99 Days(22)

Luckily, work is busy enough that I don’t have a ton of time to dwell on it. It’s strange and weirdly gratifying to see the lobby full of people after two weeks of it feeling like a ghost town: dads in dorky cargo shorts wheeling giant suitcases and potbellied kids floating on brightly colored rafts in the lake. A group of middle-aged ladies from Plattsburgh planned their annual book-club retreat for this weekend, and they camp out on the porch drinking rum runners all afternoon.

I wave at Imogen’s Jay as I dart through the kitchen, smile at Tess as I hurry past the pool; Penn’s got me running all kinds of tiny, urgent errands: sussing out sugar cubes for a persnickety tea drinker in the dining room and wiping up an unidentified spill on the wide-planked pine floor in the hallway off the lobby. Penn went for a vintage-rustic look in the redesign, the big leather couches coupled with thrifted plaid blankets in all the guest rooms, a giant stuffed moose head holding court on the wall above the reservations desk that all of us have taken to calling George. “He’s fake,” I assure one stricken-looking elementary schooler, although I have no idea if that’s true and in fact suspect it’s not. Win some, lose some, I guess. Poor George.

“Nice job today,” Penn tells me, a lull just before dinner giving her five minutes to play a quick game of tic-tac-toe with Fabian on the back of some hotel stationery. Desi’s sacked out on the floor under her desk, thumb shoved into her mouth. “And since you started, really. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem,” I say, attempting to swallow down a yawn with only partial success—I feel good, though, like how I used to feel after track practice back at the beginning of high school, like I’d accomplished something worth doing. I think of the email from Boston still sitting in my inbox, the one about picking a major—about figuring out, once and for all, what I want. “Can I ask you something?” I say. “How did you know that coming here and opening this place was what you wanted?”

Penn looks over at me for a moment, like she’s surprised that I’m asking. She’s wearing a suit today instead of the jeans and T-shirts I’m used to seeing; this morning I grabbed her by the arm on my way through the lobby and yanked off the tag that was still sticking out of her collar. “Well, I managed restaurants for a long time,” she says, drawing her O on Fabian’s paper and rattling off the names of a couple of places I actually recognize, spots my mom and her editor go when she’s in New York City. “Before that I used to plan parties for rich people.”

“You did?” I ask, picturing it—Penn in a fancy dress and heels and a headset, directing caterers and designing lighting schemes. I nudge Fabian in the shoulder, pointing to a spot on the grid that’ll give him a win no matter where his mom goes next. “Did you like it?”

Penn considers that. “I liked being the boss,” she tells me. “I liked solving problems. I liked being around other people. Kept me from disappearing into myself too much, I think.” She reaches out and sifts her hands through Fabian’s silky curls, looking almost dreamy. “I loved the city,” she confesses softly.

“Yeah?” I ask, curious. “What made you leave?”

Penn comes back to herself then, smiles as Fabian holds up the notepad, triumphant, three wobbly Xs all in a row. “Was time for a change,” is all she says.





Day 22


The next day is another long colorful blur, a Grand Opening cookout on the shore of the lake and an old-fashioned pie-eating contest, prep for a huge fireworks display set to start at the end of the night. Gabe sneaks in midafternoon and finds me in the office for a quick, guilty kiss, his warm hands resting on my hipbones and his sly mouth moving against mine. “Missed you,” he murmurs when my hands wander up to tangle in his silky hair. I’m surprised by how pleased I am to hear him say the words.

“Missed you back,” I tell him, and realize all at once that it’s true. We’ve been texting a bit since our date at the movies, but I think he somehow got I needed time to parse stuff out. It’s unexpected, how the sight of him—feel, smell, taste—makes me smile.

Gabe grins against my lips, slow and easy. I push Patrick’s bruised face out of my mind.

We make plans to meet up for breakfast in the morning, and I walk him out the side entrance of the Lodge to the parking lot, tugging his belt loop to say good-bye. I’m headed back inside when I run into Tess.

“So that’s happening, huh?” she asks, pale eyebrows raised and a dozen different embroidery floss friendship bracelets stacked up one arm—she had a poolside arts-and-crafts thing on the schedule this morning, I remember. She grins at me. Then, off my clearly stricken expression: “Oh, God, sorry, no, I’m not trying to give you a hard time or anything. I like Gabe, I think he’s a good guy.”


“No,” I say immediately, the impulse to lie like a reflex. I remember what I said to Patrick that day in the store, I know what you think, but there’s nothing going on here. “I mean, he’s a good guy, I just—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Tess holds a freckly hand up, shaking her head. “You know, don’t even answer that. It’s none of my business, I won’t say anything to anybody.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say, exhaling. “Thanks.”

Tess shrugs. “No problem,” she tells me, reaching up to scrape her hair into a ponytail. “Hey, listen, I don’t know if this is hugely weird or whatever, but Imogen and I were talking about it, and we were going to ask you anyway—we’re gonna do Crow Bar tomorrow, if you wanna come with.”