The attendant looked skyward, scratching at his beard as though divining the answer. “Not really, ma’am, no. Summertime sure, but it’s getting harder and harder to get people up here when it’s cold and rainy. Like today. We had a storm a few weeks ago that would—now would you look at that? Me running my mouth off, when you’ve got places to get to! You just stay to the right, this road will take you right on up to the resort.” He smiled companionably, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he waved me on.
“Thank you!” I called out as I rolled my window up against the chilly spring rain that had begun to fall. Heavy and sloppy, it’d be slushy ice by nightfall if it kept up.
I stayed to the right as directed and began to wind my way up up up. The road twisted and turned to the top of the mountain underneath the late-afternoon sky, which was thickening with storm clouds and an ever-increasing gloom. On my left the hillside was covered in trees and thick brambles that’d be bursting with green in a month or so. On the other side the road fell off sharply, the trees giving way every so often to showcase fallen boulders, craggy and rough. I spied a trailhead, clearly marked for guests of Bryant Mountain House, winding into the forest.
The hiking must be incredible up here.
Making a mental note to investigate the off-season trails, I continued up the hill, which at this point was quickly becoming the Mountain in Bryant Mountain House. Turning my wipers up another notch against the now-steady rainfall, I turned around the final bend and there, finally, was the resort.
At least, there was part of it. The enormity of this single structure was too great to be captured in just the windshield of my tiny, impractical, and wholly unsuited for mountain terrain sports car. But what I could see was impressive as hell.
I drove under a stand of weeping willows planted along the road like soldiers, arching across and creating a tunnel effect that in summertime must be stunning. At the ass-end of winter and the equally-as-ugly beginning of spring, the bare limbs feathered together, slick with slush and almost gnarled. Not entirely welcoming.
Shivering slightly, I continued through the archway, getting my next peek at the resort. Rising high into the air, the east wing loomed up suddenly—the real money shot being either the mountain view to the west or the lake view to the east. Six, no, seven stories climbed against the wintry sky. I slowed to a stop to appreciate the architecture—fieldstone mixed with deeply burnished redwood, green shutters, soaring high gray stone chimneys. I whistled as I hit the gas again, once more twisting into the dark woods that surrounded the property. I passed several barns, the stables, the summer garden, and glimpsed just the edge of the championship golf course.
And then the road swung me back around to the front of the resort and the edge of the parking lot. One look at how fast the rain was falling and I immediately opted for valet and gunned it for the covered entryway.
Gunning it in a rain that’s bordering on icy sleet isn’t wise in a boring beige Corolla, and it is for damn sure not recommended in a shiny red sports car with rear-wheel drive. I spun out on the last turn, my back end slipping wildly as I clutched the wheel and tried to straighten out. I overcorrected, swung wide, and out of the corner of my eye I caught a man dressed in a green slicker and matching hat gesturing, holding out his hands and yelling.
“Look out!” I cried.
“Stop!” he cried.
I thumped the curb and by mere inches missed hitting the rain-slicker guy, who threw himself to the side at the last second, tumbling into a large shrub.
“Oh my God,” I whispered to myself, everything suddenly quiet. I looked through the wipers and saw galoshes kicking in the air, the shrub branches thrashing wildly as the man I’d nearly hit fought to climb back out. “Oh my God!”
I jumped out of the car, ran over to the shrub just as he was pulling himself loose. “I’m so sorry, oh no, are you okay? I’m so sorry!”
His raincoat, emblazoned with the words BRYANT MOUNTAIN HOUSE, was caught on a limb, his hat was hanging off the back of his head by the string, and one of his galoshes had come loose.
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” he exclaimed, tugging at the branch.
“Can I help you?” I asked, reaching for the tangled limb.
“No no, I think you’ve done enough,” he snapped.
“Well, let me at least see if I can—”
“It’s fine, don’t do that—”
“I think I found where it’s stuck, just—”
“Don’t do that, it’s going to tear, it’s really fine, it’s—watch out!”
The branch tore free, taking with it half of the raincoat, thwapping him upside the head as it rustled and resettled back into the bush.
“Wow, I can’t believe that just . . . I’m so sorry.”
“It’s. Fine.” He spoke through gritted teeth.
The two of us stared at each other. I felt terrible. He looked frustrated.
I clasped my hands behind my back, looked around, then tried to smile. “So, where do I check in?”
Chapter 2
Turns out the man I’d tried to hit with my car was the bellman tasked with assisting me inside.
“You’re Ms. Bixby, yes?” he asked, once he’d brushed himself off.
“How did you . . . ah. They called up from the guard shack?” I asked.
“Indeed,” he replied drily.
Just then another attendant dressed in a similar rain jacket came running out. “Sorry about that, Mr.— Whoa . . . what happened here?”
“Ms. Bixby had a little trouble navigating that last turn,” the guy from the bushes said, walking over to the car and turning it off, tossing the keys to the other attendant. As I watched, he seemed to compose himself, straighten up, and put his game face back on. “I’ll just retrieve your bags from the trunk and we’ll see about getting you checked in, shall we?”
“Yes. Please.” I nodded, wanting to stay out of his way and not cause any more problems.
I followed him into the lobby, catching my first glimpse of the opulence in this great old hotel. A graceful staircase made of thin spindles and sturdy oak stretched up several floors and down at least one from what I could see, bisecting a large receiving room. Conversational chairs and love seats were grouped around one, two, no three fireplaces, all roaring and chasing away the outside chill. Each fireplace was unique with mantels carved of dark woods and flanked by ceramic bricks in deep greens and golden yellows. Victorian through and through, it was beautiful, though somewhat . . . fussy? No, dated was a better word for it.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Hmm?” I asked, turning toward the bellman who’d been watching me, taking in my reaction. “Oh yes, it’s lovely.”
“Those were found on-site when they dug the original foundation,” he said as we passed by five enormous amethyst-colored crystals displayed above another enormous fireplace, this one made of stacked stone.
“Really?” I asked, nodding in appreciation. “And when was that?”