“Developers have been looking at this place for a long time,” Don said, his feet kicked up onto his desk in a way I think he means to look casual but actually comes off as flippant. “There’s some sort of run-down family ski resort out there, and despite the fact that their numbers are just going down and down, they won’t sell. Investors are thinking, ‘If we can get the neighboring patch of land, put a resort there, the little one will fold.’ Then you swallow it in and you’re looking at one of the largest, most premier ski resorts in the Rockies.”
“And this guy is being neglectful?” I’d asked because talking about making the small resort fold was starting to make me queasy. It’s all just business at the end of the day—Don always says—but I haven’t gotten to the point where it doesn’t make me sick, being a part of this thing.
So, I’d focused on the part that felt right; if the owner was supposed to keep the roads safe, and wasn’t, wouldn’t it be betterfor the land to go to someone who would? Even if those hands were private equity?
“Right,” Don had said, nodding and waving his hand as if swatting at a fly. As though my question was an annoying little nuisance in front of his face.
Then I was grabbing a drink on the way out of the city, turning on a podcast, and following my GPS out of Denver, through a myriad of little towns, and up into the mountains. I passed through Granite Peaks near sunset, and I’d be lying if I said the sight of that place—washed in golden light, all cute storefronts and quaint little cottages—didn’t make me feel a little homesick for a town that I’d never called my own.
Now, as I pull into the cabin’s driveway and park behind an old classic Chevy truck, I realize I’ve been gripping the steering wheel tight enough to create little white lines over my knuckles.
I force myself to relax, let go of the steering wheel, and roll my shoulders and neck a few times.
Don has sent me to make offers for properties plenty of times in the past. I think it has something to do with the fact that I’m a pretty, young woman. He thinks people might be more likely to say yes to me.
I have no idea whether or not that’s true. I’ve seen my fair share of responses—some people shocked someone would give them money for what they have; some people angry, sad, or reluctantly taking the offer when I explain the situation they’re in.
And now, as I climb out of the car and carefully step down onto the salted gravel driveway, I wonder what kind of personthisis going to be.
As I make my way up to the cabin, which glows like a candle in the middle of a snowstorm, I notice the way the windows are lit up with golden light and how the building radiates coziness amidst the blowing wind and snow coming down in fat, wet flurries.
When I stop on the porch, taking a deep breath and preparing myself for this, I realize something; it’simpossiblyquiet up here. No whizzing traffic, beeping from phones, or distant voices. No police sirens—nothing but the soft, padded sound of the snow piling up.
It does something strange to me. The same feeling I sometimes manage to achieve when I take meditation classes at my gym.
I raise my fist, knocking quickly before I can waste more time reveling in the weird tranquility on this mountain. Because if I think aboutthattoo hard, I’ll remind myself that I’m up on the mountain, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by snow with not another living soul around.
That is, aside from the man who swings open the door, looks me up and down, and asks, his face stony, “What?”
It’s not verywarm and cozy. Nothing like what the cabin would communicate. Based on the simple patterned curtains I can see through the windows and the two rocking chairs on the front porch, I half-expected a little grandma to open the door to me.
But it isnota little old grandma.
The man standing in front of me is tall—at least a full foot taller than me, and I’m not short by any means—and staring down at me, one of his arms braced on the doorway casually, like we’re in high school and he’s about to ask me to the prom.
He smells like Irish Spring and aftershave, and I realize, my eyes darting to his slightly damp, deep-brown hair, that he’s just gotten out of the shower.
My mind isn’t in the right place tonight, because it instantly starts to conjure up an image of that for me, and I have to shut it down,hard. Sure, he’s handsome, and sure, he looks like he could pick me up and carry me without breaking a sweat, but I’m not here to ogle the local lumberjacks. I’m here to do my job.
“Good evening,” I say, putting on my professional voice, matching the tone to the outfit he’s just clearly taken in—my nice slacks, my blouse, and my leather shoes that are quickly getting ruined by the snow and ice and salt.
But it doesn’t matter. After I get this promotion, I’ll be able to buy a dozen more pairs of shoes. And after the promotion, I’ll never have to go tromping into the backwoods again, never have to be the face of these offers.
Instead, I’ll be the one managing a team, making offers, running cost-analysis processes. I’ll write up the documents and review our legal approach. I won’t be freezing my ass off, wishing my peacoat did more to keep me warm, that the brisk wind didn’t shoot straight through the fibers and into my core.
When he doesn’t offer me a greeting in response, I clear my throat and plow ahead. “I’m a representative from McKay Capital Management, and I’m here to talk to you about our interest in your property. Are you—” I glance down at the tablet in my hand, then back up at him. “Evan Thatcher?”
“Sure,” he says, his face going hard, “but I’m not interested.”
And just like that, he closes the door in my face. No preamble, nofuck you, no angry rant about how I’m a heartless, soullessbitch. Just the door in my face and him going right back to his life, leaving me firmly on the outside of it.
Clearly, my being a pretty, young woman didn’t affect things at all tonight.
I blink at the door, notice the interesting carvings in it, then force myself to look away and turn back to my car.
It doesn’t matter. Don and I knew this would be a possibility. The real reason I’m up here is to find the blockage in the road, document it, and return to Denver, so we can start working up a case.
And sure enough, when I go walking along the road, my phone flashlight on, the snow flurrying around me and basically freezing me to the bone, I find it—a tree, fallen over the road, completely blocking anyone from getting through. It’s eerie when I shine my phone’s flashlight at it, the tree pale and reflective. When I take a step forward to get a closer look, I hit a patch of ice.
