EIGHT

“Did you finish checking out the snowmobiles?” asked Sharon Hoffman, as her husband peeled off his parka.

“Yeah, they’re all set to go,” replied David Hoffman. “That old Polaris runs a little rough, but it will work if we need it. What’s the latest count for this weekend?”

“Reservations for five rooms, ten people, same as it was last week at this time. That will at least pay the heating bill for this week, and you know, that’s ten more people than we had last year at this time. Nobody ever said this would be an overnight success. And if we can make it through this winter, next winter we will have twice as many.”

Sharon and David Hoffman had run the Otter Slide Resort for the last ten years. In that time they had renovated and modernized an old Lutheran Bible camp into a year-round vacation center. It had not been easy. The lakeshore real estate had been their only worthwhile asset, and over the years the rustic cabins had gradually given way to a modern twenty-four-unit motel and restaurant complex. The Hoffman’s living quarters occupied part of the west wing of the motel; indeed, the front door to their apartment was accessible through the motel reception area.

Last year, the Otter Slide Restaurant had opened in May to such a resounding success that it became obvious that it could provide a year-round source of revenue. If the restaurant could attract enough customers to stay open, the Hoffmans realized, they could continue to run the motel at little additional expense. No longer would the resort have to depend on the vagaries of Minnesota weather during the three-month period from Memorial Day to Labor Day. During the other nine months, if business was slow, half of the units could be closed. But the new restaurant would stay open and, equipped with an expensive set of room dividers, could provide for the growing demand for conference space.

This had all been Sharon’s idea, and with her typical flair and ambition she had already convinced several of Minnesota’s leading corporations to hold small group retreats. One such group, from Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing, had spent an entire week at the Otter Slide in late November, and on the basis of 3M’s tacit endorsement she had lured other urban corporations as well. In truth, it was an ideal setting for a corporate retreat, with little but snow, wildlife, and a sauna to distract the guests. Shortly before 3M had arrived, Sharon had insisted, over David’s reluctance, on the purchase of a fax machine. The company was pleased with the facilities and hinted that next year’s retreat might force the Hoffmans to open up the other wing of the motel.

Meanwhile, the Otter Slide Restaurant, which was open only on weekends from January to March unless a conference was being held, was paying the mortgage and the taxes. The menu featured a predictable selection of steaks and chops, but there were speciality items like filet of Minnesota walleye, prairie-fed bison, Minnesota venison, and wild pheasant. But all meals featured a Minnesota speciality. It was not just “a baked potato,” for instance, but a “Minnesota Red River Valley Potato.” More often than not, however, the diners preferred “genuine Minnesota wild rice, hand-picked by members of the Ojibwe Nation.” The fact that much of the wild rice was machine-harvested from non-reservation farms bothered David, but Sharon insisted it was simply a matter of business.

David Hoffman was a chubby-faced, smooth-shaven, elfin sort of a man with a receding chin. His scarce hair was brushed straight back in a futile attempt to hide his baldness, and this pathetic gesture only seemed to make him appear older than his fifty-six years. His serene hazel eyes, magnified by bifocals in black, horn-rimmed glasses, indicated a naiveté that one does not find in successful businessmen. Such an impression was, perhaps, an accurate one, for Hoffman would have created a financial disaster had he been allowed to run the business.

Fortunately, the Otter Slide was not dependent on David Hoffman’s business acumen. Sharon Hoffman had the drive, ambition, and imagination to take a disused Bible camp and turn it into a promising enterprise. One had only to watch the couple receive their first paying customer to see where the authority and prospects for success were to be found. Sharon was a take-charge person with a commanding, somewhat unfeminine voice that could welcome a guest in a manner that suggested that he should pay his bill and enjoy himself. She still wore her long brown hair in the fashion that she had favored in the sixties—the straight, ironed look made popular by folksingers. Her pale, gray-blue eyes, hidden behind granny glasses, had browbeaten contractors and county commissioners alike. Although the Hoffmans had been in the area for ten years, they were still somewhat of a mystery to the close-knit community of Vergas, and no one knew exactly where they came from. Everybody seemed to like David, but Sharon was still referred to as “that pushy woman at the Otter Slide.”

Sitting down at the office desk and mechanically putting a stack of restaurant invoices in order, David asked, “Have you given any more thought to raising Geena’s salary? She is a marvelous cook, you know, and the main reason that the restaurant has been a success. We couldn’t get along without her.”

Sharon, reaching over David’s shoulder to put the invoices back in their original order, said, “Yes, well, where else is she going to go? When Geena Olson can drive in one mile from her home and find this kind of work, I don’t think we have to worry about losing her. Besides, I told her when we hired her that if it worked out we could see about a raise in a year or so. We still have four months before we really have to worry about that.”

“Yes, of course, but she is working more hours and preparing more meals than either of us thought she would.”

“So what? We got Sally and that other high school kid to help. Let’s see how things go this summer. We’ll probably have to hire even more help then.”

“Well, if you say so. What do you know about this Hofstead Hail group?”

Sharon started rifling through a file folder. “Not much, really, but you might remember Myron Pekanen. He came in here a couple of nights last summer to have a few beers. He seemed to be a pretty good sort. The important thing is that this is a local conference. These people could just as well meet in their offices and go home to sleep. We’ve got to prove that our Winter Wonderland Weekend is of value to more than just Twin City corporations. If this is a success, we could get other bookings from groups in Fergus Falls, Alexandria, and maybe Fargo-Moorhead. And this is where you come in. You’ve got to keep them busy. Take them on a moonlight snowmobile safari, show them how to cross-country ski, go to the Sahlberg farm and rent that sleigh if you have to. Maybe some of them would even like to try those snowshoes you bought at that garage sale. Put a bottle of brandy in your pocket and take them for some ice fishing. I want this to be so special that it becomes an annual retreat for Hofstead Hail.”

Sharon’s drive and energy never ceased to amaze David. “You’re wonderful, you know that? Many times over all these years I’ve wondered where I would be without you. Wherever that would be, I know it would not be as pleasant.”

“Yes, um, thank you. Um, if we’re going to make a go of this we can’t sit around feeling nostalgic. Is that busboy kid here yet? What is his name again? Jeff?”

“Geoffrey. He spells his name with a ‘G.’ It reminds me of Geoffrey of Anjou, Henry II’s father. Remember? Henry II was the guy Peter O’Toole played in both Becket and The Lion in Winter? You know, I sometimes wish I had gone back to school and finished my theater degree. I could probably have been directing plays in a college by now.”

With barely disguised contempt, Sharon said, “Not bloody likely. In any event, you’re not doing it now and I think I heard a car door slam. Our weekend guests are starting to arrive.”

David Hoffman ambled out to the reception area just as Iris Pekanen, carrying a huge, weighty, and seemingly indestructible suitcase, pushed the door open with her ample rear end. Behind her came Pek, loaded down with the car keys. David greeted them warmly.

“Well, well, it’s nice to see you again, Mr. Pekanen. And this must be your wife?”

Pek, stuffing his gloves hurriedly into his pocket to take David’s outstretched hand, said, “Yah, uh, this is my wife, Iris.”

Iris smiled and vigorously shook David’s hand and, with a puzzled expression, said, “I didn’t know you had been here before, Pek. When was that?”

Pek mumbled something incoherent about meeting a client in the restaurant but was saved from further elaboration by the arrival of the Sandbergs. As David introduced himself to the new arrivals, an air of false congeniality pervaded the room, an atmosphere that was not lightened by Clarence’s astute observation of “Well, I see you made it out here, too.”

Pek and Iris agreed that they had.

David brightly picked up the bags that Iris had dropped on the floor and said, “I hope you enjoy your evening with us. Mr. Hofstead suggested dinner for about six thirty. I’ll show you to your rooms so you can have a chance to freshen up a bit. The bar is open, of course, so if you’d like anything, just tell me—I double as the barkeeper. Mr. and Mrs. Sandberg? If you’ll just wait for me to show the Pekanens to their room, I’ll be right back.”

Gary Swenson and Faye Janice Nelson managed to time their arrival to coincide with that of John and Martha Hofstead. The timing, of course, had been facilitated by Gary’s careful observations in his rearview mirror, proceeding at an agonizingly slow pace until he spied Hofstead’s Cadillac behind them. As they came through the door, Gary was complimenting John on the brilliant idea of a Winter Wonderland Weekend. It was just what David—maitre d’, barkeeper, and general dogsbody—had been hoping to hear.

Gary had been priming himself for moments such as this ever since the weekend plan was announced. He prided himself on being able to read subtle hints on the faces or in the body language of other people. It was, after all, partly how he made his living as a salesman. While Hoffman was introducing himself all around and making assuring noises about the resort’s amenities, however, Gary looked at his boss and found him hard to read. “Is he turning away from me slightly?” he thought. “Did he look like that when we got out of the car? Does he still resent me for not ‘buying American’ and driving a Saab? Sure, it’s made in Sweden, but it is owned by General Motors. Was our ‘coincidental’ arrival transparent? Had he been talking about me to Martha? No. Martha’s not giving anything away—maybe even she doesn’t know who he is going to pick. But John? Hmmmm, he looks funny to me.”

Flashing his most ingratiating grin, Gary said, “So, you’re going to teach me to snowmobile this weekend. Hey, I really like your suit, John. That must keep you warm, huh? You know, maybe after dinner we can go for a ride. It’s a marvelous night out there, but who knows how long that can last in Minnesota, right? I don’t want to take a chance of missing out on snowmobiling lessons from the master.”

John turned to Gary with a patient expression (“was it patient, or was it contempt?” Gary wondered) and said, “There’s really nothing much to teach, you know. You just sit on the thing and twist the handlebar to make it go. It’s fun, though, and I think you’ll like it. Um, where did that guy go off to?”

As if in answer to his question, Sharon, now wearing a wool suit designed to impress corporate America, came through the door and announced, “My husband had to attend to another matter. You must be John Hofstead. My name is Sharon Hoffman—we spoke on the telephone. Let me tell you what a privilege it is to have Hofstead Hail with us this weekend.”

The rest of the introductions were made and the two couples were soon escorted to their respective rooms. As Sharon showed the Hofsteads to their room, she repeated the invitation to partake of the bar and told John that “a special selection of appetizers has been laid out just for you and your associates.” Somewhat apprehensively she asked, “There is one more of your party yet to arrive. We can still expect the Kvammes, can’t we?”

John Hofstead blinked as if called out of a deep hypnotic state. “Huh? Oh. Oh yes. Certainly. They should be along any time now. Remind them that we plan to eat dinner together at six thirty.”

“But of course,” the genial hostess replied. “Your table is all prepared.”