Page 7 of The Grumpy Side of Paradise

“Evie, it’s Zach.”

We’ve texted but never spoken in person. He’s meeting me at Grandma Rose’s, and I’m instantly relieved to know that I’m not completely alone up here.

“Hey Zach. I’m about ten minutes away according to GPS. Looking forward to meeting you in person.”

“Yeah, about that,” he says slowly. “Something came up, so I’ve got to put off meeting up with you, but my brother is at the house. He can take you through the house and answer any questions—probably better than I could since he’s doing the demo. Can we plan on lunch in the next couple of days?”

“Of course. Text me when you’re available.”

I end the call, and a tickle of disappointment hits me in the gut. Zach is the only person in town I know, so I was looking forward to connecting in real life. Not just because Georgia described him as a slightly smaller, pre-haircut, pre-eye patch Thor, but also because I’ll settle in faster if I’ve got friends.

Georgia promised it won’t take me long to make friends with everyone in town. She’s probably right—small towns are usually good for getting to know people. Plus, I’m good at making friends. So, if everything she’s told me about this town being the manifestation of the Danish idea of hygge is true, I’m not worried. As I drive down the winding road into the valley, I get a sense of warmth and coziness—hygge perfection.

The houses that dot the mountain have a very Scandinavian feel with high, pitched roofs and minimalist designs. Many of them are painted black or very dark colors which absorb light, probably to keep the house insulated during long winters. I like the way they blend into their natural surroundings rather than competing with them.

I’ve seen the idea of hygge popping up in advertisements for everything from clothes, furniture, and home accessories. But I’ve neverfelthygge until this moment. This little town on a lake surrounded by mountains is like the word sounds: a warm hug, if hug had a long u sound and agahat the end. Which, honestly, I feel like that would make hug a better word.

The thing that hits me is that Paradise is an accidental trendsetter. And I love that for this little hygge town.

But the closer I get to the lake, the bigger and more ostentatious the houses get. Less hygge. More McMansion. They’re obviously vacation homes. Despite the beautiful, unseasonably warm, fall day, no one is outside in this part of Paradise. Loneliness emanates from the dark-windowed houses. Georgia told me while some people visit year-round, the vast majority of visitors come between Memorial Day and Labor Day, returning the resort to a small town as soon as the season ends.

I have a hard time picturing such a small town being big enough for Georgia Rose Beck, but when she talks about Paradise, her face always lights up even brighter than its usual glow.

At the bottom of the mountain, I turn left onto the main street that parallels the Smuk — Huckleberry Avenue. Restaurants line the street, and I’m surprised by the variety for such a small town. Mexican, Chinese, even Indian. And, of course, Danish. My stomach growls. It’s five p.m. New York time, but only three p.m. here.

I’m out of luck if I want to eat anything besides gas station food, though. Most of the businesses along Huckleberry are closed. Georgia warned me about this too. During the off-season, local businesses are open when they have enough help or when they want to be. Hopefully, they’ll want to be open when it’s dinnertime.

I follow Huckleberry Avenue a couple of miles until I see a worn wooden sign with faded Scandinavian designs. “Little Copenhagen Resort” is written in a folksy font that would be perfect for aFrozenad. No one is around as I turn into the dirt road I assume must be the driveway, and some cottages look like they haven’t been occupied for years.

The cottages look like they all have the same layout and design. Single story, long rectangles, Danish provincial style. The roofs are steeped with orange or black tile and the exterior colors are faded versions of red, mustard yellow, black, or light gray with white trim. No fences divide the dead grass that connects one house to the other. There’s not an AC unit in sight. People used to sit on their porches to cool off rather than inside in front of the TV. That’s when they’d talk to their neighbors too.

It’s obvious to me that the Little Copenhagen has been neglected for a long time. It makes me a little sad because I can also tell that there was a time when it was amazing

At the far end of the drive, there’s a line of stores behind a façade replicating the colorful eighteenth-century townhomes in the real Copenhagen’s Nyhavn Harbour. Only one is open, Breakfast at Britta’s, which Georgia told me I have to try. Behind part of the façade, there’s a community center that Georgia says has a large swimming pool and a couple of bowling lanes, plus volleyball and tennis courts in the back.

It’s all closed now. Most permanently, though Georgia told me Breakfast at Britta’s still opens in the mornings. The resort closed for good at the end of the summer season. I can see why—the homes really are outdated and small compared to the ones I passed on the way here. But none of the McMansions have the sense of community that this resort has. The giant houses have their own tennis courts, pools, and all the toys anyone could need, but they don’t have anyone to share them with. Their part-time neighbors have the same playthings. I wonder if they even know their neighbors.

Even closed, Little Copenhagen feels like the kind of place that brought people together. A place where even part-time residents knew their neighbors. A place that created what so many people are looking for: community and a sense of belonging.

Grandma Rose’s house—I’ve taken to calling it what Georgia says the whole town does, including her—is easy enough to find. I hear the noise from the demo going on before I see it, and I park the truck in the gravel driveway behind a giant dumpster. Red splintered wood sticks from the top of the dumpster. The paint is peeling, but the color is still vibrant and sunny, juxtaposed against the rest of the rubble.

I climb out of the truck to see if the wood might be saved. Just as I’m reaching into the dumpster, planks of wood fly into it from the other side, sending an explosion of dust and scraps of siding into the air. I scream and cover my head before getting pelted by debris.

A giant of a man wearing a hard hat comes around the corner looking madder than a tornado. “What the hell are you doing here? Trying to get yourself killed?”

His words hit me with more force than the rubble did. The only thing I can think to do is the thing I always do when things get ugly. I smile.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get in the way. I’m Evelyn.” I stick out my hand with my introduction-apology, even though he’s the one who should be doing both. “You must be Zach’s brother. Did he tell you I was coming?” Georgia wasn’t joking when she said her friends look like Hemsworths.

This one is definitely Chris. Zach must be Liam. Or maybe the other Hemsworth brother whose name no one remembers but is still cute.

Doppelgänger Chris Hemsworth’s eyes narrow to a dangerous degree. “No.” He picks up a cement block that didn’t make the trash, and with one sweep, tosses it into the dumpster. His muscles ripple under his t-shirt with the effort, and I forget about the yelling and glaring. I forget everything except the word Thor.

I come to my senses when he heads back toward the house, and I run to catch up with him. “He said you’d show me around the house.”

He stops, slowly turns around, and glares harder. That or he’s trying to shoot lightning out of his eyes.

“Here you go.” With a game show host sweep of his arm, he steps aside so I can see Grandma Rose’s pride and joy.

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