“I’ll get Jack to fire up the grill on account of me not having a set of testes,” she says.
“On account of you nearly burning the lodge down last year …” I remind her.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You start one little fire … Jack does the grilling, I prep the salad and pop the baked potatoes in the oven, and if you’re still not here by the time the garlic bread is supposed to go on the grill, I’ll put it in the oven with the potatoes, so Grandpa can’t drunkenly char the bread.”
“It happened one time!” Grandpa Jack yells from behind the bar.
“See you two later.” I push open the screen door and walk out into the sunshine. I take a long, deep breath, then send Moose back into the lodge to hang out with Evie where he’ll pout the entire time I’m gone.
I’m a little more stressed than usual. It’s the Bakers' last night at the lodge, and Mrs. Baker has been wandering around scrawling things onto a notepad, while hinting she’s going to be writing up reviews on Yelp, Trip Advisor, and on her ladies’ golf club’s Facebook page. If you ask me, this is the problem with the world today. Whatever happened to people just experiencing life for themselves instead of reading about other people’s opinions to make their decisions for them?
When I was growing up, we did our best to make our guests happy because it was the right thing to do. They worked hard to pay for their trip and our job was to make it the best vacation we could.
People understood that coming up here meant leaving the comforts of home behind. Rustic means just that. There was no such thing as “glamping,” no expectation that no matter how far out in the wild you were, you were owed a strong Wi-Fi connection. But every year it seems like our guests show up a little more pampered and a lot less ready to experience Alaska the way it is. This makes my job a heck of a lot more demanding. We now cater to the whims of a bunch of whiners, while living in fear of the dreaded bad review.
A few minutes later, I’ve fired up the engine on the Cessna. I take off trying to remind myself to enjoy the day. At least I’ll have a couple of hours in the sky to myself. The pure pleasure of flying hasn’t changed one bit since I was a kid.
Glancing back at the lodge from above the lake, I spot Mrs. Baker out on a lounge chair sunning herself. I hope like hell I can get back in time to cook dinner. As great of a baker as Grandpa Jack is, he’s not exactly a Michelin-star chef when it comes to the barbecue. Looking down at the clock, I realize I should have plenty of time. After all, when I last checked the arrivals, the flight had made up time in the air. If anything, I’ll be getting back early.
Chapter7
Harper
Dear Readers,
While I eagerly await some news, I’ve been poring over old photographs of Harper Kennedy. Harper at the Oscars, Harper at the Emmys, Harper at movie premieres … The woman never disappoints in her selection of wardrobe and accoutrements.
But it’s got me thinking …
When you become such a paragon of beauty and taste, it’s kind of hard to see you as human. Maybe Brett had to go spelunking in nastier caves to feel like the hero.
I know, gross metaphor, but apropos, no?
Brett if you’re reading this, it’s time to pack up your junk and return to the light. Harper is not going to give you many more chances.
Dish,
Ferris Biltmore
* * *
We’re almost an hour behind schedule when we pull up at the dock. The kids had a fantastic time, but I hate being late. It reeks of disrespect and entitlement. I’d be a nervous wreck, but Gib has assured me several times that our pilot won’t mind—once again citing the laid-back Alaskan way.
“You’re going to get the same warm welcome everyone gets here in the land of the midnight sun.” He sounds very sure of himself.
“I thought it was the final frontier,” I tease.
“Last frontier,” he corrects me. “And don’t worry, Alaskans are known for their hospitality.”
When we finally get to the dock, I see a small plane bobbing on the water.
“That’s your lift to Gamble,” he tells us, before getting out to unload our suitcases. He leaves them on the cement sidewalk. I quickly slide out of the backseat and tell the kids to grab their backpacks so we can get going. They’re both clutching their tiny vials of gold like they house magic.
As I hand Gib his tip, I see an extraordinarily tall, well-built guy hop down from the plane. His hair is as dark as his scowl. His aviators are hiding his eyes, but I can tell by the way his jaw just tightened that he’s not too happy. He slams the door shut before lifting his sign that says “Marge Simpson” on it.
Urgh. It’s because we’re late. Why didn’t I just say no to the gold panning? I’m sure we could have found another place to do it. The way he’s striding up the ramp is not at all what I’d call friendly.
Whatever. I’m not going to let some grumpy pilot ruin the first day of our freedom. We’ll be rid of him in about two hours anyway. I can certainly put up with a surly man for that long—look how long I lasted with Brett.