I read all about an avalanche rescue in 1925 and was moving on to the use of Saint Bernards in rescue work when I bumped into Mike, the unhappy eater, when he came out of the bathroom.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see you there.”
“No problem,” I said.
His eyebrows shot up, making the bags under his eyes jiggle. “American?”
“I am.”
Mike paused to look at my face and I could see the calculation going on behind his eyes. Should he mention the Marilyn thing? Was it rude? Was it odd not to?
“Do you know that…do I know you?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.” I stuck out my hand. “Mercy.”
He shook my hand and said, “Mike. You probably get this all the time, but you seem very familiar.”
“It’s the face. I can’t help it.”
He shook his head. “More than that.”
I took the easy way out. “I’m Double Black Diamond’s new cover girl.”
Mike threw up his hands. “I knew it. Of course, you’re a model. How could you not be with that face?”
That was an opinion that a lot of people shared. I can’t say that I was a fan. Face didn’t define destiny or at least it shouldn’t. I was a nurse, a P.I., a daughter, a friend and lots of other stuff besides a model and I didn’t want to do that, but the face always came first. I accepted that I’d be instantly judged, but I also didn’t at the same time. Understand?
“I’m also a nurse,” I said, although nursing was on the back burner since a crazed fan rammed a tractor into my workplace, the Columbia Clinic. Since that happened, I was unemployable in nursing with all the lawsuits swirling around. Hence the P.I. part of my life. A girl’s got to make a living and it was in my blood as much as I tried to fight it.
“Really?” Mike frowned slightly. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
Nobody does.
“I surprise people,” I said.
“Would you mind giving me your autograph at some point?”
Kinda.
“Sure. Not a problem.”
“You’re staying at Hotel Hell?”
I blinked. “What?”
Mike laughed in an exhausted, barely can make the effort kind of way. “That’s the hotel’s nickname. It’s no reflection on their quality. Top notch all the way.”
“Good to hear. We are staying,” I said.
“Great. So are we. I better get back or my wife’ll try to force feed me a layer cake.” Mike hurried off and I turned back to the Saint Bernards, but I didn’t get more than five lines down the history of the monks that developed the breed before a wash of expensive perfume flooded the area.
“It is you,” said Heather.
I turned and then craned my neck up. With the boots, she was at least six four.
Why am I so short?
“Hi,” I said.
She stuck out a manicured, bejeweled hand. “I’m Mike’s wife, Heather.”
I shook her icy hand and said, “Mercy.”
“From DBD, I know. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m a model too.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said.
Heather laughed and glowed in a similar way to Chuck when he was turning on the charm. It was impossible not to look at her.
“We have to talk shop,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to be an influencer for a while, but it’s tough getting started.”
“I’m not an influencer,” I said.
“You must be. How in the world did you land the DBD gig? That has got to be lucrative.”
“Not as much as you’d think.”
Heather elbowed me. “You can tell me. I’m in the biz.”
“There’s no secret,” I said, glancing over at the French ladies moving through the displays.
“Oh, I get it.” Heather leaned in. “You wouldn’t want anyone to feel bad. Our world can be seen as easy and glamorous.”
I doubted the French ladies cared about modeling, but I nodded.
“So,” Heather stuck out a bony hip. “Do you ski?”
“I do, but I’m no expert.”
“Where have you been recently?” she asked.
“Nowhere really. The last time I skied was at Copper Mountain and that was—”
“I adore Copper. What’s your favorite run? Mine is Double Zero to Highline or anything on Tucker. Have you done Tucker?”
“I have.”
“You really have to start with a good carving ski. So much powder up there.” She went on to explain everything about skiing Tucker. Just as my eyes were about to roll back into my head, she said, “My first husband loved to ski. Well, snowboard really, but he was a better skier. I always beat him down the hill either way. That’s not why I divorced him though.” Heather’s light musical laugh rang out.
“Oh,” I said because what else do you say.
“Tomas was less competitive, but you want some fight in a man, right?”
“Sure.”
“That’s when I was living in Brooklyn,” she said.
“Um…”
“I just hate Brooklyn, don’t you? I’m a Manhattan kind of girl. Daniel brought me to Manhattan, and I love it.”
Chuck and Marco walked past the displays to go out onto the sunny deck to look at a topographical map. I threw back the remains of my coffee and prepared to bolt.
“That’s great. I’m glad you like it. Daniel must be looking for you. We should—”
“That’s Mike, remember? I was only ever engaged to Daniel,” said Heather, bright and shiny as ever.
“What happened to break it off?” I asked without thinking. I really have to start thinking. To-do list. Add thinking.
“Well, I had this roommate and Daniel made such a fuss about him. Women can be friends with men, can’t they?”
I thought about Aaron. We were friends, but he was so unusual I wasn’t sure he counted. Aaron wasn’t a guy like a guy guy. He was Aaron. The answer was probably no, at least the way Heather meant it: true platonic friendship with a regular dude. I’d thought I had friendships with guy guys and then they tried to kiss me. It wasn’t great.
“In theory,” I said.
“I was just friends with Damon. We were in the biz together. He’s the face of Clairol for Men and he’s done a ton of work for Tommy Hilfiger, mostly runway.” She pulled out her phone and showed me a guy that could’ve been her twin. Same small, tilted cat’s eyes and high cheekbones.
“He could be your brother,” I said.
“I know. We did quite a bit of print work together. He’s so easy to work with. The gays always are.”
The gays?
“Er…so Daniel really didn’t have to worry.”
“No,” she exclaimed. “I mean it happened a couple of times, but you get a little drunk and stuff happens, right?”
What did she just say?
“Well, I guess. I thought you said he was gay.”
“Not that gay. Nobody is that gay,” said Heather cheerfully.
What’s happening?
Aaron’s business partner Rodney was gay and I was fairly certain that he wouldn’t sleep with me if I paid him or begged or lives depended on it.
“So, Mike is your—”
“Husband. We’ve been married for three years.” She beamed at me and I sincerely wished she wouldn’t. I felt like I was having an out of body experience. Nobody told total strangers about their divorces with such flat-out joy. And infidelities? Forget about it. Had she really said that stuff? I wasn’t sure. Maybe I hallucinated. I was hungry. The pretzel wasn’t enough.
Heather checked her lipstick in her phone’s reflection and then said, “It’s good. Not perfect, but good. Not like my second husband.”
Please no. So uncomfortable.
“He was such a downer,” she said. “I just could not stand it.”
“Tomas?” I asked because it seemed like I had to say something.
Heather let out her lovely laugh again. “No. That was Joey. I was engaged to Tomas. Briefly. Very briefly.” She hooked her arm through mine, her many bangle bracelets clinking. No escape. “I hope you plan on being lazy for the next few days.”
“I…uh…”
Heather squeezed me tight to her. “I need a spa partner.”
Hold the phone. Spa? I like spas.
“Mike wants to experience the mountain, whatever that means, but I just want to kick back. We live in Geneva. We’re in Switzerland year-round. That’s plenty of experience for me.” She grinned down at me. “What do you say? In the mood for some massages?”
“I’m all for kicking back, but my boyfriend wants to experience the mountain too.”
“That darn Marco. He’s determined to ruin our lives with all these activities. I say we fight them all,” said Heather. “They can’t take us both. We’re tough.”
I’m sure if someone was watching us, they would’ve laughed. A swizzle stick and a marshmallow Peep. Super tough. I found myself laughing and it was almost musical if I do say so myself.
“You might be right,” I said.
“Of course, I’m right and let me tell you one thing.”
Oh Lord!
She leaned over. Far over. Pisa came to mind. “I’m not dieting this week and I won’t allow you to either.”
I snapped my fingers. “Darn. I was so going to try out veganism this week.”
“Veganism? That’s like a cult where they worship dairy cows and think if there isn’t something unpronounceable in your butter it can’t be good for you.”
“Amen, sister.”
“I read up on the chefs at the hotel,” said Heather as we walked out of the forest of Alps history. “The desserts are to die for. Are you a chocolate person?”
“More than I can express,” I said.
“My sister!” Heather held out her arm like a flagpole. “To the gondola and sweet relaxation.”
“Heather!” called out Mike. “Where’d you go?”
She made a face. “Duty calls. I better find my crab. I hope that sandwich hit the spot. He gets so cranky when he doesn’t eat.”
“Mine never stops eating,” I said.
“Are all men so weird?” Heather asked.
You’d know better than I.
“I suspect they are,” I said.
She nodded and was about to speak when Mike sounded off again. Heather scurried off laughing and then I heard her teasing him about missing her which he denied rather weakly. I got turned around and headed for the deck where I found Chuck coming in. He stopped short in the open doorway when he saw me, his face frozen with what I took for guilt. It took me a second, but then I saw it.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked and he came inside, head held high.
“What?”
“What do you mean what?” I pointed at the wrapper he’d tried to conceal in his hand.
“I was hungry,” he said, getting all shifty-eyed and a hint of displeasure crossed his handsome face.
“It was bad, wasn’t it?” I asked, hands on hips.
“It wasn’t bad bad.”
“I bet it wasn’t good good.”
He opened the wrapper and stuffed the rest of the sandwich in. There was a bit of paper stuck to it, but he didn’t notice since he pretty much swallowed without chewing. Not a good sandwich sign. Then he tossed the greasy paper away and held out his arms. I went into them, and he bent down for a kiss. I smelled his lips before I got near them.
Nope. Not today, botulism boy.
I ducked out of his arms and took off for Marco’s kiosk.
“Hey, where are you going?” Chuck chased after me. “What, no kiss?”
“I smelled that ham. You’re going to have to disinfect first.”
He took my hand and said, “Shows what you know. It was prosciutto.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“It was greasy like prosciutto.”
“Prosciutto isn’t supposed to be greasy.” I shuddered.
“I’m not some gourmet,” said Chuck with a cop’s pride in getting his hands dirty and not eating quiche or whatever real men aren’t supposed to do.
“Clearly. Remind me to tell Aaron that you need remedial food training.”
“Please don’t do that.” Chuck took our suitcases from Marco, who was telling Mike about some spelunking experience where you had to wear cold water wetsuits. Heather rolled her eyes behind his back and winked at me.
I smiled back and asked Chuck, “Why not?” just to bother him.
“The last time he taught me how to cook something it took six hours, and it was just eggs.”
“It wasn’t just eggs. It was all the eggs. Boiled eggs, fried eggs, scrambled eggs, sous vide eggs, egg salad, hollandaise, pickled eggs, omelets—”
“Stop. I’m trying to block that out. I had to eat so many eggs that day I ended up booting all over the gym bathroom that night.”
I took my suitcase. “Well, when you end up booting all night tonight do not come crying to me,” I said.
Chuck waggled his eyebrows at me. “I will not be booting all night.”
“You are a sleazy bastard, you know that?”
He grinned. “Always.”
“Arrival in three minutes,” announced Marco and he began to herd us all through the station past the rancid sandwiches and through a door to the platform. A blast of frigid air hit me in the face, and I was thrilled to have Heather in my corner. If it was that cold at the foot of the mountain, no telling how cold it was at the top.
A guy in the gondola control center gave us a wave and the wind picked up, drowning out the loud grinding and creaking as the thick cables wound their way through the gears.
Chuck put an arm around me and said, “You’re going to be glad that I ate that sandwich when we get to the top.”
“I doubt it,” I said.
“We can get right on the slopes. Change and go.”
“Swell.”
“I feel like you’re being sarcastic, but I don’t care. You’ll love it. The views are amazing.”
“I bet they’re good from inside the hotel too,” I said.
“No comparison.”
I started shivering so hard my teeth banged together and he gallantly took off his parka.
“No way. You’ll freeze to death,” I said.
“I’ve got two thermal layers on,” he said. “I’m good.”
He put the coat on me, despite my objections and it was like being in a warm cave. “Chuck, the wind chill—”
“Here it comes!” he called out with glee and a seriously red face. The German kids were equally thrilled. Well, the twins were. Their sister looked increasingly glum. Anne-Marie and Henri huddled together with tears in their eyes that could’ve been from joy or the biting wind. The French ladies were barely visible under their layers of scarves and fat hats. Heather was taking selfies, showing off her lips and jewelry. Watching her, Mike looked like he might be thinking about throwing himself into oncoming traffic.
The gondola shuddered to a stop and then began to glide down the last few meters to the platform. A few skiers and snowboarders had joined up on the platform in hopes of getting some late-day runs in and they weren’t shy about getting in front of the hotel group.
The minute the gondola stopped, the doors slid open, and a burst of skis, poles and boards clattered onto the platform. Marco cursed about the incompetent Dave overloading the gondola in five languages. People began tumbling out, tripping and falling over the equipment. The controller guy ran out, cursing more than Marco and Chuck sprang into action. He and Henri began picking up equipment. Mike lifted kids over the mess and his wife took selfies with the mess. The French ladies looked confused, and Anne-Marie informed livid skiers that their equipment was made to take a beating and not to be so upset. I picked up a gaggle of poles and carried them inside. The sandwich girl took them from me, and I went back out to get some more. The German twins were hugging some kids they knew and getting in the way. Chuck was trying to get them going, but they barely noticed him.
“Your pocket is ringing.”
I looked over and the German girl was peeking at me shyly from under her low-pulled poofball hat.
“Thanks.” I patted all the many pockets and found Chuck’s phone ringing.
I held it up. “Chuck! Phone!”
“Answer it!”
I pulled off my glove and by the time I did that the ringing stopped.
Chuck helped a mom with a baby strapped to the front of her out of the gondola. “Who was it?” he yelled over the din.
“Sidney, but he hung up. Might be important,” I called back.
“Check the voice mail.”
I checked and it was Chuck’s partner, Sidney, talking about a bunch of stuff Chuck couldn’t do anything about. I tucked the phone away and went back to carrying equipment inside.
Once the skiers had cleared the platform, Marco started putting everyone else on the gondola, lecturing about weight limits and whatnot. Chuck held out a hand to me, grinning and said, “Adventure awaits.”
A zing went through me. I didn’t want to get on that gondola, and I didn’t want Chuck on there either. It wasn’t because it looked like it belonged in a museum display or because of Marco’s yelling about overloading and weight limits. It was dread. Fear.
“What’s wrong?” Chuck asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You want to go, don’t you?” His face was so hopeful, so terribly sweet that I got on that gondola. Big mistake.
Ten minutes later we were on the gondola, swaying and creaking our way out of the station. I wasn’t feeling super secure, but then again, I never do when I’m hanging from a cable that looks pretty freaking slender and the gondola could best be described as bare bones and ancient. I knew that cables rarely snapped, but still, reading graffiti from 1972 wasn’t putting my mind at ease.
“You okay?” asked Chuck.
“Fine.”
He frowned and then kissed the top of my head. “Look at how beautiful it is.”
Look at that drop. Rocks. So many rocks.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and it was in a stark, frigid way. The view took my breath and my chest got tight. The feeling that I shouldn’t be there increased to overwhelming proportions as we rushed past stunning vista after stunning vista. Why couldn’t I just enjoy it? Everyone else was. I glanced around the tight cabin at my fellow adventurers and happily, or perhaps unhappily, found I wasn’t alone in my dread. The tired French lady and the German mom looked like they were rethinking their life choices in a huge way. I caught the eye of the French lady, and she managed a weak smile. I returned one and we shared a sympathetic look before her sister forced her to look back out at a cliff that resembled Yosemite in its sheer magnificence.
“Would you look at that,” said Chuck. “The skiing is going to be amazing.”
“That’s one word for it,” I said.
“How can you not be excited?”
“Oh, I’m excited all right.”
“Marco said the off-piste areas are incredible.”
Hard pass.
“I haven’t skied in forever,” I said. “I’m not doing off-piste any time soon.”
“You’re a fabulous skier. You can do it.”
“Can and want are two different things.”
Chuck hugged me. “It’s going to be great. We’ll do a couple of blacks to warm up and then—”
“You should listen to your message from Sid.” I dug around for his phone.
Chuck’s eyes were scanning the incredible view of some nutter carving a beautiful snaking trail down what had to be the scariest off-piste area in the world. There was a drop-off on one side and jagged rocks on the other. The skier had to do perfect turns to avoid death. “Just tell me what he said.”
I looked away. If that skier died, I didn’t want to witness it. “Um…something about Daryl and Daryl. Is that a last name?”
Chuck was silent as he spotted another nutter carving through a minefield of jagging rocks and drop-offs.
“Hello?” I asked.
“Oh, what?”
“Daryl and Daryl.”
He focused back on me. “Right. Not a last name. They’re brothers.”
“Two brothers named Daryl?”
“There was some TV show their mother named them after. I don’t know, but they are complete morons.”
Crime. That’s better than this terrible feeling of doom.
“What’d they do?” I asked.
“They robbed liquor stores with their brother Larry, who was the brains of the trio in that he didn’t write the stickup note on the back of his own electric bill. Daryl did.”
“Which Daryl?”
“I can’t remember.” Chuck tore his eyes away from the view. “What did Sid say?”
“Daryl turned on Daryl and he’s cut a deal,” I said.
Chuck looked back out the window and asked, “That’s it?”
“Nazir’s wife had the baby.”
“Awesome. How are they?’
“Everybody’s fine. It’s a boy and enormous. Ten pounds.”
“Is that a lot?” Chuck asked without focusing.
“The average baby is about seven.”
“Oh. Good.” He pointed out at a slightly less horrifying run. “I think that looks like a good starter area.”
“You’re cracked.” I put his phone to my ear and hoped for something he’d have to pay attention to. Something that would stop the death-defying skiing to come. “Hanson case fell through. Dirk is pissed. Who’s Dirk?”
“DA. Total douche nozzle. He was never going to get that deal.”
“You should call him or Sid.”
“No need.”
“Sid said that A wants you to call her,” I said.
Chuck glanced over briefly. “Who?”
“He said A.” Here’s my chance. “It’s important. She really wants to talk to you. He gave a number. When we get to the room, you should handle it. I’ll go to the spa, and you call her. We can ski tomorrow.”
“Oh, A. I love Sidney, but he couldn’t pay me to call her.”
“Who’s A?”
“You know, Amelia, his daughter.”
So close.
“You don’t think you should—”
Chuck turned to me, blue eyes flashing with amusement. “You want to call her? Be my guest.”
I sighed dramatically and he laughed. Nobody was calling Amelia Wick. We’d never get off the phone. Amelia was one of those people that knew something about everything and couldn’t wait to tell you. She was twenty years old and probably on the spectrum. Her focus was intense and her IQ off the charts. Of all the Amelia lectures I’d been subjected to, I’d never known her to be wrong about anything and believe me I tried to find the tiniest morsel of incorrect info, but there wasn’t any to be found. Her conclusions on everything from blood spatter to varicose vein management were spot on. So annoying.
“That’s what I thought,” said Chuck.
“The number started with +44. Where is she?”
“Scotland for her year abroad.”
“Sweet,” I said.
He grinned. “And quiet.”
I leaned against a metal support and crossed my arms. “I wonder what she wants.”
“Who knows? The last time I had to call her she lectured me on shovels.”
“Shovels? The history of?”
“Yep. I got what shovel is best suited for what task and why.”
I waited for him to explain, but he was tracking a snowboarder heading into a remote lift station. “Well?”
“Huh?”
“Why shovels?” I asked.
“Oh. She saw footage of the Kansas burial site and she had thoughts on the shovel used in a certain area.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s Amelia. Only she would see a certain pattern in hard-packed dirt and think, ‘Hey I know what shovel made that mark.’”
“Was she right?” I asked.
“Probably and it dates the area to a certain time and store that the shovel had to be bought at. We’re checking it out.”
“That’s impressive.”
Chuck sighed. “It is and so was the forty-five-minute lecture I had to listen to get to it.”
“Why didn’t she just call her dad?”
“She likes me,” he said, making a face. “Sid started telling her to put it in an email, but she likes to talk so I get to do it.”
I patted his chiseled jawline. “That’s the price for this face.”
“She doesn’t care. It’s the ears she wants.”
“Maybe it’s another shovel thing,” I said. “We are talking serial killers here. Might be worth the time.”
“Nope. Not gonna do it.”
I listened again. “Here we go. I knew there was something else. The Kansas burial site turned up a collection of buggy whips. What’s that about?”
“I don’t want to know,” said Chuck.
“Really?”
He turned to me, cupped my warm cheeks in his ice-cold hands to give me a red-hot kiss. “We’re getting away from all that stuff for Christmas. For once, it’s going to be perfect.”
“What do you mean ‘for once’?” I asked.
“I’ve got it all planned.” He asked for his phone and proceeded to show me the Watts’ family holiday board on Pinterest. I didn’t even know that was a thing, but it had my dad’s recipe for the eggnog he made every year. Mom’s Christmas Eve fondue. Grandma J’s ham recipe. Aunt Tenne’s biscuits, Grandad’s Irish cream recipe for Christmas morning and a bunch of other stuff from cookie making to whiskey selection.
I don’t like the look of that.
“Nice,” I said.
“Nice? It’s going to be perfect.”
“By perfect…”
“The hotel chefs ordered everything, and they have extra space in the hotel’s kitchen where they have cooking classes. There are none scheduled for this week, so we’re all set,” he said with the satisfaction of a job well done.
Do I want to ask?
I couldn’t help myself. I had to know. “Set for what?”
“The cooking.”
“Who’s cooking?”
“Us,” he said.
“What do you mean us? You don’t cook. Not really.”
“You do and I can help.” He squeezed me and said, “You’re not going to miss out on anything. Everything just like at home. I even got Aunt Miriam’s cheesy potato recipe. Nobody gets that. We’re going to have a perfect Christmas. We won’t miss out on anything.”
Except the family.
“If you wanted the Watts’ Christmas, we could’ve just gone home.” And not worked our butts off.
“We’re taking it up a notch. Watts’ family Christmas 2.0.”
“What’s the notch if everything’s the same?” I asked.
“The activities.”
Swell. But wait, there’s hope.
“Maybe we have to rethink that with all the cooking and whatnot.”
“No way. Today we ski for the whole afternoon. Tomorrow we’re snowshoeing to this hut where they serve incredible schnitzel.”
“How long does that take?” I asked.
“About four hours,” he said. “But it’s not uphill a lot of the time.”
“Are you saying we’re snowshoeing for eight hours to get schnitzel?”
“The best schnitzel. When we get back, we have Marco to prepare for the ice climbing.” He went on to schedule our so-called vacation with a dizzying number of athletic events. I’m sure I was expected to shower at some point, but I’m not sure when.
“When are we supposed to cook?” I asked when he finally took a breath.
“We’ll fit it in,” he said. “We won’t miss out on anything, and I’ve scheduled Zooms with the family for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning.”
“Aren’t we spelunking or cliff diving or something?”
“Between those and we’re not cliff diving. It’s winter.” My beloved started going on about thermal layers and cold ratings and I thought of the Watts’ Christmas. Not the pictures Mom put up on Facebook, the real Christmas where we all cooked for three days, Aunt Tenne got in a fight with Mom at least once over salt, Grandma J soaking her sore feet from all the standing at the stove. The Troublesome Trio being useless because they don’t care about eating and then offering to redecorate our tree because our ornament placement wasn’t quite right. Uncle Rupert would get drunk and talk about how he still loves Chuck’s crazy mother and then pass out in some random spot in the house we’d have to search to find. My dad would disappear because there was a case that couldn’t do without him for five seconds. Grandad would either work or decide that a dining chair was wobbly and needed to be taken apart fifteen minutes before dinner was served. And last of all, we would all try to get out of dishes and at least one person would get attacked by Mom’s Siamese, usually me.
I wanna go home.
The gondola slowed down and then went over a big tower and we were in the back country heading up above the tree line. Up ahead, perched on top of the range were a set of two buildings connected by a glassed-in walkway that would give anybody vertigo with its span over a small gorge between the older Bavarian-type building we were headed to and the new snazzy hotel that was done in wood and stone with clean lines and an incredible number of windows, overlooking the range. That was not the old worn-out hotel I was picturing. Switzerland was crazy expensive even for down-market hotels, but I figured with my pay for solving the Anton Thooft case we could swing it. We could not swing that.
“Every room has amazing views,” said Chuck.
“No kidding.”
“Happy with the hotel?”
I frowned at the exquisite architecture. It was right out of a magazine for filthy-rich travelers. I knew money. I’d lived in close proximity all my life. On Hawthorne Avenue, you couldn’t help but see how the other half lived. In the case of the avenue, it wasn’t fifty percent, more like one. And that hotel looked like a one percenter hotel to me.
“How in the world are we paying for this?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Chuck.
“Now I’m really worried.”
He ignored me until I pulled away and glared.
“You don’t want to ruin the surprise,” he said.
“I think I do,” I said. “Are we selling kidneys? What’s happening?”
“Our stay is a gift.”
I gritted my teeth and then forced my jaws to relax so I could speak. “You didn’t ask The Girls to pay for this, did you?”
My godmothers were Bleds and wealthy to the extreme, but I’d been raised not to ask them for gifts or money. Mom and Dad would be horrified at the very idea. The Girls had been incredibly generous to us and to ask for more was pretty much disgusting.
“Who do you think I am?” Chuck asked with umbrage that calmed me down slightly.
“Okay. Fine. Who’s paying? Did you hit the lotto or something?”
“It’s a gift.”
“From who?” I asked.
“Everybody. They chipped in.”
“When you say everybody…”
“Everybody. The whole family and yes, that includes The Girls and Aaron and Uncle Morty. The whole crew. They got together and did it.” Chuck gestured to the hotel. “This is our Christmas present. We’re paying for some of the activities, but the price is worth it.”
Sometimes I have ungenerous moments and that was one of them.
“This trip is our Christmas presents?”
“Yes.” He was so proud, and I was so angry. We did not need that hotel. Weeks ago, Mom and I had gotten together to come up with a list of stuff we needed. I mean actually needed. Chuck and I were moving into an apartment The Girls were renovating over their garage/stables. Like everything they did, it was generous and over-the-top. We were going to have two guest bedrooms. If you have guest bedrooms, you have to decorate them. Aunt Tenne and Mom’s best friend, Dixie, had a couple of old beds we could have. The mattresses weren’t great, so I needed pads and sheets and pillows. I asked for pillows for Christmas and kitchen stuff. People didn’t usually come to my little apartment, but the Bled apartment would be different. People would come there. The Girls were expecting layouts in magazines. House Beautiful, for crying out loud. The designer threw that on the table, and I freaked. He was sure it was a lock and was thrilled to be getting his first national spot. I wasn’t a House Beautiful person. I was more likely to be featured on Hoarders with all the crap Chuck kept bringing home. There was cat hair on everything, and Chuck’s poodle Pickpocket loved mud puddles. I didn’t have a single utensil that hadn’t been bought at a yard sale and didn’t look like it’d been used to beat things with. We needed rubber spatulas that didn’t have chunks missing and plates without chips.
The gondola slowed for our final approach, and I started plotting. We had to get out of there. We’d lose the deposit. Fine. Sure. Whatever.
I swallowed hard and prepared to tell Chuck that we could do a day. Ski and then out of Dodge. I looked up and he looked down at me. His face was aglow, and the words stuck in my throat.
“You will never forget this Christmas,” he said. “It’ll be perfect. The real start to our life together.”
I couldn’t do it. I wussed out. Christmas at Hotel Hell was happening, and we would pay for it in more ways than one.