Page 4 of Please Send Snow
I’m already sitting down when I notice a mousy-looking woman standing at the counter right next to my chair, shucking corn, and I almost jump out of my shoes. How did I not notice an entire person?
“Hi,” I say, recovering myself. “Is Shirlene still working here?”
The woman’s eyes get a little bigger, but she simply shakes her head and keeps working.
“Died,” Bronson says flatly. “On the job.”
My heart aches at the idea of Shirlene passing, but I know she loved this place like I do. Maybe it’s good that she was here until the end.
“I’m going to do the same, if things keep up like this,” Bronson adds.
I look around, but they definitely don’t seem to be busy in here, so I can only assume he’s talking about my sandwich. I’ve never seen someone slice bread in anger before.
“We can’t have this kind of thing going on,” he says to himself, gesturing vaguely in my direction. “Vagrants wandering around the place, demanding food. It’s undignified and unacceptable. The new owner is coming in. How would this look?”
“New owner?” I echo, and immediately regret it. If my corn-shucking companion is any indication, Bronson likes a quiet kitchen.
“A tech billionaire from the west coast,” he saysalmost dreamily. He’s surprisingly happy to talk about this new subject. “He will expect nothing less than perfection. A well-organized hotel with a clean kitchen that can produce a hearty meal worthy of the best mountain lodge. And if he finds what he’s looking for, I expect we’ll finally have some upgrades around here. We could make Angel Mountain the new Tahoe.”
He narrows his eyes as he surveys his kitchen, seemingly dissatisfied with everything in it, including me.
I picture corn-shucker and myself being miraculously upgraded by the new owner—both of us suddenly taller, better-dressed, and more capable, like something out of a cartoon with a fairy godmother. I must be really tired, because it strikes me as funny and a giggle bursts from my lips before I can stop it.
“You find this amusing?” Bronson demands, his chef’s hat practically shaking with indignation.
Maybe a little.
“No,” I tell him. “Of course not. I was just thinking about a joke my cab driver made.”
“So she has money for a cab, but not for a meal,” Bronson sniffs to his invisible audience.
I know I should be offended, but when he walks over to me with the sandwich on a plate I can only be deliriously happy. It’s turkey and provolone with tomatoes and delicate bean sprouts on thick slices of homemade multi-grain bread. And it tastes like heaven.
While I scarf it down, he pours me a glass of milk and sets it on the counter beside me along with a napkin. He takes a step back and looks a little alarmed, like maybe I’ll eat him too if he gets too close. I have anothercartoonish thought about a cat and a canary, but I keep my giggling in check this time.
I force myself to slow down a little, and I’ve still got half of my beloved sandwich left when Michael comes back in.
“Miss Foster, I have an accommodation for you,” he tells me with a warm smile. “It’s not much, I’m afraid.”
“No,” Bronson says. “Absolutely not, Michael. This is ridiculous. We’re not running some kind of shelter here.”
“Miss Foster and her family have been honored guests for years,” Michael says, straightening up. “We don’t leave our friends out in the cold.”
“Friends?”Bronson thunders.“Friends?Friends don’t ask for handouts.”
“She’s looking for work,” Michael tells him softly.
“Well, we don’t have any work for her,” Bronson says firmly.
“Then she’ll look elsewhere in the morning,” Michael tells him, gesturing for me to come with him.
I grab the napkin and wrap the rest of my sandwich in it, shoving it in my coat pocket as I scurry after Michael.
“One night,” Bronson thunders. “She absolutely cannot be here when the owner comes tomorrow night.”
“That’s fine,” I say right away, not wanting to get Michael into an argument. “Thank you for the sandwich. It was the best I’ve ever eaten. The sprouts really put it over the top.”
“Oh, now she’s a food critic too,” Bronson says to himself. But he can’t hide the little smile that’s tugging up the corners of his mouth.
