Frank suspected Tom’s hand in the organization of the logbooks and receipts. His uncle had been a fun-loving and easygoing man. Robert had been the one who greeted guests, socialized with them, and made sure everyone was having a good time. Madge had done the books and behind-the-scenes stuff. Tom—according to the fifteen years of logs stored in the cabinets upstairs—had done just about everything else, and more of it, since Madge had died. He’d been added to the books as a manager seven years ago, but his paystubs probably extended back to their childhood when Robert Tern had paid both of them for the upkeep of the hiking trails and other small gardening chores. Money Tom had needed and Frank hadn’t.
Until 2010, the decline was only visible in the log books. They’d been busy, but not as busy. Fewer family groups for summer vacation. Some couples and honeymooners. A rash of retreat groups and a conference. Then a serious dry spell.
Frank leaned back in the chair and let his gaze rest on the window overlooking the front porch. Was such decline endemic to the area, or to the family-resort industry in general? Was it really all about indoor water parks now?
He flipped open the laptop on the desk and looked up a map of the area, enlarging it to show the route he’d taken back from Stroudsburg the previous afternoon. The route he should have taken. There was another resort down on 447, wasn’t there? Right after the turn off. And another one on . . . Creek Road? He found the first and switched to the satellite view. Even with crappy resolution, it was clear the tennis courts were cracked and overgrown and that half the buildings were in a state of collapse. There was no website. The one on Creek Road looked about the same.
But there was a new casino just six miles farther along the highway and ski slopes dotted all around. Shawnee was still in business—of course, they had the river and a championship golf course. Two of the other golf courses he remembered were gone, though. One completely unrecognizable, the other turned into a nature preserve.
A story started to tickle his brain, one that matched the missing pieces inside of him. He’d come home only to find home wasn’t here anymore. It wasn’t just that his parents had moved away some twenty years ago, or even that he no longer knew which road went where. It was as though the place he’d left had rotted behind him.
And Tom was still here.
Frank did a quick search for Bossen Hill Family Resort. A link popped right up and he clicked it, holding his breath as the website loaded—and letting it out again as a photograph of the lodge unfolded across the screen. It was a gorgeous photo. The gray stone and sloping slate roof of the lodge were framed by trees with leaves of every color. Purple, red, and orange leaves also patterned the lawns, but more toward the edges, as though obligingly keeping off the grass. They formed another frame, Frank realized, and so did the angle of the driveway, which curved beneath before opening into the circle.
Looking at the picture, Frank could feel the warmth of the sun over the chill of a fall afternoon. He could smell the leaf mulch and cinnamon and the weird, bitter scent of mums. He could imagine the fire burning in the hearth of the guest lounge and the plates of cookies spread around on the tables. The big bowl of apples that always occupied a table in the foyer, inviting guests to help themselves as they headed out or returned.
His skin prickled as he thought about the planning that must have been involved in getting just this picture—from raking the leaves back from the lawn, lining up the pots of chrysanthemums along the porch and steps, to making sure the sun was at the right angle to light up the entire front of the building. Waiting for that exact minute when the trees still held most of their leaves.
Only Tom could have done this.
Frank wondered if anyone else understood the subtle brilliance of the composition. He also wondered why anyone landing on this page, with the photo and a discreet invitation to explore, wouldn’t immediately book a room.
Of course, the reality would be a shock.
Beneath the front page, the website was fairly basic and included a message indicating that the resort was currently closed for renovation.
Renovation?
Frank leaned away from the desk again and scanned the office. He had to admit that on a gray and rainy morning, the red walls did lend a cozy atmosphere to the space. And it wasn’t a garish red, more a warm rust. If sunlight were to poke through, the room would glow. He instantly recognized Tom’s photos hanging in the misaligned frames, and then found the picture he was looking for. A concept sketch. The lodge at the bottom, much as it stood today, but the lawn at the back was very different. No cottages. The stable and barn were there, the pencil lines rendering them in better repair than the wreckage at the bottom of the slope. The path leading from the patio to the barn had been widened and the lawn leveled. A proposed trellis between the lawn and the pool and gardens behind.
There were small circled numbers dotted around the plan, but no accompanying notes. Were these the plans Tom had mentioned yesterday afternoon? Where had they expected to get the money from? There might not be any debt—thank the Lord—but there wasn’t any money for repairs let alone renovation.
Frank glanced toward the ceiling. Where was Tom?
Crunching gravel grabbed his attention. Frank leaned back over the desk to peer out of the window and saw a silver Town Car pulling to stop at the top of the circle. Someone needing directions, no doubt, but even as he pushed to his feet, Frank found himself wondering if they could possibly offer accommodation.
No, of course not. Why would he think that?
The faint scent of mold still lingered in the lobby, effectively shutting off the part of his brain that had gone back fifteen years to when the resort had been alive. Grunting softly, Frank opened the door and waited for the figure emerging from the car to duck through the mist and up the steps. It was a woman, dressed in a sharp business suit, and she seemed as out of place on the porch of the resort as Frank felt standing in the doorway.
“Is this Bossen Hill?” she asked.
“Were you looking for Bossen Hill?”
She produced a business card. “Patricia Nolan. I’m with the Tinden Group.”
Frank took the card and studied it. He learned nothing more than what he already knew. The back side was blank. “Did you have an appointment?”
Surely she didn’t have an actual booking.
“No. I’m sorry. I was in the area visiting another property and heard Bossen Hill was for sale.”
“What?”
“This is Bossen Hill Family Resort? There’s nothing out front, but I followed the signs up from the road.”
“This is Bossen Hill, yes. But what makes you think the place is up for sale?”
One perfectly manicured eyebrow arched. “You’re obviously not in business, or renovating. Mr. Tern, is it?”
Frank took a step back. “Listen—”
“Who’s this?”
Tom stood in the foyer, looking as though he’d tunneled through insulation to get there. Also, he reeked of mold. Trying not to let his nose wrinkle, Frank held out the card. “Tinden Group? Ms. Nolan here seems to think the resort is for sale.”
Tom didn’t take the card. Instead, he pushed past Frank and stood directly in front of Patricia Nolan. “You’re trespassing. You have one minute to return to your car and leave the property before I call the police.”
She rocked back, but made no move to leave the porch. “As I understand it, you are not the owner on record, Mr. Benjamin, therefore I am not trespassing on your property. Regardless, I am simply following a lead.”
“Well, you can follow it right back to the highway.”
Ms. Nolan’s eyebrows peaked in the middle of her forehead. She turned to Frank. “Might I—”
“Now isn’t a good time.” Frank pocketed the card and gestured toward the Town Car. “Perhaps you might consider calling ahead and making an appointment.”
She looked from one to the other for a moment. Then, shaking her head, she backed off the porch and down the stairs. Once inside the car she didn’t leave, however. She made a phone call, glancing through the window as she spoke.
“Who do you think she’s talking to?” Frank asked.
“Might be Tinden Jr. He was out here last week, two months ago, a year ago, three years ago, and . . .” Tom’s forehead wrinkled. “Six years ago? Right after Hurricane Sandy.”
“That might explain how she knew who I was. She specifically asked if this was Bossen Hill, though, and she definitely knew who you were.”
“Yeah, that was freaky.” Tom was eyeing the Town Car with consternation. “Before Sandy we had a couple of visits from Tinden Sr. too.”
“And Robert didn’t want to sell?”
“Nope.”
“But why? You said he seemed happy to be retired.” Or as retired as he could manage while sitting on top of a dilapidated resort. “And according to the website, the resort is closed.”
“About that—”
“Let me guess. You didn’t want to give me all the bad news in one night.”
Tom shifted uncomfortably. “Something like that.”
“So why not sell?”
“Two reasons. One, he would never sell to Tinden. No way, no how. They’re not in the resort business, they’re in the housing business. They have a development across the creek, where the trailer park used to be. If they got planning permission for a bridge, the neighborhoods combined would extend between two major roads.”
But . . . “They’d have to cut away half the forest for that.” Frank glanced over his shoulder. The forest was mostly hidden by the bulk of the lodge, but he could picture it from the other side. The wide sweep of lawn surrounded by a deep, dark mystery of trees. He couldn’t imagine the forest just being gone. It would be like peeling all the pictures out of his childhood album.
“That, and Robert didn’t like the idea of his lodge being bulldozed, either.”
Frank focused on the dilapidated building again and sighed. “Much better to wait for the place to collapse around him.”
Snorting softly, Tom continued, “Second reason is . . .” He bit his lower lip.
“What?”
“He was waiting for you to come back.”
Nolan finally ended her call and left, the Town Car pulling quietly down the drive. Frank frowned in Tom’s direction. “What?”
“He always meant for you to have this place, and if he’d sold it, then you wouldn’t have it.”
“What did he think I was going to do with a rotten resort in the Poconos!”
“Didn’t you read the letter?”
“What letter?” The conversation was starting to make Frank dizzy. Also, the wind was blowing cold droplets of mist in through the front door. Frank stepped inside the house, beckoning Tom to follow. He shut the wet morning out. “What letter?”
“In the envelope on the desk.”
“Oh. I started with the records.”
“And?”
“Not that I doubted your account of things, but they pretty much backed up everything you said last night. What I’m really wondering right now, though, is why he didn’t sell.”
“It was his home, Frank. And he wanted it to be yours too.”
“Why me?”
Tom let out a sharp and exasperated sigh. “Read the letter.”
“You know what it says, don’t you?”
“He said you’d get tired of traveling, and when you did, you’d come home.”
“To this.” Frank extended his arms to indicate the gloomy foyer. “To a big old house that smells like mold, and a yard full of collapsed sheds.”
“A big old house with a hole in the roof.”
“What?” He was getting tired of that word.
“The smell. The roof’s been leaking. It’s not a disaster, but I’m pretty sure an estimate for the repair is going to include replacing most of the slate up there. And a good portion of the insulation. And the ceiling over room 209.”
“Can’t you do it? Fix the hole?”
“No, because it’s probably not just one hole, Frank. The roof is O-L-D old. I could push my fingers through one of the beams.”
“Shit.”
“Honestly, you might be better off selling, but not to Tinden. I know a house is just a house, but Tinden estates are soulless, Frank. If you really want to be done with this place, maybe we could find a local developer.” Tom looked depressed by the thought, but it was something Frank supposed he should consider.
He paced the length of the foyer, to the bottom of the staircase and back to the desk. As he passed the table where the apple bowl used to sit, he noted a ring in the polish. Not a bad one, simply a mark of something no longer in residence. For an instant, he felt like the apple bowl, missing and perhaps forgotten. Then he decided he was more like the ring—the faint reminder of what used to have been.
He glanced over at Tom. “What would you do?”
“Me?”
“If this place was yours, would you sell it?”
Tom’s answer was instant. “No.”
“But isn’t this why you’re still here? You wanted to travel the world, Tommy. Why didn’t you ever leave?”
Sadness crept over his face, the expression becoming eerily familiar, even after just two days. “I went away to college.”
“And came back, obviously.”
Tom shrugged, and Frank remembered that was what he did when he didn’t want to elaborate, answer, or finish a conversation. Yet Frank pressed. “Why are you still here?”
“Because this is where my life is. Not all of us . . .” Tom let out another sigh, this one longer and softer. “Not all of us are meant for something glamorous, Frank.”
“What is it you’re not telling me?”
Tom’s eyes darkened. “We’re not kids anymore. We’re not even friends. You don’t have the right to pry into my personal business.”
That hurt. Frank took a step back, caught his hip on the apple table, and put his hand down to steady himself. His palm fit perfectly inside the faint ring. He drew in a slow breath, letting the act of filling his lungs ease his thoughts—nudge them back from old pain. When he looked up, Tom was watching him, his own face a mask of tragedy.
“You’re right,” Frank said. “I forgot. We’re not friends.” Friends punched friends all the time. But they invited a return strike, or offered an apology. Tom had done neither. He’d simply broken Frank’s nose and never spoken to him again. “What I don’t understand is why? Why didn’t we ever talk about what happened?”
“Because it was a mistake.”
“You made that abundantly clear.”
“No, the punch. I . . .” Tom closed his eyes and swayed in place as though a tide of emotion passed through him. When he opened his eyes, they shone brightly. “It was my mistake. It was my fault. All of it.”
The same tide caught Frank, making the world swim around him. “You couldn’t have said this thirty years ago?”
Tom shook his head. “No.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you that.”