Page 14 of The Last Resort
The other members of the Royal family were business people, not architects. He didn’t want their fingers all over his work. Group projects were bad enough, but working with people who didn’t understand the basics of architectural function and design was the pits.
Inside the foyer of what had once been the main hotel, he looked for signs of any new damage. Or break ins. Picking up a used vape, he quietly swore. “Someone is going to burn this goddamn place down one day.”
The second he finally got the Brock family to sell the resort, he was going to have a permanent security presence established on site. The locals and tourists would be given polite but firm directions to keep well away. Months from now, this would be a building site. He didn’t need people wandering around the grounds while there was heavy machinery working. There would be dust and loud noise.
But for now, the silence inside the lodge bordered on deafening. A chill ran down his spine. It was strange being out here all alone.
“This place must have been amazing in its heyday.”
He could just imagine the lobby being full of guests all happily mingling with one another after an exhausting day on the nearby ski slopes. Matthew sighed. The ghosts of the past had had the run of the lodge for far too long.
“I’m sorry, folks, but your days of rattling around this abandoned hotel are fast coming to an end. This part of Aspen needs to live again. Which means you’ll have to find a new place to haunt. It’s time to settle up your bills and check out.”
He’d been over the site enough times to know the serious amount of dollars that would have to be pumped into the existing building in order to bring it back to its original condition. Millions upon millions—money which Royal Resorts would never be able to recoup.
Apart from a few salient features like the magnificent wood frame and marble floored lobby, the rest of the Green Tree Resort didn’t have all that much which was worth saving. It all had to go.
Do you really believe that, or is it just easier to go along with what the board wants and start again with a clean slate?
Matthew did his best to ignore his persistent conscience. Knocking down the lodge went against all he’d thought he stood for, which was to save and preserve. He’d marched along with thousands of others to lobby congress on environmental bills, pressed his father into making sizeable donations to Greenpeace. But while guilt over the future of the Green Tree Resort had kept him awake many nights, he’d been forced to admit, the numbers didn’t lie.
“I can’t see how I could save this place and not lose a ton of cash in the process.”
The appeal of a renovated but still badly outdated resort wasn’t worth the commercial risk. Cashed up visitors to the town already had a smorgasbord of high-end hotels and resorts to choose from. There were more things for them to do in town, and better facilities. A resort situated three miles out of the city center would have to have something mind-blowingly unique in order to get people to venture out into the wilds. To get them to stay and part with their money.
And the only way that was going to happen was if Royal Resorts knocked down the old, tired ski lodge and started over. What this site needed was something spectacular, a unique style of resort which no one else had yet attempted to build in the US.
We need to grab people’s attention. Then they will open their wallets.
Kneeling on the rubble strewn floor, Matthew rolled out a printed copy of his master plan. Design programs were great, but nothing could beat the tactile joy that came with workingwith old school paper. As he laid out the huge sheet, he collected up some of the heavy pieces of broken plaster, using them as weights to hold the blueprint down flat.
As he worked, he could have sworn the ghosts of the old lodge had gathered and were now peering over his shoulder, whispering their disgust and displeasure at the ultra-modern glass and steel hotel, which was to take the place of their home.
Shame on you, Mister Royal. Shame.
CHAPTER SIX
The Manhattan Escapee Bakery
Two days later.
If there was one thing Aspen had which could potentially rival New York City, it was its food offerings. The coffee and freshly baked zucchini nut muffins from the aptly namedManhattan Escapee Bakeryhad become Matthew’s favorite breakfast place whenever he was in town.
And while his apartment offered an excellent meal delivery service, he much preferred to leave the hotel and soak up the town’s vibe. It was fun to get some fresh air and try to blend in. He liked to pretend he was just another Aspen local getting about in their black North Face jacket.
The late winter snow crowds were still about, but at this hour, most people were either sleeping in after a hard night of partying or else they were making their way toward Aspen Mountain ready for when the ski lifts opened at nine o’clock. Trying to remain incognito meant he couldn’t go and join the après ski set, and his current workload didn’t allow him thetime to go hunting for fresh powder. His custom-made skis and poles were back home in his Manhattan apartment.
Inside the bakery Matthew joined the mercifully short queue, his regular coffee order ready on his lips. He noted the couple in front of him. They were arguing over what they should order.
May I suggest the breakfast sandwich, and a coffee to go? Just leave me the muffins.
The bell on the front door of the shop tinkled as it opened, and a blast of cold air rushed in. Matthew shivered into his black puffer jacket, silently urging the people ahead of him to hurry up and finish ordering their food so he could get back to the warmth of his apartment and peel off some of the winter layers.
The recently arrived customer joined the line behind him and let out a tired sigh. Someone must have had a hard night.
Jägerbombs seem such a good idea at three am. Until you have to face the morning.
The line moved forward, and the patron behind him let out another painful groan. Matthew turned around ready to offer his sympathies for their hangover. His gaze settled on a familiar face.
