Tom tried to catch air with his mouth open, but nope, it wasn’t working. Frank had always had that effect, somehow robbing the space between them of oxygen.
Messages fired along Tom’s synapses, most of them still coded by the time they hit the cortex. His brain wanted to skip back, forward, and a little sideways. It was a freaking merry-go-round in there . . . and his mouth was still open. He could taste the musty atmosphere of the lodge on his tongue.
He’d known Frank and his sister were coming up this weekend. But now that the reality of it stood in front of him, Tom found himself unable to cope.
Oh my God, it’s Frank.
“Verbose as ever, I see,” Frank said.
Words. He needed words.
“Ah . . .” Good start. Now, say something sensible. “You’re here.”
“Obviously. On foot no less. I don’t suppose you have any dry towels? And what is that smell?”
“Damp.”
Frank’s brow creased with displeasure. “Yes, I am rather.”
“I meant the smell.”
For someone who resembled an overdressed otter, Frank smelled pretty good. Like cedar and birch. He looked pretty good too. Age had sharpened his features, banishing the smiling boy with pink, freckled cheeks and riotous orange curls. This Frank—this older, wetter, not-smiling Frank—was taller, slimmer, serious and . . . really, really wet.
“Towel.” Tom sounded like an idiot. Not talking at all would be better. “Getting you a towel.”
He abandoned the dimly lit lobby, navigating the hallway by memory and the square of light from the open office door. The power had failed about an hour before, and with no guests in residence, Tom had started only one generator. There was no need to have the place lit up like the Fourth of July when there wasn’t anyone here to appreciate it.
He groped through the darkness, past several closed doors until he reached the laundry, where he stepped from gloom to no light at all, and felt his way along the shelves until he located a stack of towels. Leaning forward, he gave a quick sniff, hoping the dank atmosphere of the lobby hadn’t penetrated this far. God, was the roof leaking? He’d have to check all the guest rooms in the morning.
Light pierced the darkness. Flinching, Tom turned and made out Frank’s shape behind an illuminated cell phone. He watched as Frank reached for the light switch and flipped it up and down.
“Why is there no power in here?” he asked. “I can hear a generator.”
“It was meant to be just me tonight, so I only started one of them. I can connect a few more circuits if you want.”
“What I want is a goddamn towel. And to know what you’re doing here.”
Tom snatched a towel and tossed it across the room. Frank caught it and immediately mopped his face. The light from the cell phone bounced around the walls, then cut off as Frank tucked the phone away.
“I’m the manager,” Tom said. “Didn’t you know?”
“No. I didn’t. Can we talk somewhere where I can see you? I don’t suppose you have coffee or tea or something?”
“In the office.”
The parade back toward the light was short and not particularly sweet. Frank muttered into his towel, and Tom could feel each indistinct word as a pinprick against his skin. He’d messed up. Again. And, as always, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d done wrong.
In comparison to the lobby and hallway, the office was well lit. Frank paused in the doorway, one foot half raised as though he was unsure whether the floor would hold him. Distaste lined his forehead and pinched his mouth.
“God, what happened in here?”
“What do you mean?” Tom followed Frank’s gaze, wondering if one of the property’s cats had managed to drag a dead chipmunk inside, but he saw only the cozy confines of a room he considered his safe space. The office was his favorite part of the old lodge. Generous windows peeked out onto the long front porch, providing a perfect view of the circle and driveway. Tom liked waking up to that view from the couch against the wall opposite. Liked the idea of facing forward while wondering what the day would bring . . . which hadn’t been much for a while, but ever since Robert’s death, that had suited him.
“It looks like someone’s great old aunt started nesting.” Frank plucked the blanket from the couch and tossed it aside. “When did he paint the walls red? No, the better question might be why? And why aren’t any of the pictures straight? You know what? Never mind. You said something about coffee. I could also use another towel. Is there any light in the bathroom across the hall? I need to get out of these wet clothes before I wrinkle permanently and have to live forever with folds of wet fabric adhered to every crevice.”
Frank finished his inspection of the room and faced Tom. For an instant, the ill-tempered lines across his forehead dipped toward something akin to the emotion sitting heavily in the center of Tom’s being. Then Frank blinked, and any trace of the grief he might be feeling over his uncle’s passing disappeared. He turned away, muttering again, and left the office. Tom stood there—the odd disconnect between thought and action still hampering his every move—and listened as Frank collected his suitcase from the lobby and wheeled it into the bathroom.
Was the light in the hall bath connected to the generator? Tom leaned a little to the left and peered out into the hallway. Light drew a line along the underside of the bathroom door.
Right. So. Coffee.
It was in inspecting the Keurig that Robert Tern had loved so much that Tom’s thoughts finally broke free of gridlock. The weight in the middle of his chest pulsed and the familiar burn crawled through his sinuses until his vision blurred.
Jeez, get ahold of yourself.
It’d been a week since the service. Two weeks since Robert had passed. Frank barely looked aggrieved, and here Tom was nearly sobbing over a coffee maker. Frank hadn’t been to visit his uncle in close to a decade, though, while Tom had never left. He’d feel guilty about stepping in and being around when Robert needed someone, but he’d needed Robert too—as a mentor and a friend.
God, Frank was here. Really here. Would he want decaf this late at night?
Rather than make a decision, Tom went to get another towel. The bathroom door opened just as he returned and he handed it over. “Decaf or regular?”
Frank grunted as he took the fresh towel. “Decaf sounds good. Though anything hot would be good right now.” He flipped off the light, wrestled his suitcase and an armload of wet clothes out of the bathroom, and followed Tom across the hall. In the door of the office, he paused again. “And thank you.”
Nodding, Tom selected the appropriate K-Cup and snapped it into place. He added water from the stack of bottles on the floor, tucked a mug under the spout, and pressed Go. When he turned back around, Frank had folded the blanket, set it on the arm of the old sofa, and sat somewhere close to the middle in a weary sprawl.
Tom pulled a chair out from the desk and perched cautiously on the edge of the seat. “I wasn’t expecting you or Annabelle until tomorrow.”
“I figured I’d beat the Saturday-morning traffic. Not the most intelligent plan, but the rain wasn’t that bad until I’d passed through the Gap.” Frank crossed his legs and picked at a wrinkle in his pants, drawing attention to the fact that he had not changed into sweats like any normal person might when finding themselves wetter than wet after hours. No, he’d opted for dark-gray dress slacks, a pale-violet oxford shirt with the top two buttons open, and a pair of leather shoes. Loafers or something.
In comparison, Tom was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt with more holes than fabric. Not because he’d been caught out in the rain, but because he’d been close to sleep when Frank tapped on the window.
“Sometimes the storms seem to hit the Gap,” he said, “roll back toward the Poconos and get stuck somewhere in between.” Between being Stroudsburg and East Stroudsburg, the foothills of the gloriously named Pocono Mountains. They were hills. Big hills.
“How long have you been managing Bossen Hill?” Frank asked.
The Keurig gurgled and Tom rose to extract Frank’s cup. He handed it across the small space and settled back into his chair before answering. “About seven years, I guess. On and off.”
“On and off?”
“When Robert”—his throat tried to close over the name—“needed the help. He had a full-time manager up until 2010. Ah, then, um, things weren’t going so well with the bookings. Weather, the economy.”
Frank should know all of this. What he wouldn’t know was how much Tom had needed the job. How much he still needed it. Now wasn’t the time to ask after Frank’s plans for the resort, though, and not because it was late. Not even because Tom’s thoughts were threatening to mount the merry-go-round again.
Mostly because a future Tom couldn’t see was usually better for all concerned.
Frank sipped his coffee and made a face. “Was the pod machine your idea or my uncle’s?”
“I bought it for him last year. Birthday gift.”
“Huh.” Frank looked around the office. “Was the red paint your idea too?” When Tom didn’t answer, Frank continued, “I didn’t see any cars in the circle. Are there no guests for the weekend?”
“Where did you park?”
“About a mile down Snow Hill Road.”
“Why would you park on Snow Hill Road?”
Frank drained his mug and waved it through the air. “Power pole hit the road in front of me, and I slid off the side into what passes for a gutter up here.”
Tom jerked forward in his seat, feet falling flat on the floor. “Jeez. Are you all right?”
“Fine. Only wet. My car, however, is another matter.”
“I’m sure we can get it towed tomorrow. Ken’s is open Saturday mornings.”
Frank’s smile had the fleeting nature of a rare bird. “Ken’s still in business, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“So, the guest situation.”
Tom licked his lips. Telling Frank they were closed would put him out of a job—not that he was doing much more than managing a crumbling pile of stone. “There was a bit of activity back in March. The late snow? Slopes all stayed open until the end of the month and we got a few overflow bookings. But no one comes up here just to stay here anymore. Not to Bossen Hill, anyway.”
“That’s depressing.”
Tell me about it.
“I had no idea things . . .” Frank glanced around the office, brow furrowed. A truncated sigh left him, pulling his shoulders down. “Then again, I’ve been out of touch.” He cut a sideways look at Tom before seeming to find interest in the empty mug in his hands.
“We can talk about it tomorrow when your sister gets here.”
“Yes, let’s do that. What time were you expecting her?”
“Probably not before the afternoon.”
“All right. Are any of the rooms made up?”
“206 and 207.”
Frank glanced at the wall separating the office from Robert’s bedroom, the only bedroom on the ground floor, then at Tom. His eyebrows twitched together and his mug became a precious article, cradled and stroked. For a moment, he looked more like Frankie—the boy who’d stolen Tom’s heart, a good portion of his soul, and maybe the livable portion of his life. His hair was shorter now, clipped close, and a sedate strawberry blond. Paler at the temples. The lines around his mouth and eyes were friendly, his mouth the same: small and intense. His eyes that lighter shade of brown some folks called hazel.
Frank had aged well, though Tom had always liked the way he looked.
The emotional puddle in the center of Tom’s chest rippled, and he broke the connection between their gazes to study his bare toes. There was little point in apologizing now. He was three decades too late. But in this moment, he almost wanted to. No . . . he didn’t want to apologize; he wanted to explain. Or both. Say something that might throw a line across the chasm yawning between them.
Instead, he pushed off the edge of the chair. “Help yourself to a key. I’ll go make sure the lights are connected to the generator.”
“You needn’t bother. I’m probably going to sleep pretty soon. Do you live close by?”
Forcing himself not to glance at the couch, Tom answered, “Um, yeah. But I’ve been sleeping here since . . .” He motioned toward Robert’s empty bedroom. “To keep an eye on the place.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, I’m not at all sure what a manager does.”
“It’s negotiable.”
“Well, if you want to stay . . .”
Tom let his gaze wander toward the couch. If he wanted to stay, Frank had given him the perfect excuse. But even he couldn’t deny that after tomorrow, the future would need to be contemplated, welcome or not. It wouldn’t take Frank long to figure out the lodge was all but closed. Might as well get used to staying elsewhere. “It’s fine. Now that you’re here, I guess I can get going.”
“You know what? That’s ridiculous. You should stay. You were going to stay. I’m sure my uncle . . . I’m sure Robert would have appreciated your diligence.” A wry smile flickered across Frank’s small mouth. “You were always better than me when it came to things like this.”
“I—”
“Stay.” Frank rose from the couch. “We can talk more tomorrow.”
“I’ve got another job from eleven to three. So I’ll probably see you after that.”
“Oh. Well, okay.” Frank corralled his suitcase and bundle of wet clothing. His brow furrowed again in what was becoming a familiar pattern. “It’s good to see you, Tom.”
Tom answered with a short nod.
After Frank left the room, Tom slipped out and back down the hallway toward the laundry. The generators were in the shed behind. The wet night misted his head and shoulders as he crossed the small pad of concrete and hauled open the door. He grabbed the flashlight from the wall mount and played it over the circuits until he found the upstairs hallway and lights for the front side of the lodge. After flipping a couple of switches, he checked the propane level in the main tank. Enough to last another thirty hours or so with the current load.
Satisfied, he returned to the lodge, grabbed another towel for his wet feet, and retrieved his blanket from the arm of the sofa. For a while, he listened to Frank moving around in the room overhead. Then the bed groaned and settled. Silence followed. Still, Tom didn’t sleep. He lay there trying not to look at the ceiling, trying not to remember, and failing at both.