It’s not a lie.
It’s just not the whole truth.
She studies my face like she’s trying to peel it back and read whatever’s underneath. Sierra’s always been like that—seeing more than she should. Catching the small creaks beforethe break.
“That wall is part of the original ’54 addition,” she says. Business now. Clipped. “It’s part of the story that earned this place its designation. You can’t alter that without documentation. Without oversight.”
“You mean without you,” I say.
Her fingers tighten around the strap of her camera. “I agreed to help with this festival, but don’t forget my actual job, Everett. Preservation. Making sure you don’t modernize it into a generic lodge and lose your designation… and the grant that comes with it each year.”
My temper sparks. “I’m not trying to turn it into a generic anything. I’m trying to keep it open. The grant is a drop in the bucket compared to what we need. This place doesn’t survive on a certificate and a pat on the back.”
“And it doesn’t survive at all,” she fires back, “if you strip out everything that makes it what it is. You think people come up this mountain for stainless steel and Edison bulbs? They come because Grammie Bea sat in this window every night with her whiskey and her knitting and asked them about their kids. They come because they remember falling asleep on this seat while their parents drank cider by the fire. If you start erasing pieces of it then you’re just another lodge.”
God, she’s infuriating.
And absolutely right.
And that somehow makes it worse.
“Nothing about this repair erases anything,” I say, forcing my voice back down. “We open the wall, fixwhat’s broken, put it back together. You want photos? Take them. You want measurements? Knock yourself out. You want to declare the damn baseboard historically significant while you’re at it? Go wild. But the work is happening. I’m not rolling the dice on safety so you can sleep better hugging your guidelines binder at night.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You think this is about paperwork?”
“I think this is about you trying to control one more thing in a world you don’t control,” I say before I can stop myself.
Yup, that was too fucking far on too little sleep.
Her lips part. The hurt that flashes there is fast, but I see it. Of course I see it.
I spent a year learning every micro-expression on that face.
Then her chin lifts. The shutter slams down. “And I think this is about you bulldozing anything that makes you uncomfortable,” she says. “Wreck it or run from it. Am I right?”
The whole room feels smaller. Tighter. Like the air itself is wedged between us, bracing for impact.
John, the coward, reappears just long enough to mutter, “I’ll, uh, go see if the crew answered,” then vanishes again.
Sierra turns back to the snowman cabinet. She reaches out and touches one of the glass figures Grammie Bea loved so much—a little dude with a knit scarf and a crooked smile. Her fingers trace the edge ofthe shelf. Then the seam where the built-in meets the wall. Then the corner.
She mutters something under her breath. I can’t make out the words, but the tone is… breathless, full of relief.
“You developing a new religion over there?” I ask, because apparently I like getting stabbed.
She startles, then glares. “I’m figuring out how much of this I need to document before you let some contractor go wild with a Sawzall.”
“We’re not touching the cabinet,” I say. “Relax. I’m not about to be haunted by Grammie Bea and you at the same time.”
Her hand curls into a fist at her side.
“Barrett.”
She looks up.
I don’t know what she sees in my face—exhaustion, probably—but whatever it is, it halts her rant. Just for a second.
“I’m not the enemy,” I say quietly. “Not of this place.”
