If It Makes You Happy(108)
Newspaper ads work, sure. And there’s the internet—a new frontier for search advertising I’m steadily grasping as each day passes. But the biggest advantage was my tiny connection at a small northeast travel magazine. We somehow made the December issue. It was a short paragraph about cozy Vermont small towns, but sometimes, the smallest things have the biggest impact. The phone has been ringing steadily since.
It’s a good time for Bird & Breakfast. And I did it.
I expected maybe someone would call from my office to congratulate me. But they’re out west. I suppose the article wouldn’t have reached them. Or maybe they wouldn’t have called regardless. Weirdly, I find I don’t care.
People sift in and out of the bed-and-breakfast over the next few minutes. It’s a revolving door of Copper Run residents and inn guests. With the snow outside, people are walking instead of driving. Playing instead of working.
Lisa pops in while passing by, to say hello. I give her a to-go cup of coffee and a newspaper before she goes back out.
Sandra drops off a new bouquet of flowers for the foyer table. She said she noticed them wilting on the way to work. I reach in my pocket to pull out cash for her troubles, but she waves me off.
“On the house, Michelle.”
The guest in the bay window flicks through the local Copper Run newspaper. Listed on the front page are the winners of the Thanksgiving potluck, an announcement for the Snow and Sips Festival mid-month, and weather reports that read we should expect more snow for the following week—more for this idyllic snow globe.
I sort through the small stack of mail in the corner of the desk, but the addresses bleed together. They’re no longer addressed to Birdie; most are written to me. They’re Christmas cards from guests that I slide in the space beside Mom’s black binder and the reservation log.
I haven’t looked at the binder in weeks. I haven’t had to because this place runs like a well-oiled machine. And there’s one thing in particular I haven’t looked at.
Dear Sara.
At this point, do I want to know what Mom wrote? Does it matter? This place is alive—thriving—and I’ll politely pass it on to my sister, as planned. Mom’s wishes will be fulfilled. What else do I need to know from a letter that isn’t addressed to me?
The desk phone blares with a ring, ripping me out of my thoughts. I pick it up.
“Thanks for calling Bird & Breakfast. This is Michelle. How can I help you today?”
There’s a quiet pause, followed by a gasp. “Michelle?”
“Hi. Hello. This is she.”
“Hi.” The voice is breathless. “Wow, this is Cheryl. I’m from Topsy’s Travel Agency.”
My eyes widen, and my heart leaps into my throat. “Oh, hi, Cheryl. It’s so lovely to hear from you.”
Topsy. My best client. The client that—hopefully—Mark hasn’t completely upended. Their paperwork has been scattered over my counters and desk for months, but here they are, calling me.
“Hi,” Cheryl repeats on an almost-exhausted sigh. “Oh gosh, I’m so happy we found this number.”
“How are you?” I ask. “I hope Mark is treating you well.”
“Heh,” she says on an uncomfortable laugh. “Well …”
“That’s not something I love to hear,” I answer with an equally nervous laugh.
“That’s actually why I’m calling,” she says. “We are … not very satisfied with your company.”
“Oh?” My stomach drops—absolutely plummets to the inn’s carpet.
Shit. Shit. Damn it, Mark.
I knew this would happen. I left my best client to Mr. Thirteen Handicap, and he’s better at driving business into the ground than driving a ball across the course. Now I’m here to clean up his mess.
I quickly stumble out, “I’m happy to help clarify anything or—”
“Well, we were actually wondering if you’d like to work with us. We’re creating a position for an in-house advertising manager. If you’re interested.”
If my heart wasn’t already on the ground, it’d be burrowing beneath, swallowed up in molten lava. I can’t catch my breath.
They want me?
“Michelle?” she asks on a laugh.
“I’m sorry.” I blink, and a near giggle bubbles out of me. “But, Cheryl, are you attempting to steal me?”
She lets out the most delightful laugh.
“It’s fun when you put it like that,” she says.
“It sure is,” I agree. My fingers fidget with my earring. “I mean, wow. This is … well, of course I’d love to discuss this further. Please send any information you have over. I can give you the inn’s fax number.”
I tap my pen on the blank pad of paper, glancing out at the snow falling in thick, fluffy flakes. A guest walks down the stairs next to his wife. He opens the door for her, and they both wave their mittens in my direction. An easy smile slides onto my face as I wave back.
“That’s fantastic to hear, Michelle. Well, listen, we’ll send over what we have, and if it’s not too last minute, we’d actually like to fly you out right after Christmas for an interview. Formalities, you know.”
My stomach curls in on itself, tightening in a coil, like metal squeaking over metal.