Page 1 of Sleeping with the Frenemy

Victoria

The stack of bills was so high, it was in danger of toppling over.

I slumped in my chair, letting my head thud against the cheap, plastic back. We had long since replaced the nice, wooden chairs with mismatched thrift store finds. “We” being my grandmother and me. Although, lately, it was just me. After Nana’s last fall required seventeen stitches, my sister and I put our foot down. Now, Nana was safely ensconced at her assisted living facility in Philly, and I was…here. I looked around at the faded carpet, dingy walls, and outdated kitchenette.

Cabin Number Fourteen—AKA “The Honeymoon Cabin”—was hardly the romantic escape it had been when my grandparents built the Virginville Motor Lodge sixty-five years ago.

That’s right. Virginville, Pennsylvania. The origins of the town name were murky, with some people claiming early settlers named it after a Native American word and others saying it referred to the area’s untouched natural beauty. The running joke in my old high school was that the town was so boring and sparsely populated, virgins were our only local industry.

But it was a tight-knit, friendly community. “A good place to put down roots,” as Nana always said. Her family had been in Virginville for generations, and she and my grandfather had been fixtures in town when the lodge was in its heyday. Back then, it was a comfortable stop for young couples and adventure-seekers exploring the Appalachian Trail. Now, it was a rundown cluster of cabins in dire need of repairs. Several contractors had told me it would be cheaper to bulldoze the entire site and sell the land to one of the half dozen construction companies building new homes in the area.

But it would break Nana’s heart. At nearly ninety, she was still sharp as a tack. Her body might be frail, but her mind could run circles around most people. She and my grandfather built the lodge themselves, driving home every nail by hand. They spent their whole lives in Virginville, raising my mother in the cabins. After she and my dad died, they raised my sister and me, too. Every leaking roof and rotting board held a memory.

I couldn’t tear it all down. It would be like ripping apart what little was left of my family.

But I couldn’t pay all the bills, either—and my main creditor knew it.

At that thought, anger rose in my chest. Unable to help myself, I rolled my head an inch to the right. That was all it took to give me a view out the kitchenette window and straight across the valley, to where a gleaming, multi-story hotel overlooked the highway.

“A monstrosity,” Nana called it. “The Olive Garden of hotels.”

She had a point. All Valenti Hotels were built to resemble rustic Italian villas, with stone-tiled roofs and stucco walls. The architectural style was out of place in Eastern Pennsylvania, but that didn’t seem to bother weary travelers on their way to Pittsburgh or Philly. Given the choice between my family’s crumbling motor lodge and the Valenti Hotel’s running water and functioning toilets, people didn’t even bother crossing the highway.

I couldn’t blame them. It wasn’t their fault the nicest hotel in town was run by a scheming, money-grubbing family hellbent on destroying small businesses and bulldozing historic landmarks. The Valentis targeted towns like Virginville, where they could buy land cheap. They built their faux Italian monstrosities off highway exits, ensuring they crushed local motels. And if they couldn’t drive small innkeepers out of business, they simply bought their competitors’ debts—and then waited for them to default.

The entire family was rotten, and I felt zero remorse in nurturing a seething hatred for the whole lot of them.

I reserved the bulk of my hatred for one member in particular.

Most of the time.

Almost all of the time.

Nearly every moment.

Except sometimes when I was alone and memories crept in…

Then, just very occasionally, I thought about the time I got close with that particular member of the Valenti family.

It was hardly worth thinking about.

But sometimes I couldn’t help thinking about it…

The steps outside the cabin squeaked.

I shoved my errant thoughts aside. Memories rarely lived up to the hype. Too often, reality came along and proved them wrong.

My sister Katherine’s characteristic knock—shave and a haircut—rang out and then she hollered, “You in here, Victoria?” A second later, the door popped open, and her bright red head appeared. “Ah! There you are.”

I lifted a limp hand. “Hey.”

She thumped inside, shook snow off her orthopedic boot, and shut the door, sending a whoosh of winter air into the room. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Bitter cold swirled around me, and I huddled deeper in my chair. “Don’t remind me.”

Kat gave me a hopeful look. “Did you change your mind about the job?”

“I start tonight.”

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