I don't know what any of it means.
I don't know where we go from here.
All I know is that something shifted tonight. A wall cracked. Some door opened that I'd spent eleven years trying to keep closed.
And I have no idea if that's a good thing or a disaster waiting to happen.
Probably both.
With us, it's always both.
Chapter Twelve
Sierra
Ah,my comfort zone.
Index cards with talking points.
A laminated map of the original property lines.
Photographs from every decade of the lodge's existence, carefully curated to tell the story of five generations of Morgans tattooing their legacy into this town.
I even wore my good boots. The ones that say 'I'm a serious professional' while also saying 'I could hike you into the ground if necessary.'
I even put off tackling the darkroom to be ready for this.
Not for any other reason.
No other reason at all.
Three full days of preparation, but still, I suck in a cleansing breath and scan my notes one last time before stepping onto the lodge's front porch to greet my tour group.
Seven people.
Seven.
I blink, certain I must be miscounting. But no. There are exactly seven humans standing in the crisp morning air, waiting for the Morgan Lodge Heritage Walk.
Five of them are over seventy. I can tell because two are wearing those puffy vests that seem to come standard-issue with AARP membership, and one has a walking stick that I’d bet predates the lodge itself.
The sixth is a college-aged girl glued to her phone, clearly dragged here by the elderly couple flanking her like disappointed sentinels.
Grandparents, probably.
She's already checked out, thumb scrolling at a speed that suggests she's documenting her suffering for social media.
The seventh is a middle-aged woman with a press badge and the glazed expression of someone who drew the short straw at her publication.
That's it. That's my crowd.
Behind them, Tara's camera crew sets up with the enthusiasm of people who can already tell this is going to be a disaster.
It's fine. Quality over quantity. These seven people are going to have their minds blown by the rich architectural history of?—
One of the elderly men is asleep. Standing up. His wife elbows him, and he startles awake with a snort that echoes across the mountain.
Okay. Six conscious people. We can work with six.
