2
Jack
My bed at the Wild Eagle Lodge is more comfortable than my bed at home, and it annoys me. The food is better too, though that’s hardly surprising since I’m not much of a cook. Still, the fluffy waffles and perfectly crisp bacon taunt me as I load up my plate.
“Okay, everyone!”
I nearly drop my meal as Harper, the lodge’s general manager, strides into the staff kitchen. She’s blonde and perfectly pressed, from her collared shirt to her brown deck boots that don’t have a single scuff on them. “Today is the day. Our guest will be here at three this afternoon, and I want everyone on the dock to greet him.”
“And you still won’t tell us who it is?” Marci, who works at the front desk, asks.
“Now,” Harper says, like Marci was only joking, “we’ve talked about this. You are to call our guest ‘Mr. Morgan.’ Nothing else. He is paying for our discretion and—”
I tune her out and stuff a chunk of waffle into my mouth. She’s given us this speech at least three times since announcing yesterday we would be moving up the lodge’s opening to accommodate a request from a very important VIP guest who wanted the place to himself. That’s how she always says it too. “A very important VIP.” Like he’s so important we need to be reminded twice. She also likes to remind us that we signed nondisclosure agreements when we applied to work here. She never says what will happen if we violate the terms of the NDA, though I’m pretty sure it involves giving up at least one kidney and any future offspring.
“So let’s put on our best Wild Eagle faces and make sure he feels welcome!” Harper finishes, and a cheer goes up around the room.
I hate working here, and it hasn’t even been a month. I should have known it was a mistake when they told me I had to come up before the lodge opened for training. I’ve been fishing my entire life. What could they possibly teach me that I don’t already know? And sure, the first aid and CPR training were nice refreshers, but the seminars on something called the “Wild Eagle Way” were unbelievably boring and the title still feels suspiciously like cultural appropriation. Actually, this whole place does, designed and built as it was by a firm from New York City who think they know what the “real” Alaska is supposed to be. Hardly any of the people I’ve met on staff so far are even from here. Apparently, this kind of resort attracts people who move from one seasonal property to the next. Marci’s done whale watching cruises in Mexico and worked at some kind of adult summer camp in the Catskills. I’ve heard other people talking about dogsledding in Wisconsin, or spending the off-season snowboarding in New Zealand. They’re like eco-tourism robots. Why they need to invade my corner of the world when I’ve never crashed their party is beyond me.
I head back to my room, mostly to avoid any more pep talks or team building. I have to be on the dock at three. The rest of the day is mine.
I start by calling Stef. The lodge has spotty cell service. They advertise it as a perk, a chance to get away from the outside world, but they also know that being completely cut off would be a fate worse than death for many of their very important VIPs, so the entire building is equipped with flawless satellite internet.
I hadn’t expected that to matter to me too much, but it means I can video call Stef and Robbie without the usual crackle and lag.
My sister’s smiling face greets me when the call connects.
“Hi!” Her grin makes my chest ache. I haven’t seen it enough since she came home.
“Hi there. Hi, Robbie.” My ten-year-old nephew is standing just behind Stef, eyes focused on something beyond the webcam, before he wanders out of view. He doesn’t reply to my greeting, but that’s typical Robbie. I’m glad to see them.
“How’s it going?” Stef asks.
I nod. “Yeah, fine.”
“Got your first guest yet?”
“Today, yeah.” I carefully step around any details that might tip her off as to who our VI-VIP might be, even though I have none. “Any word from Graham?”
Her smile slips like I knew it would. I hate to upset her, but I need a reminder about why I signed up for Harper’s hype squad.
“He’s still in Guatemala.”
My jaw tightens. “They don’t have phones in Guatemala? Fax machines? Mail?”
“Jack.” Stef sighs.
“No. Isn’t this the point? That he’s never around? That his career is more important than his family?”
“It’s not that simple. He’s still Robbie’s father. I can’t push too hard. I’m not...” Now she looks miserable.
“Sorry. I know. I know. I’m just...” I echo her sigh. We’ve been trying to get Stef’s almost ex-husband to sign the divorce papers for more than six months, but he works with a charity medical group that sends him all over the world. In fact, he spends more time abroad than at home with Stef and Robbie, and eventually Stef realized that wasn’t really much of a marriage. Without the divorce finalized though, she’s still his wife and technically has access to his money, even though—despite his outwardly benevolent lifestyle—Graham isn’t the kind to share. And that leaves Stef with bills to pay with money she doesn’t have.
Which is why I’m here, itching in a designer polo shirt. I am so not a polo shirt kind of guy.
“Hey, I was thinking,” Stef says, drawing me out of my head.
“Yeah?”
