Makin' Whoopee (3 page)

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Traffic on 1-90, which ran alongside the wide Yellowstone River, was moderately heavy, but when they turned off it they left the cars and civilization behind. Almost immediately they started climbing. The trees around them grew taller—pine, spruce, and fir, all stretching their branches toward the mountains above, where nothing grew tall.

The forest became thicker and wilder. In the glow of the headlights, they saw places the sun rarely reached. Quiet, secret places. This was a different world from what they experienced daily. The city of Billings, Montana, became merely a state of mind as they left all reminders of the Great Plains behind.

Since she and Charlie were never at a loss for conversation, the drive along the narrow, winding mountain road went quickly. In what seemed like a very short time, they burst out of the woods and the headlights struck a sprawling, two-story building. It looked vaguely eerie against the dark mountainside behind it.

Sara rested her foot lightly on the brake, slowing the car to survey the lodge. The front section was an A frame, and behind it, extending to the east and west, were two wings.

"It looks . . . dead," she said, unaware that her voice had dropped to a whisper.

"Did you expect klieg lights?" Charlie asked, scoffingly. "The place has been closed for three years. Pull around to the back. Findlay said the front door is a little stubborn."

By the time she got her bag from the back seat, Charlie had opened the back door. Cautiously she stepped into musty blackness. "This is not a place I would pay to visit, Charlie," she said, her voice low, almost furtive.

The glare of a flashlight caught her in the face as she heard him chuckle. "Stay here for a minute and I'll turn on the electricity," he said, and handed her the flashlight.

Before she could protest, he was gone. She moved the lonely beam of light around the room, passing it over indeterminate objects and indeterminate shadows.

"If anything moves in this Charles Addams nightmare, I'm gone," she muttered.

Suddenly the room was illuminated. "That's better," Charlie said, coming up behind her.

She glanced around, taking in the now-visible cobwebs and dust that covered everything in the large room. "Not much." She walked a few feet into the room and ran a finger over a black surface. "It's a stove," she said in astonishment. "How old did you say this place is? My great-grandmother had a stove more modern than this."

"Findlay said it was built in 'fifty-seven," Charlie said over his shoulder as he investigated something that could have been a refrigerator.

"Are you sure he meant nineteen fifty-seven?"

"Where's your sense of adventure? This place is fantastic. Look at this. The sink is slate."

"Does water run into it?" she asked, rolling up her sleeves. "Or do we get it from a pump out back?"

"I turned the water on outside when I got the electricity." He grasped the thin handle of the old-fashioned, rust-encrusted faucet. "Hey, check this out," he said over his shoulder. "The water's orange."

"Do you have to sound so enthusiastic about it?" she grumbled. "If we want to eat tonight, we're going to have to use some of that wonderful orange water to clean this place."

"I'll go check out the bedrooms while you do that," he said, his smile guileless.

"Why did I know you would have a suggestion like that?" she murmured, watching him leave the room.

For the next hour she was elbow-deep in soapsuds. With each stroke she pretended it was Charlie's face she was scrubbing. Somehow he always managed to get her into situations like this.

Still, Sara gradually began to relax. She hadn't cleaned in ages. She had forgotten how soothing such a mindless chore was. There was something therapeutic about it, she thought, and smiled wryly. That was probably why they made people in institutions weave potholders and baskets.

By the time Charlie returned to the kitchen, a good portion of it was at least serviceable. The floor was still thick with dirt, but Sara drew the line at scrubbing floors. She had cleaned a part of the massive counter, the top of a small wooden table, the stove, and enough dishes to last them during their stay.

"One of these days ..." she said, glancing at him in warning. "I'm keeping track of all the times you've suckered me, and someday I'll get you."

"Poor baby. You're all worn out. Here, sit down." He pushed her into a chair and propped her feet up on another. "Dinner's on me."

"If you think I'm going to argue, you're crazy," she said, relaxing with a sigh. "I'll have French onion soup and a grilled-cheese sandwich."

He laughed. "On the double." From a hook above the stove he pulled one of the pots she had cleaned, and opened the canned soup. "You know, there's something about this place. I think I'm in love already."

"There's something about it, all right," she said dryly. "Like ten years of dirt and dust."

"Fixable, Sara Lovelight, fixable." He moved with surprising efficiency as he prepared their spartan meal. "Elbow grease is cheap. But I warn you, you're going to have to use your imagination when you look around the place."

"That doesn't sound promising. This part is pretty depressing. What does the rest of it look like?"

"Actually, it's not bad, except ..."

"Except?"

"How do you feel about Spanish decor?" he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder.

"You're kidding. In a Montana mountain lodge?"

His eyes sparkled with laughter. "Honest to God. Spanish. Scads and scads of dark wood and black wrought iron. If we wanted high camp we wouldn't have to touch a thing. I can't wait to show you."

She yawned. "Show me tomorrow, when my brain isn't so foggy."

"You'll love it. I guarantee it."

She stared at his back for a moment. "How many times have I heard you say that to a client?" When he merely chuckled, she added, "Now I know what it feels like to be a fish waiting to be reeled in."

Nothing she said could dampen his enthusiasm, and as they ate she listened to his plans for the lodge—if they decided to buy it. After their meal she washed the few dishes they had used, while Charlie checked out the central heat. He had been gone for fifteen minutes when she looked speculatively at the three kitchen doors, and pushed open the one that led to the front of the lodge.

She found herself in a large lounge with a cathedral ceiling that rose two stories. On three sides high windows were covered by drooping, dusty velvet drapes. Parts of the room were clothed in shadow, making the area look vast and empty. But the parts she could see were at least in better shape than the kitchen.

At the back of the lounge, staircases on either side climbed to a railed balcony. Five doors opened off the corridor, leading, she presumed, to rooms above the kitchen. At the far ends of the balcony she could see archways that must lead to the wings.

Moving closer to the fireplace, on one wall she saw a wooden bar, and beyond that a small dance floor. It was everything a lodge should be. Not too elaborate; not too primitive.

Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned. "Except for the furniture, this room isn't bad at all," she said.

Charlie suddenly grabbed her and bent her back, his blue eyes wide and dramatic. She was shocked by the sudden and unbidden need to pull him close. "We're alone," he whispered heavily. She couldn't pinpoint his accent, but it was something between a Hungarian gypsy and Charles Boyer. "Scream, if you like. There is nothing living to hear you." He laughed maniacally. "You are helpless, fair lady Love, totally in my power."

She gazed at him in unconcerned silence, then said calmly, "Do you see my knee, Charlie?"

He glanced down and nodded.

"Let me go or you'll never father a child."

He grinned, and lowered her to a massive ottoman. "Party pooper. It's not bad, is it?" he said, glancing around the room. He sat in a chair beside her, then waved his hand at the cloud of dust that rose around him. "I can't believe they thought this room called for Spanish furniture. And the walls . . . What color would you say they are?"

"Bile green?"

"Close," he agreed, chuckling. "These tall windows and the high ceiling will be spectacular when we rip down the velvet drapes."

"When?"

"Okay, if." Raking his gaze over her face, he said, "I'm glad you could come with me. You needed a weekend away from the business. You get too wrapped up in it."

"I thought we were down here on business."

"Sure. But we can look the place over at our leisure. No late nights or early mornings."

She ignored that, wondering if his statement was a shot in the dark, or if he really knew that she started work early and stayed late. She shouldn't be surprised at anything he said; Charlie was sharp.

"I like my work," she said, her voice only slightly defensive. "Not many people can say that."

"I agree completely. But you go at it tooth and nail, as if it's a twenty-four-hour fight for survival."

It was, she said silently. But she wasn't about to admit it to Charlie. He had a spark of genius when it came to business. He had burst upon success. She had gotten there by dogged plodding.

"It probably didn't occur to you that I'm having a good time," she said, resting her elbows on her knees. "When Charlie Sanderson has a good time—which is always—everyone knows about it. I simply have fun quietly—while I work."

"Ah, Sara," he said, his eyes regretful as he took her hand and stared down at it. "You've never in your whole life relaxed enough to really have fun. You're afraid to loosen the tight control you have on your emotions long enough to have a good time."

She yawned broadly. "You're not allowed to analyze me this weekend, Charlie. It's against the union rules—no psychiatric analysis in the presence of two or more inches of dirt. Besides, it wouldn't work with me lying down on Spanish furniture. The two things cancel each other out."

Chuckling softly, he leaned back. "Still running," he said. Before she could comment, he added, "With a little effort, this place could really be something."

She glanced around. "It has possibilities. I'm trying to picture it full of people, but right now all I can see is dust and cobwebs."

"I can see the people. Back behind the bar is our fatherly bartender, dispensing drinks and advice to the crowd. And over there is a trio playing soft jazz. Three couples are on the dance floor. They're still wearing ski suits, and one fellow has a broken foot."

"Which he got tripping over this ugly furniture."

"Which he got swooshing down the mountain," Charlie corrected her. "And in front of a blazing fire, sitting on our comfortable but elegant furniture, drinking our excellent booze, several people are talking and laughing."

" 'Hey cute cheeks, what's your sign?' " she suggested.

He tugged her hair in reprimand. "They're talking about deep, meaningful subjects."

She looked down her nose at an invisible guest. " 'Whom do you support on the question of nuclear winter? And if it is a genuine possibility, does that mean we could ski year round?' "

Charlie's eyes narrowed as he glared at her. "How would you like a fat lip? Those kind of people are not welcome at my lodge."

"No ski bunnies? No bronzed gods?"

"No," he said firmly. "Let them go to Vail."

"You mean we're not going to install saunas and hot tubs?" She shook her head. "How disappointing."

"You're trying to turn my lodge into a singles' club. I tell you, only the best people will come here."

"Okay, so what we'll do is have everyone fill out an application. If they measure up, we'll let them come here."

Standing, he reached down to pull her to her feet. "I think it's bedtime.You're beginning to make sense to me."

They walked companionably up one of the flights of stairs. "These are meeting rooms," he said, indicating the five doors that opened off the balcony.

They took the hall to the left wing, and she let him guide her to the bedroom he had chosen for her. Inside the medium-sized room, she glanced around.

Just as she had feared, he hadn't exaggerated. The Spanish influence was even stronger here, and it was simply awful. She suspected some of the carved furniture was actually plastic, and she had never liked wrought-iron wall sconces.

Charlie followed her gaze around the room. "I think the decorator now deals exclusively in bus stations," he said, picking up a garish pottery vase to blow the dust off it.

She laughed. "The bed looks relatively clean. I just hope there are no cheap Spanish bugs to match the cheap Spanish decor." He had piled covers and pillows on the end of the bed, and she saw her bag on a chair. "I'm about to find out. As tired as I am, I probably wouldn't feel anything smaller than a wolf biting me."

"If I see Lon Chaney I'll let him know," he said, stretching extravagantly. "Catch you in the morning, Sara too Lovely for words."

As soon as he had pulled the door closed behind him, she dug in her bag for a pair of red flannel pajamas and lay them across the chair. Weariness made her movements slow and awkward as she smoothed sheets and blankets on the bed.