Present Day
Unfamiliar ceilings were a regular occurrence in Frank’s life. Cracked plaster and water stains were not, recent travels aside. When had the lodge fallen into such disrepair? Pushing up to his elbows, Frank squinted at the ceiling, following the crack from over his head to the window. Cosmetic or structural? Until the roof fell in on him, he’d have no idea. Simon was an architect, though. Surely he would know.
Frank groped across the nightstand for his phone and checked the time. The display dimmed and darkened as he tried to make sense of the digits in bold white type: 11:47 a.m.? He never slept that late. He didn’t often fly in from one continent, repack a suitcase, and drive to another—because right now, Northeastern Pennsylvania could be a continent apart—in a single day, either. Then there had been the storm, leaving his beautiful car in a ditch, and the hike to the resort.
And Tommy.
Frank selected the green phone icon and let his thumb hover over Simon’s name. He could say he was calling for architectural advice and it would be true in some sense—if one expanded the definition of architecture to include persons in contact with the buildings. Simon would go for that. For all his pedantic nature, he had a whimsical heart. He was shacked up with a science fiction writer, after all.
A soft wavelet of depression rolled through Frank’s thoughts. The happiness of his closest friend made him happy, of course. But it also highlighted a dearth of joy in his own life. Would it be too dramatic to say he hadn’t truly been happy for thirty years?
Yes. Yes, it would, because he’d done amazing things and had met amazing people.
He’d led an amazing life—not only attaining his dream, but having been rewarded for it multiple times.
“Sell it a little harder, Frankie.”
His voice was dry and his throat scratchy. He needed coffee, and not something punched out of a plastic cup into a mug that might not have seen a drop of dishwashing liquid in near on a decade. Nor threat of death from stained and cracked ceilings, and was the roof sagging as well?
Shaking his head, Frank slipped out of the musty sheets and reclaimed his clothes from the night before. The water pressure under the shower was abysmal and the towel smelled of bleach and mango, which was a truly baffling combination. He’d survived worse—in chasing authenticity, he’d just spent the better part of three weeks calling a moistened rag his bath. This was luxury.
By the time Frank had finished his ablutions, Ken’s Auto Service had closed. Apparently Ken’s work week did not extend past noon on a Saturday. The voice mail message did have a number for emergency towing, and Frank’s conversation with the idiot at the towing service left him truly feeling as if he’d crossed an international border. Why had his sister insisted on doing all of this in person? Surely they could have met in Jersey City or even somewhere halfway between there and Cape May. Why trek out to the wilds in order to decide what to do with . . .
He glanced around room 206. The bedding was faded, the rugs threadbare, their designs indistinct. The floor beneath held the rustic charm of too many feet and not enough polish. All of the furniture squeaked. He dared not approach the curtains out of fear of disturbing the dust and mold spores no doubt nestling within their folds. And the paint. How did white paint fade? Well, he assumed the off-white/gray combination had started life as white. No one would pick this color on purpose, would they?
What were they going to do with this place?
Sighing, Frank tucked his phone into his pocket, slipped his feet into his loafers, and left the room. The air of neglect continued into the hallway. The place didn’t quite feel postapocalyptic. More, it was empty. Soulless. There was no buzz of humanity waking to a weekend away. An unwilling smile pulled at his lips as the stairs creaked beneath his feet. That, at least, was familiar.
The odor of damp waned as Frank reached the first floor. He approached the desk and ran his hand along the surface, absently noting the lack of dust. Morning sunshine poked through the tessellated panes of the double doors, marking the rug in abstract patterns. Behind the desk, the old-fashioned cubbies held room keys. All were currently present except for 206.
His impromptu inspection tour led him back to the office behind the front desk. Tom wasn’t there, but he’d left a note on the desk, folded on top of a large envelope, Frank’s name scrawled in huge letters. Beneath the fold was a keyring. Tucking it into his pocket, Frank eyed the couch. The blanket was still draped over the arm. Was it odd that Tom had been sleeping here? That he slept here at all? Did they not have a night manager? Without guests, there probably wasn’t much need.
Daylight spilled through the large windows overlooking the front porch, softening the red walls, but rendering the space otherwise . . . sad. Couldn’t a writer come up with a better term? The entire lodge resided under a feeling of melancholy, as though it, too, missed its younger days. Families and couples and holidays and summer and all the hopes and dreams carried along by everyone who crossed the threshold.
Gravel crunched outside. Looking up from the sagging couch—which shouldn’t be so fascinating—Frank brightened at the sight of his sister’s car pulling into the circle. A moment later, she was up the front steps and banging through the front door.
“Yoo-hoo!”
Frank poked his head out of the office. “Anna.”
“Frankie! You’re here. I didn’t think you’d be out until later today.”
“Alas, I decided to drive through the storm last night.”
“Come here.”
She opened her arms, inviting him in, and Frank swept her into a close embrace. He saw his sister often enough not to feel longly-lost, but right now it felt as though she’d somehow rescued him from somewhere, something . . . some time.
“It’s good to see you.”
“You too. Was the storm terrible? Oh no, was that your car on Snow Hill Road?”
Frank let her go and took a step back. “Indeed it was. How did it—” He raised a hand and shook his head. “No, don’t tell me. The past twelve hours have been depressing enough.”
“Did you call a towing service?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I can run you into town for a rental.”
“Can we go now? I was contemplating using the Keurig thing again, and honestly, that might be more than I can handle and remain charitable.”
“Sure.” She smiled. “Where’s Tommy?”
Frank pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the time. “Out. He said something about a job today, which I didn’t really absorb as I was too stunned by the news he was managing Bossen Hill, or what’s left of it.”
“Probably a wedding.”
“What?”
“The job. He’s a photographer.”
“I knew that.” The admission of which brought instant heat to his cheeks. No big thing—he had simply followed the career of an old friend. Not too closely, of course, but, well. “He’s, ah, quite good.”
“Yes, he is.”
“So why is he working here?”
“You haven’t talked to him yet? I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on. What’s it been, a few years since you last saw him?”
“More like thirty.”
Anna’s eyes rounded. “I thought you got up here regularly? You’ve been in Pennsylvania three out of the last four times I’ve called you.”
“Visiting Simon in Bethlehem.”
Her expression softened. “Dear Simon. How is he? And Charlie, isn’t it? And weren’t they expecting a baby sometime soon?”
“Grandbaby. Sort of.” Frank made a rolling gesture with one hand. “Charlie’s daughter’s progeny. What made you think I’d been up here?”
“I just thought you and Tommy—”
“Were childhood friends. Then I grew up.”
Anna wrinkled her forehead.
Frank ushered her toward the doorway, reaching into his pocket for the keys Tom had left. “Town. Coffee. Rental car. Will any of these things be available after midday on a Saturday?”
“I think there’s an Enterprise office in Stroudsburg, and there are a number of coffee shops. The whole ground floor of Wyckoff’s is restaurants and cafés now. They seem to change hands all the time, but there’s always something there. Main Street is actually quite lively. Stroudsburg hasn’t become a ghost town like so many other places up here.”
“I suppose the university keeps it alive.”
“That, and tourism.”
“Not according to the guest book.”
By daylight, the grounds did not appear as unkempt as the night before. With the weather only just warming, the weeds hadn’t had a chance to march across the drive yet. The hanging sign had been pulled down and currently rested against the hedge that poked over the top of the stone walls.
Evidence of the storm littered the road outside. The power pole had been pushed to the verge, and a work crew was restringing the cables. Thankfully, his car was gone. He couldn’t have borne the sight of his precious in the daylight, and didn’t want to see the damage until it was a distant memory, taken care of by a ludicrous insurance premium.
“Have you really not seen Tommy for thirty years? How is that possible?”
“I’d rather talk about what we’re going to do with Bossen Hill.”
“‘We’? It’s yours, Frank. I thought I explained that in my email.” The one he’d finally been able to read at the airport just a couple of days ago. Well, skim. By the time he found a reliable charging station, his inbox had been rather full.
“How can it be mine? Didn’t Dad want it?”
“He’s perfectly content running the guesthouse in Cape May. Matty hasn’t left the West Coast in years, and I prefer life in South Jersey. I’m only here today to see you. It’s been ages. You should visit us more. You adore the Cape.”
“I do.” His parents owned and operated a charming Victorian B&B in the old part of town, walking distance to the beach and the shops. Annabelle lived close by with her husband, children, and single grandchild. All her family helped out at the inn during the season, and it was an established fact that she would take over when their parents retired or tottered off to the great guesthouse in the sky.
Frank had never resented her inheritance. He had no interest in running a bed and breakfast. He had no interest in running a dilapidated resort in the Poconos, either. What had his uncle been thinking?
“Did you read the will?” Annabelle asked.
“Hmm?”
She glanced over at him. “I’m sorry. I know you were away when it all happened. How was Puerto Rico?”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I heard things were bad down there.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe. I don’t know what possessed me to accept the assignment.”
“You were always after something new and shiny.”
“Trust me, Anna, there is currently very little new and shiny in Puerto Rico.” His visit had been too close on the heels of the latest disaster to catch sight of the projects he’d hoped to see, let alone for him to interview the people invested in rebuilding the country, literally from the ground up.
“Not a good trip, then.”
“Let’s talk about Robert. I honestly wish I could have been here for the funeral. Granted, I’d not seen him in a while. A few years.” He’d been trying not to think about what it all meant—his uncle’s passing, and the gift he’d left behind. Not the property, but the summers of thirty years ago. Everything Frank had run from because of a single kiss. “Is there a plot or something nearby? He’s not buried behind the lodge is he?”
“No, his ashes are at Cape May.”
Probably sitting in a dark corner next to the ashes of his wife. Frank’s parents were not particularly sentimental people. “It was a heart attack?”
“Yeah. While he was asleep, apparently. He had a history of heart trouble.”
Frank frowned at the passing scenery. “And was still running the lodge?”
“As it is.”
“God, do I even want to examine the financials?”
“That’s for you and Tommy to discuss.”
“Tom.”
“Hmm?”
“He always preferred to be called Tom.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Frank glanced over at his sister. “Have you been in touch?”
“With Tommy—Tom?”
“Yes.”
She paused at a light, and Frank looked back out of the window. They were in Stroudsburg now, and the town was both familiar and not. The outline hadn’t changed, but the energy of the place had. It looked younger somehow. More vibrant than when he’d been a child.
“We email and call sometimes. He talks about you. That’s why I thought you two were in touch.”
“Talks about me how?”
Annabelle pulled into a lot behind a bank on Main Street. The building might be new—Frank couldn’t tell. She stopped the car and turned to him, hands still resting on the wheel. “What happened between you two? You were so close. Weren’t you going to go into business together or something? Travel the world? I honestly thought you’d be married with dogs or kids by now. Both!” Her smile seemed to recall distant memories with obvious fondness. “God, you were so cute. Tommy and Frankie. Frankie and Tommy. Never one without the other.”
The seat belt suddenly felt too tight across Frank’s chest. He fumbled with the catch and pushed open the car door. The air that blew in through the opening was that same combination of familiarity. Fresh after the storm, clean and bright with sunshine. Mountain air, country air. The scent of what had once been home.
Frank got out of the car.
Annabelle met his gaze over the roof.
“Coffee?” he asked, injecting a note of desperation into his tone.
“Coffee.” Her smile was sad now, and all too reminiscent of the melancholy lingering in the dank hallways of Bossen Hill.