come to see me?

She darted a quick peep behind her.

“Is someone here?” I ventured. Mom hadn’t dated after Dad died. Did she have someone special now, and that was what was distracting her? At least that would be progress.

“No, no. It’s fine. Come in.”

I held in a sigh. “I thought we could make lasagna and roast vegetables. Are you hungry?” Mom had lost weight, too much weight. She’d always been whisper-thin, but now she was almost invisible.

“My favorite,” she said, attempting a smile.

The cottage was immaculate, not a cushion out of place. Mom had always been tidy but this was next level. The small living room sat solemnly; the kitchen was pristine and smelled of cleaning agents, not a place where food was made.

“Help me peel the vegetables?” I stood at the sink and washed my hands.

She did as instructed, and worry hit me anew, watching her tiny frame move around the kitchen. I should have come over sooner. I debated whether to ask her outright what was wrong, but she fixed me with her Mona Lisa smile, so I let it go, hoping she’d eventually soften and confide in me. There’s a first time for everything… right, Clio?

“Where’s Aunt Bessie? I thought she would have called in at the lodge. I’ve called her a few times but got the machine.”

Mom washed potatoes and carrots and placed them on a tea towel. “You know Bessie – she’s desperate to see you but she’s on a cruise with her book club. When she phoned I told her all about your homecoming and how you turned up unannounced.” There was a light rebuke to her voice, and I realized that no matter how I approached my mom it would never be the right way. “She gets home soon and, whirlwind that she is, will no doubt come straight to you.”

As if visiting me first up was out of the ordinary. I was grateful for Aunt Bessie in my life. She’d always been there for me, and made up the shortfall my mother had left.

She owned a gourmet donut shop in town called Puft. My aunt took the basic donut and transformed it into a sweet-lover’s delight. Big, custard-filled donuts balanced precariously on a cloud of Chantilly cream on top of thick chocolatey shakes. Donuts were stacked like the leaning tower of Pisa, each with different fillings – from passion-fruit curd to chocolate hazelnut custard, hand-spun candy floss on top. Or for those wanting simpler fare there were mini pistachio and honey rings, or lemon-flavored churros with orange sauce. My Aunt Bessie always emailed me the menu to proofread and it was torture not being able to taste the words.

Once she was back from her cruise I planned to go in and roll out, having my fill of her delectable treats.

She was a cuddly, bubbly person and had been a refuge in my formative years. Aunt Bessie was the type of person people confided in, and she welcomed them into her open arms. Along with confidentiality, she also provided advice, hugs and donuts. So many donuts.

“You should come by the lodge with her, Mom. We had a slight issue with the plumbing, but thankfully it didn’t blow the budget.” She turned away, but I kept on, hoping it would sway her. “The electrics have been fixed. The wainscoting has been replaced but still needs painting. The floors need to be sanded and polished, but we had a problem with a patch of rotted wood in the—”

“Do you want me to chop and fry garlic?”

Was I speaking too softly? “Sure. Did you hear me, Mom, about the lodge?”

Her hands fell to her sides and she stared out the window as if debating what to say. She’d gone so pale, I worried I’d pushed her over some invisible precipice. “I heard.”

“Well?” I asked softly.

“Well, what?” When she turned to me her eyes were bright with tears. What could have provoked such a thing?

“What is it, Mom? Why are you so upset?” I moved to hug her but she stiffened at the sight of my outstretched arms.

She shrugged. “What do you want me to say? That I’m happy for you? OK, I’m happy for you. Is that enough?” Her voice was almost inaudible.

“Aren’t you glad I’m home?” I swallowed a lump in my throat. It hurt the way she froze me out. No wonder New York had been a haven for me; it was easier to ignore this strangeness when I was away.

“I’m glad you’re here.” She motioned to where I stood.

“Here? But not at Cedarwood?” I leaned casually against the counter, and tried to keep the conversation light despite the tense atmosphere.

She turned back to the chopping board. “Look, can we just make dinner and talk about other things?”

“Other than the lodge, you mean?” What was it about Cedarwood that upset her so? Outside, stars twinkled in the inky night, as if urging me on.

“Yes, other than the lodge. I’m tired of hearing about it.” Garlic skin coated her fingers as she peeled and chopped. “I know that sounds harsh, and I don’t mean it to be.”

“OK,” I said. “But I’m a little confused as to how you could be tired of hearing about it, when we haven’t really spoken.” God, sometimes I wanted to shake the woman. Why wouldn’t she want to hear about the biggest gamble of my life? The very place I’d always dreamed of owning. It didn’t make sense, but Mom’s moods had never been easy to translate.

“I hear about it in town. That’s enough. I want to talk to you, just not about that.”

I remained silent, and we prepped the dinner that way, both mired in our own thoughts. With the white noise of TV in the background, it was enough to pretend we were listening to that.

Sitting down at the table, I took the spatula and served Mom a generous slice, hoping she’d eat with gusto. “It’s good to have dinner together again. I’ve missed it.”

“Me too,” she said.

“We could make it a regular thing. Maybe Friday nights? And I can give you a rundown about what stage I’m at with the lodge?” I hadn’t meant to bring it up again, but really, it was all I had these days and it wasn’t like I was discussing something scandalous.

She sighed and placed her napkin on the table. “Clio, I’m just… confused. You were doing so well in New York. Why would you give it all up to come back here? That place…” She grimaced. “…It’s a money pit. What if you lose everything?”

With a deep breath I said, “It’s a risk, a big one. But to be honest, Mom…” I stalled. Would telling her the truth help or hinder? “I couldn’t stay there. I had an incident with a bride, and I got fired. It was a big misunderstanding, but the press got hold of the story and it gathered momentum, giving me no choice but to leave. I was basically blacklisted by every agency in and around New York. And then when Cedarwood came up for sale… it seemed like fate, a lifeline.”

Her face pinched. “I’m sorry to hear about your job. I know how much you loved it. It just seems like a step backwards coming home. There’s nothing here for you.”

I worked my jaw, fighting back tears. I felt so goddamn sorry for her, for myself. We were back to the same pattern of the past.

“Mom, you’re here.” When my dad died, part of her did too, but I’d always hoped it was just a phase, just part of the grieving process. Instead of pulling me close, she pushed me away. As the years passed she’d folded in on herself even more until all I had left was a shell of what she had been. Even Aunt Bessie hadn’t been able to pull her out of the funk she was in, though she never gave up trying.

She pushed her plate away. “What if you lose all that money, Clio? Your father’s money?”

Ah. “Is that what this… silence is about? You’re worried about my inheritance money?”

She had the grace to blush. “Well, it’s a lot of money.”

My shoulders drooped like I carried a lead weight. I’d never given much thought to her feelings about the legacy my father had left me. I presumed he’d left her a share too. It had been invested for me until I turned twenty-one and then I had reinvested it in a risky start-up and tripled the money. It was beginner’s luck and I knew it, but I’d done it out of spite – Mom had given me such a lecture about that money when I took charge of it so I did the exact opposite of what she advised. And luckily for me it had paid off; I took the money and ran, knowing it could have easily gone the other way. Much later I’d withdrawn the money to buy Cedarwood, and at the time it had felt right – like his legacy was always meant to bring me home.

“It is a lot of money. I’ve gambled, there’s no question about it. But if I host one large function a month, I can make it work. Then there’s the chalets, the chapel for weddings, and renting the rooms in the lodge. I want to market it as the holiday destination in New Hampshire. I can’t say for sure, but I think Dad would be proud.”

She sighed. “It’s too late now, Clio. It’s done, so you have to make the best of it. You could have gone anywhere in the world with that money, and you chose to come here. It’s mind-bending, that’s all.”

“I’ve always loved Cedarwood Lodge. You know that. And I guess I hoped we’d be closer, not just in terms of distance…” My voice trailed off.

I wished so much we could be the sitcom mother and daughter. The ones who knew each other inside out and didn’t have to guess at moods, or whims. The ones who met for coffee and cake and a shopping expedition; swapped novels we loved. But it would never happen. She was damaged somehow, and it was up to me to be there for her, no matter how hard it was. At the moment, though, it was hard to accept this was my lot.

“Eat,” she said. “It’s going cold.” But she didn’t lift her fork again.