Rudy walked them through the cabins, which were more like the skeletons of cabins, and then on to the bar: a standalone log structure situated on the access road to the resort. There was an unpaved parking area out front. Jim pointed to crisscrossing, single-tire tracks.
“Bikers?” he asked.
Rudy rolled his eyes.
“Harleys are the loggers’ vehicle of choice up here,” he said. “No gangs, though, if that’s what you’re worried about. But I won’t lie: it’s noisy at closing time.”
He dug out his keys and led them inside. It was more saloon than bar, with swinging half-doors, sawdust covering the floor, and nothing hanging on the walls save a silver-framed mirror above the shelves of whiskey. The wooden tables and hardback chairs seemed, like the cabins, to be arranged in no particular order.
“This place turns a profit?” Jim asked.
“There’s a small crowd most nights—bigger on weekends. The Edwards Group isn’t getting rich off it, but I’d guess they’re breaking even. They’d have cut bait before now if they weren’t.”
Bonnie walked up to the bar, ran her fingers along the zinc.
“This is vintage,” she said. “Real mahogany. With a little polish and elbow grease, it might be worth something.”
“A diamond in the rough,” Rudy said.
He smiled. Bonnie smiled back. The exchange bothered Jim: it was like watching adolescents bond over some pop band he’d never heard of.
“So what do you think?” Rudy asked when they were back outside.
“You know what I think,” Bonnie said, still smiling.
“We’ll get back to you,” Jim told him.
* * *
“I’ve been developing other people’s properties for upwards of twenty years,” Bonnie said. “I want a project of my own.”
They’d left Rudy and were following the Camp Nelson Trail through a forest of giant Sequoias and mountain streams. Despite the mild temperature and perfect blue sky, they had the trail all to themselves.
“Okay, but why this project?” Jim asked.
“Why? Just look at these mountains, Jim.”
“Just look at that property. One well-placed kick and half those buildings would fall right over.”
“We came here every summer when I was a kid. You know that.”
“So you’re nostalgic?”
“Look, I know the lodge has been in decline for years, but you couldn’t ask for better bones. Just imagine what this place could be. Hiking, horseback riding, swimming, fishing—it’s all right here. We’ll replace those old, rickety mattresses with waterbeds, give each cabin a private sauna. And we’ll bring that god-awful bar into the twentieth century.”
“The locals seem to like that god-awful bar. You heard your caretaker friend: it’s the only thing keeping the place afloat.”
“They’ll learn to like the new one, too. Just think what a day could be like up here. Think about breakfast at altitude. Stacks of homemade pancakes and fresh fruit and those venison sausages you like. And after breakfast, a nice stroll into the mountains while the air is still cool and the deer are active.”
“I’d rather sleep in and go for brunch. You know, there’s something to be said for museums and concert halls.”
Bonnie stopped midstride, gave him a pointed look.
“Really? How many symphonies have you seen in the last year?”
“I’m thinking about our kids.”
“So am I. I don’t want them to grow up all urban and neurotic, like me.”
“They’re only halfway through the school year.”
“So they’ll finish it out. I’ll stay up here, get the place ready. We can talk on the phone every night. You guys’ll visit on weekends. That way they get a slow introduction to the place. Think about it. It’s a dream life.”
They came to a small footbridge, paused to look at the stream below, then stood facing each other, leaning against opposite railings.
“We’ve got two healthy kids and all the money we could ever spend,” Jim said. “I thought we were living our dream life.”
“Maybe you were.”
“What does that mean?”
“This place is the first thing I’ve asked for—the first thing I’ve really wanted in all the time we’ve been married. You, on the other hand—you get everything your heart desires and I never say boo about it.”
“Like what?”
“How about that little trip to Spain with your buddies so you could run with the bulls on your forty-fifth birthday? Without me, of course.”
“I was gone a week.”
“Okay. What about your little trek through the Amazon? Also no wives allowed.”
“Again, that was two weeks, not the rest of our lives.”
Bonnie rolled her eyes, sucked in a deep breath.
“The point is you needed those trips to get through your midlife crisis, or whatever it was. And I let you have them. Well, I need this. I’m not saying you have to give up the place in Newport, but I need this. Our marriage needs this.”
Jim started to object, then stopped himself. He bent down, picked up a rock, turned it over in his palm like a prospector appraising the soil.
“I guess it’s settled then,” he said.