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“I thought you guys could use a little warm hydration,” she says as she hands one to each of us.
I take the mug, close my eyes, and inhale.
Warm apple cider.
“My favorite,” I declare.
“I know,” she replies.
“The woman is crafty. She knows how to get men to do her bidding,” Keller says.
Willa feigns offense. “Are you accusing me of bribery, Mr. Harris? I’m just being hospitable.”
“Uh-huh,” he mutters.
“Actually, Alice sent me out to check on your progress. Dinner is almost ready.”
“We’ve finished the back and side windows. They’re all freshly cleaned, and they have the new wreaths secured. All that’s left is the front and hanging these last few strands of lights on the covered porch. Shouldn’t take longer than another hour,” Keller guesses.
“Perfect timing. You guys can eat when the guests do.”
She stands up on her tiptoes and places a kiss on Keller’s lips before turning to walk back inside the inn.
“What? No kiss for me? I’m the one doing most of the work over here,” I call after her.
She stops and looks over her shoulder, winks, and blows me a kiss.
I take my hand and catch it midair.
“All right. Let’s get this done, so we can eat,” Keller quips.
He sets the lights to the side and comes over to grab one end of the ladder. He helps me carry it, and we set it up inside the line of bushes just left of the front porch. Once it’s stable, we bring over the second ladder and secure it beside the first one.
Keller goes to fetch more wreaths off the bed of the truck while I start prepping for cleaning.
I refill my utility vest with vinegar spray and clean cloths, and I strap a squeegee to my belt, then carefully make my way up to start at the third floor and work my way down.
Climbing ladders is nothing new for me. I’m an artist by trade. I’ve sculpted many towering statues, painted murals on the sides of buildings and on ceilings, and even created a few handmade custom billboards for clients throughout the years.
I grew up in Lake Mistletoe, but I followed a girl to Seattle after college and operated a home studio, doing mostly freelance work until recently, when my childhood friend, Keller, opened his own furniture gallery. His small backyard business exploded in the span of six months, and he called me with a proposition to lure me back home.
I decided to take a chance and packed my few belongings up, drained my savings account, and headed home, sans the girl. I purchased a plot of land on the mountainside at the edge of town and had a small bachelor pad built.
Now, Keller and I are partners, working together to create custom, handcrafted furniture and commissioned art pieces to a broad range of customers all over the country, and we’re also, apparently, the unofficial handymen for Willa’s inn.
I get to the top rung, and I spray the glass with the vinegar solution and let it sit for a few seconds. I use the cloth to clean the edges and the ledge. Once the liquid has time to do its magic, breaking down the dust and leftover sludge from the snowfall, I take the squeegee from my belt.
I get the glass sparkling clean, and I notice the hook to secure the wreath ribbon is broken. It must have happened when they removed them last year.
“Keller, you’re going to need a hook for this one,” I call down.
He nods and walks over to the toolbox sitting on the walkway and pulls a new one.
I descend the ladder to the second floor. I repeat the process-spray, clean, squeegee-until I hit the last window on the ground floor, where Keller meets me with the hook and wreath. I hop off, and he goes up.
I move over and ascend the next ladder to the third floor.
We’ve worked out our own assembly line. I go first and wash the windows, and then he comes behind me and mounts the new wreaths in place.
