The Last to Vanish(2)
He looked behind him at the empty lobby before leaning one arm on the distressed wooden countertop between us. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, though I wasn’t sure whether he was referring to his lack of reservation or the puddles of water he had trailed across the wide plank floor. “It’s just, I left my wallet somewhere. Out there.” His raincoat rustled as he gestured toward the door. He was pointing in the opposite direction of the mountain, but I let that go because of the dark and the rain, and because I knew how disorienting it could get out there, on a bad night. “I had some cash in my car, though,” he said, hand stuffed deep into the pocket of his coat before he pulled out a damp roll of twenties. “For emergencies.”
He extended the money my way, an offering held between the tips of his fingers.
Hikers sometimes arrived like this, it wasn’t unheard of, but I started reassessing him. The clean fingernails. The collar of his blue T-shirt, just visible, still dry. The familiar squeak of too-new rubber-soled boots, before they’d gotten any good miles on them.
Celeste wouldn’t approve of this—a man with no ID and no credit cards, showing up just before closing. She’d say I needed to look after myself first of all, and then the guests, and then the inn. Would warn me that we were alone up here, that the only way to project control was to make sure others didn’t think they held the reins. Celeste would rather the lost customer than the lost upper hand. She’d say, So sorry, we’re all full, and she’d mention the campgrounds down by the river, the rentals over the storefronts, the motel in the next town. But I’d been known to make some exceptions. I didn’t like the idea of leaving anyone alone out there, especially on nights like this. Besides, I was sure he’d been here before at some point.
“No problem,” I said, “Mr.—”
His gaze was drifting around the lobby again, taking everything in, like he’d never seen this place before: the fireplace encased in stone and glass, visible from all angles, logs piled up into perfect pyramids on either side; the two-story arch of the dome with the exposed wood beams, the large picture windows that made up the entirety of the far wall, for the best views; the keys hanging from the pegboard in a locked display behind me.
“Sir?” I repeated.
He finally made eye contact. “Clarke,” he said, clearing his throat. “With an e.” He smiled apologetically, a little lopsided, a dimple in his left cheek—another twinge of familiarity.
The name didn’t ring a bell.
“Sure thing, Mr. Clarke. Let’s see what I can do for you.”
Cutter’s Pass was a seasonal, small-town haven: river guides and zip lines; a well-maintained campground a half mile outside downtown; horseback tours and an abundance of hiking trails forking off into the surrounding mountains. There were three types of visitors we typically got at the inn. The high-end vacationers who wanted a taste of rustic without actually roughing it; the hikers who thought they were ready to rough it, and discovered they were not, asking for a cabin, or any availability please; and the tourists who came for our eerie history, our notoriety—usually groups of friends who asked a lot of questions and drank a lot of beer at the tavern down the road and stumbled in late, laughing and clinging to one another, like they had escaped something. They always seemed surprised by the reality of Cutter’s Pass—that it was more REI and craft beer, overpriced farmers’ markets and upscale accommodations, less whatever stereotype of Appalachia had taken root in their heads.
From the way this man was looking around the place, and his questionable story, I would’ve put my money on category three. Except. That familiar gesture. That dimple when he smiled.
I slid a sheet of paper in front of him. “All right,” I said, “jot down your license plate so we don’t tow you.”
He blinked twice, mouth slightly open, a single drop of rain trailing along the edge of his jaw, toward the scar. “Tow me?”
“Lots of people try to park here to get to the mountain,” I explained. “The spots are for guests.”
“Oh, um, I don’t know it by heart…”
God, he was bad at this.
“Make and color, then,” I said. “And state, if you remember that.” I smiled at him, and he laughed.
“I do,” he said. I watched as he scrawled down Audi, black. Maryland. I felt myself holding my breath. It clicked, where I’d seen him, why he looked so familiar. The family picture with the joint statement. The reward offered in a long-shot plea for help.
I tried to keep my smile in place: cordial, careful. “Maryland, huh? Long way from home,” I said.
“Yes, well, next time I’ll stick to a beach vacation. Lesson learned.”
He was charming, which almost made up for the lack of plan, but wouldn’t get him very far here.
I felt for him, really. I’d been an outsider for years; to those who’d grown up here, I probably still was.
“Any preference on room?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said, narrowing his eyes, looking toward the balcony of the second floor, just beyond the dome of the lobby. “I… I wouldn’t know.”
My heart was too soft, I knew this. I unlocked the display case on the wall behind me and took the key off the hook for Cabin Four. I knew what he wanted; what he was here for. “You look just like him,” I said.