By the time they're done, the mountain is littered with “historical” gems.
“This beam was hand-selected for its... girth” and “Feel free to test the sturdiness of our equipment.”
The Morgan family crest has been “reinterpreted” with a plaque that just says: “You know what it looks like.”
I do know what it looks like.
I've never noticed before.
I will never un-notice.
“This is humiliating,” I say.
“This is marketing.” Caleb pockets his phone. “The bar's packed. The restaurant has a waitlist. We've had six people book rooms for next weekend just in the last hour.”
I want to argue.
I want to point out that this is NOT what my ancestors built.
This isn't the legacy my family poured their hearts into for a hundred years.
But he's not wrong.
People are here. They're laughing. They're staying.
They're spending money.
And just yesterday, we had seven people on the heritage walk. One of whom was asleep.
“Fine,” I grind out. “But if my father sees these plaques?—”
“Already handled. Nolan's running interference. Your dad thinks this is a 'historical walking tour with enhanced atmospheric elements.'”
“What the hell are enhanced atmospheric elements?”
“Torches,” Caleb clarifies. “And Jake.”
“Who the hell is Jake?”
Caleb points down the torchlit path, where a man built like a Greek statue is leading a group of very attentive women toward the next plaque. He's wearing jeans, work boots, and suspenders.
Just suspenders.
No shirt.
In December.
“Jake's from Roman's crew,” Caleb explains. “He agreed to do the shirtless lumberjack guide thing for an extra hundred bucks and unlimited hot chocolate.”
“It's thirty-two degrees.”
“He's got excellent circulation. Also, abs. Have you seen his abs? Because everyone else has seen his abs. There's a whole Instagram story series dedicated to Jake's abs.”
I watch as Jake stops at a plaque, reads it aloud in avoice that carries through the trees, and the crowd of women bursts into delighted shrieks.
“'According to lodge legend,'” Jake reads, flexing unnecessarily as he gestures to the sign, “'this very spot was the site of three marriage proposals, two elopements, and one particularly memorable game of strip poker during the blizzard of 1962.'”
More shrieks. Cameras flash. Someone yells “MARRY ME, JAKE.”
