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Eric grabbed his bag, stopped to thank the driver, and tumbled out of the bus and into a mild July evening. A jazzy piano interpretation ofMidnight Wishwelcomed him, Paul inviting the crowd to sing along.‘Lost in your moonlit curves, write you in lines as reality blurs.’ It was the song that had restarted Eric’s collaboration with Max, released last winter.
The first time Adrian had heard it blasted by a mountain bar, he’d been silent for the whole of it before turning to Eric, eyes wide, cheeks flushed from sun and icy wind.‘You really did write me a song.’
‘I did,’Eric had told him, and sure, it wasn’t just him—Max had brought his own ideas to the table. But in this particular instance, Eric was happy to hog the credit.
He paused for a second to take it all in. A tapestry of lights brightened the night, the scents of fried food, pizza, popcorn, and beer wafting past him. Martin manned a pop-up bar, a turquoise caravan that had been supplied by the event company, and was shaking and moving with a bright grin on his face. He seemed in his element, just like Paul on the stage—at ninety-one, he was still sharp as a tack and moved with the energy of a man half his age, a born entertainer in his natural habitat.
Eric wound his way through the crowd, stopping for a peek into the roped-off VIP section where a special menu was served for hotel guests. Kat and Kojo moved around each other in the adjacent bistro kitchen, part of a new kiosk-like structure that had been erected in front of the hotel. Getting the necessary permits had taken longer than planned, so they’d missed part of last year’s summer season before they’d been able to offer daytime refreshments to hikers and cyclists. This year, it had been buzzing from mid-May onwards.
No sign of Adrian.
With Kojo and Kat whirling around like it was an audition for an interpretative dance, Eric bypassed any attempt to get their attention. Instead, he took his bag and himself towards the hotel. The music grew softer as he stepped into the reception area, the door falling shut behind him.
“Einen schönen guten—” Niko, the new receptionist, cut himself off and smiled. “Hey, welcome back. Good trip?”
“About five days too long.” With a sigh, Eric set his bag down.
Niko’s expressive eyebrows rose. “That good, huh?”
“Not sure how I ever thought I was a city person.”
“Yeah, me neither.” Niko propped both elbows on the reception desk, looking at peace in a way Eric would not have expected five months ago, when Niko had started working for them. A former colleague of Adrian’s, his ill-fated stint as a trophy husband had stripped him of illusions. He was one of four new employees and had taken over Eric’s old room, the other three living a fifteen-minute walk away, with the same farmer whose field was currently occupied by festival tents. It was a win-win—the farmer made some extra money, and Adrian had more time for what he did best, namely making guests feel welcome and at home.
“Yeah, well.” Eric shrugged. “Raise your hand if you never fell for a lie you told yourself.”
Niko flattened both hands against the reception desk with a wry twist to his lips, and yeah, right—he wouldn’t marry me just for the looksmight wreak more damage thanI enjoy living in London.
They were quiet for a few seconds, the soaring notes of the piano and the chatter of the crowd filtering through. “It’s good you’re here,” Niko said then. “Last two nights, I’m not sure Adrian slept more than three hours. Combined.”
Eric straightened slightly, frowning. “Funny how he didn’t mention that.”
“Shocking.” Niko had deadpan sarcasm down to an art form.
Eric sighed because, right, Adrian was great at taking care of everyone else, and aggressively mediocre at letting others take care of him. “Kojo didn’t mention it either though.”
“I don’t think he left the kitchen long enough to notice.”
No surprise—like any true artist, Kojo could get obsessive, and planning the VIP gourmet package had been a new experience for him and Kat.
Eric nodded. “All right, yeah. So where do I find Adrian?”
“He opened the festival with”—a tiny pause—“Max Fina. They came in earlier with Fina’s boyfriend and went upstairs. Think they said something about pancakes?”
“Pancakes?” Eric repeated. Somehow, it didn’t take a huge stretch of his imagination to see those three ducking away for a child’s treat when there was perfectly good gourmet food outside.
Oh, how far they’d all come. Initially, things had been strained with Lucas trying a tad too hard to win Adrian over, and Adrian holding back in a way that was wholly out of character. There was nowhere else Eric would rather be, no one else he would rather be with, and he’d kept repeating as much. Maybe Adrian had just needed a moment to believe it because during the third visit, he and Lucas became friends. Adrian later explained that he’d realised he should be grateful to Lucas for setting off a chain of events that had ended with Eric arriving at the Gletscherhaus.
“Pancakes, yes,” Niko told him with a don’t-ask-me lift of his shoulders. “Anyway, it was about an hour ago. Not sure if they’re still up there.”
“I’ll check.” Eric shouldered his bag and sent Niko a smile. “It really is good to be home.”
Niko smiled back. “It’s good to have you home.”
With another smile, Eric made his way up the stairs. He found Matteo reading in the common area, its appearance barely changed since Eric had first seen it. A varied selection of books about music theory and creativity was the only outward sign that the hotel had become an anchor for musicians and artists, dining alongside skiers and an affluent crowd of people intrigued by the buzz. In the warmer months, hikers with towering backpacks and cyclists in skin-tight functional wear joined the roster of guests. Writers, however, remained a trickle rather than a flood, yet to be convinced that the Gletscherhaus was the ideal base for being alone in a crowd.
That was fine, though. Their premium rooms were booked out until next March, their other room categories until November. The new VIP chalet—Eric’s baby—would open in time for the ski season.
For a couple of minutes, he chatted with Matteo who openlyadmitted to being happier with pages than parties. Eric could respect that in a person—if live music hadn’t been his kryptonite, he’d never go near a dance floor. Matteo also proved himself a useful source of information on the pancake matter. One, they’d been delicious; two, they were all gone but the chocolate sauce was not; three, Max and Lucas had offered to clean the kitchen; so that, four, Adrian had a chance to tidy the upstairs flat before Eric arrived.
