Page 59 of Clean Sweep
While we moseyed our way through Pineville and over to the Great Lodge, small talk came easily. Non-pressured and didn’t feel awkward. Part of me had wondered if we could be as natural again in person as we had been over the phone for weeks now.
Confirmed.
The Great Lodge was a massive place that rented out it’s twenty plus rooms for big business retreats or sprawling family reunions like this one.
Although Maverick and Benjamin Mercedy were relative newcomers to Pineville—they’d only been here a few years each—they’d quickly become local favorites. To have their whole family here felt . . . natural.
“Should be over fifty people,” Leslie said. A bright yellow folder lay sprawled open on her lap, belching papers that were organized, color coded, and messily stacked. Leslie had it together, but she didn’t do it neatly.
“That’s a lot of family.”
Her face contorted into an expression I couldn’t hope to read.
“No kidding,” she murmured. “It’s a lot of people. Regardless, the final twenty come in at various times today. Their cars will arrive around nine, which is why I wanted to get to the lodge early. It wasveryinconvenient that the lodge wasn’t available yesterday. Mav and Ben made it work between their houses and Lizbeth’s, up in Jackson City.”
She prattled off other details that didn’t need any reply. The background chatter was a comforting difference to what I usually faced on my own, and I sank into it. She didn’t require much, but I’d insert an observation or answer here or there, she’d tut over it, and make a decision.
In a word, it felt just right.
Less than ten minutes later, I pulled to a stop in a far parking space of the empty lot. The Great Lodge towered three stories overhead, encompassing well over 15,000 square feet. Rooms packed both upper floors, including a chrome kitchen and dining area on each floor. Such a massive place would easily house all fifty Mercedys.
Leslie drew my attention when she faced the building, drew in a deep breath, and said in a small voice, “I got this, right?”
“You totally got this.”
“There won’t be really important details that I missed?”
I shook my head. “Nope. You’re on top of all of that.”
Her wide eyes watched me almost owlishly for a moment, like a small child begging for scraps of praise from a parent.
A stark reminder that for all my gentle adulation of Leslie Hill, I hardly knew her at all. We’d talked on the phone while I took the chicken’s approach to asking her on a date, but this was only the second time we’d been in close proximity.
Yet, for all the times we’d passed in the street and head nodded and maybe even interacted when I coached her boys, you could know someone for an eternity and still not understand everything about them.
She blinked that expression away and my thoughts broke. With a bit less power in her voice, murmured, “You’d think that, after almost fifty years of life, I’d have a bit more confidence.”
“You have the confidence. You’re just doing something new. It’s harder to access when that happens.”
Sometimes, I should take my own advice.
Her lips twitched. She nodded once, as if making a decision, and said, “You’re right. Thanks. Shall we?”
“We shall.”
THE SPACIOUS,glorified-mountain feel of the interior of the lodge felt strangely empty as we strolled through.
Giant wooden beams. Evergreen banners over sliding glass doors that led out to a porch. Stained wooden cupboards above a black, polished sink. The ritzy mountain esthetic reminded me of the Frolicking Moose.
Leslie clutched her folder to her chest, pen tucked behind her ear, as we strolled through each and every room. She murmured at the bedroom door, then wrote a name on the whiteboards that hung from a peg on the wall. A paper lay between her shirt and the folder that she kept glancing at.
With a low mumble every few moments, we toured the entire lodge as she ticked things off her list.
I kept my hands tucked in my pockets and watched her.
A strand of hair kept escaping from a loose ponytail she’d tied away from her face. Impatiently, she kept batting it back or tucking it behind her ear in a youthful gesture. Her teeth worried her bottom lip, which hadn’t lost any fullness over the years. I had to look away before the temptation to tuck that hair out of her lovely eyes overcame me.
“They didn’t stock the right kind of milk,” she declared, her voice an echo as she rummaged through the fridge. “Maverick’s sister-in-law, Mallory, prefers a specific kind of almond milk.”
