“Diner?” He sighs.
“I suppose,” I sigh right back. At least the decaying space-themed corner joint has good bacon. But it’s not bacon I need. It’s whateversheputs in her blends.
Renaldo sneaked into the bakery for a couple days on my behalf until he was discovered and shooed away. Shooed and banned from entry. The woman claimed she’d call the sheriff on us. Unbelievable.
“Bet she’ll have something at the Maple Tap,” he tries.
I roll my eyes at him and say, “I wasn’t planning on going to whatever the hell that is.”
“I think they tap the trees for syrup.”
“What?”
“You know, maple syrup?” He raises his eyebrows at me because, yes, I am familiar with syrup. My sweet tooth is well known. I couldn’t choose a favorite between pancakes or waffles at gunpoint, since both serve as an excellent syrup delivery device. Renaldo never indulges when we get breakfast and instead stares at my plate with disgust. Then he busts me up mercilessly when I can hardly make it through our workout the following day.
He goes on, “It comes from trees.”
“Piss off, I know where it comes from.”
“Well, they stick the thing in the tree trunk when it gets warm enough at the end of winter and syrup comes out. I think.”
“And what, people stare as it drips out? This is supposed to be profitable how?”
He cuts the engine in front of the diner and says, “I imagine they sell the syrup.”
“Enough to cover the expenses of advertising and merchandising—turning a farming exercise into a tourist event?”
He rolls his eyes, “Maybe you should go and find out. And get a sample of coffee and get off my ass about it!”
“I’ll just get onto you about something else,” I huff back.
“Isn’t that the truth,” he grumbles as he scans the street. I didn’t plan on bringing full-time security to this small town butthere’s been national press coverage about the development project. Damn Rockfords.
Then there was the above-average level of vandalism. Juniper Falls has to serve as my home base for at least a few weeks, which I’ve learned from experience is enough time to be spotted, tracked, doxxed.
The price of being a Vanderwell.
“With so great a name comes such responsibility, boy.”
Lucky me.
I shake myself a bit as I enter the diner.
I am lucky, obviously. A right privileged bastard. Can afford anything I want or need anywhere in the world. Could screw off to St Barts and do absolutely nothing for the rest of my life. Granddad wouldn’t care. Dad probably wouldn’t even realize. Not sure mother would notice either. I could disappear into the void and never work again if I didn’t want to.
But I do want to.
And after this resort is complete and the best in its market, and the press catches wind, my father will remember I exist. Probably.
“Same as yesterday, please,” I say to Althea. She’s ecstatic aboutthe baker’spoor choices, since I’m feeding the whole construction crew each morning.
I look around the dilapidated space, then out the windows at the view. Sunlight breaking over the mountains, trees sparkling as the snow melts. It’s stunning out there. And then in here…
This, this is what I can help.
It can be better. It should be better. I want to make it better.
So I will.
