I shake my head. “No, thank you. It’s not that heavy.”
I follow her upstairs. The steps creak a little under our weight.
We reach the room at the very end of the wall. “This one has the best view,” she explains, unlocking the door with a key, then walks inside, me trailing behind.
“So this is your room—and the bathroom is over there.” She gestures. Everything is clean and neat with a bit of personality. The sheets aren’t your standard international hotel chain white. They’re pale cream with blue stripes that I find charming and homey.
Bea’s right to mention the view—the lake glitters like a thousand diamonds under the morning sun. The tall pines around the water give the air the crispness I noticed earlier.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.
“Yep. Once you get used to it, you never want to leave.” She turns to me. “Are you hungry? I’m about to make some French toast for breakfast.”
“Sure. I’d love that.” Eating something before saying anything would probably be the best course of action. Getting the recipe from her is a long shot in any case. So far, it sounds like she hasn’t really left the state, except to maybe attend her sister’s funeral. She might not have been that close to Max’s mom.
I place my suitcase by the closet and follow Bea back downstairs. “How old is this place?”
“There’s been a building here since before the Revolutionary War, from what I hear. The story is that this place housed the revolutionaries when they needed a place to rest and regroup.”
“Very cool. You don’t normally see this sort of history in California.”
“That where you’re from?”
“Born and raised.” I smile.
Her eyes sweep over me, from my bespoke silk dress shirt and trousers to my polished shoes. “What brings you all the way up here?”
“To meet a relative of sorts.”
“You aren’t staying with them?” she says, her eyebrows raised.
“I don’t think she knows I exist.”
“Huh.” She doesn’t say more.
I sit at one of the tables and check my phone. Nothing from Max since yesterday.
–Me: Arrived safely. Hope you have a great day. Miss you already.
Max doesn’t respond, but it’s early in L.A. I check my emails, but there’s nothing urgent.
Piping-hot French toast with a generous drizzle of maple syrup and fresh berries appears in front of me, along with coffee.
“That’s my secret recipe. Nobody here makes it better than me,” Bea says with a grin.
“Looking forward to it.” I gesture at the empty seat opposite me. “Please. Join me.”
She nods and takes the seat with her own plate.
I bite into the French toast and groan at the explosion of flavor. “Holycow.” The bread is shockingly soft and sweet, with a good balance of sugar and cinnamon. She didn’t cut the crust. But it’s so crisp, the way it breaks in your mouth creates an amazing textural contrast.
“This is amazing. The best I’ve ever had.” Silas would weep with envy.
“Told ya.” She beams proudly, then starts eating, washing each bite down with a sip of coffee.
I polish it off, realizing that I’m hungrier than I thought. I wait until she’s done too before broaching the purpose of my visit. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
