Page 3 of A Little Too Late
And in the other direction—behind the hotel, and beyond my current view—there’s a spa, a heated pool, and a couple of hot tubs. There’s an outdoor pavilion where weddings are held during the warmer months.
All the buildings have peaked roofs and about a million shutters painted a color called Heritage Red. The summer after eighth grade, I painted a bunch of those damn shutters myself. For weeks, my hands were splattered with Heritage Red, and so were my shoes. But a guy has to earn money somehow, and there was a sweet pair of Rossignol skis that I just had to have.
The rest of the resort spreads farther along the mountain’s base. The foothills are dotted with fifty or so condo units that my family sold in the nineties. They have red shutters, too, which gives everything a unified appearance.
I’m a little stunned by how gorgeous everything is. I’d honestly forgotten just how striking the rugged mountain range looks against the blue sky. The resort looks well kept, too. The shutters are as fresh as ever. The gravel parking lot is well graded and carefully plowed.
My father had been such a wreck after my mother died that I wasn’t sure what to expect. If the place had crumbled to the ground, I wouldn’t have been shocked.
There are no indications of crumbling, though. Two new signs direct visitors to Skier Parking or Hotel Check-In. Each sign features a cheerful mountain goat—on the first, he’s driving a SUV with skis mounted on top, and on the other, he’s carrying a backpack toward the lodge.
I stare at these signs a little longer than necessary, because there’s something vaguely familiar about the art. I can’t quite put my finger on why.
But I’m not here to see the sights, so I pull up to the hotel. A young man hurries outside to greet me. He’s wearing a Madigan Mountain jacket in a snappy design. That’s new, too.
“Checking in, sir?” he asks.
“Uh, yes.” I haven’t given much thought to where I’ll sleep tonight. When your family owns a ski resort, you don’t have to plan ahead. It’s only November, so there’s no way the place is booked.
I suppose I could sleep in my old bedroom if I have to. Although my father just got remarried to a stranger, so I don’t know if that’s my best option.
“Name, sir?” the young man asks. He holds out his hand for my rental car key.
I let out a snort and toss him the fob. “The name is Reed Madigan. Thanks, pal.”
He makes the catch in spite of the shocked look on his face. “Whoa, really?”
But I’m already turning my back and headed for the door to the lodge. My father had better be in his office. We’ve got some talking to do.
CHAPTER 2
LESS DANCING AND MORE SNOW
AVA
How about trivia night at the Broken Prong?I text to my girlfriends.It’s been a few weeks since we made the other tables cry.
I don’t have a babysitter, Callie replies.Could we do drinks at my place? I’ll make frosé.
Sure, I reply immediately.
I’m sorry!Callie says.I know it’s more fun to get off the mountain!
She isn’t wrong. I spend entirely too many hours on this property. I haven’t had a real vacation in years. That’s the first thing I’m going to do when the sale of Madigan Mountain goes through—book a trip somewhere and put my two-week vacation on the calendar. It doesn’t matter where, just as long as I’m not responsible for calling a plumber if a pipe breaks or soothing a finicky guest when all the spa appointments are booked up.
In the meantime, Tuesday night is always girls’ night, no exceptions. And it wouldn’t be the same without Callie.Don’tworry about it, I assure her.We always have fun.What can I bring?
How about brownies?Callie suggests.
Then our friend Raven chimes in.I love Ava’s brownies! And so do my hips.I’m down for frozen pink wine at Callie’s.
“Ava!” my boss calls from the inner office. “Can you make my keys sing? I can’t find them!”
“Yep!” I yell back. “Hang on.” I wake up my computer and pull up the app I use to keep Mark Madigan organized. I hit a big orange button on the screen, and a moment later I hear the telltale chime of the hotelier’s keys in the other room.
“Found ’em!” he yells.
Of course he did. I pick up my hot chocolate mug and drain the last of my afternoon treat. In the text thread, Raven has sent us a funny gif of a woman drinking wine from a fishbowl. So I’m grinning down at my phone when a deep voice says. “Excuse me, is he in there?”
