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Kojo’s eyes narrowed with a scoff. “As long as the hotel people don’taccidentallyforget to invite me to staff meetings—three fucking times—and then claim it’s my, uh… My cultural lack of discipline that’s at fault…”
Ah. Eric had wondered about the final straw to break the camel’s back.
“Not the impression you got from the guy you talked to, was it?” Eric asked.
“Adrian. And no, not even a little.”
“So, fingers crossed.”
Engine rumbling, the bus kept trundling along, dodging cars along the way. Another corner—and then the hotel appeared against the backdrop of the mountains, its Belle-Epoque stone facade framed by white-dusted conifers, a partially frozen river snaking by.Tapestry of earth and sky, Eric thought, then swatted it away as too cliché.
They disembarked with a few other people and emerged into a sun-flooded early afternoon. The bright day seemed at odds with an insistent breeze that moved tree branches and sent icy tendrils down Eric’s spine. He zipped up his winter coat and stopped for a moment to take it all in. It sure was a change from London’s crowded streets and concrete buildings, wasn’t it? And maybe Kojo had been right because it felt… It felt good to be here.
Apparently, the owner’s son—Adrian, was it?—had told Kojo that snow had arrived uncommonly early this year, bringing with it a wave of winter sports enthusiasts who used the Gletscherhaus as their base. The same bus line that had delivered Eric and Kojo to the hotel continued some fifteen minutes further up the valley, with its final destination a ski lift that connected into the famous Grindelwald area.
It had been a couple of years since Eric’s last ski outing—he couldn’twaitto get out there.
His expression must have betrayed his delight because Kojoplanted an elbow in his side. “So. What do we say to the guy who dragged us here?”
“I will hold all judgement and gratitude until we’ve been here for a week.”
“Please.” Kojo waved at their surroundings. “This place is like something out of your wet dreams.”
“And how would you know?” Eric asked.
“Teenage camping trips, mate. Teenage camping trips.”
They followed the trickle of guests towards a door marked with a ‘Rezeption’ sign, carrying their suitcases rather than pulling them through the thin, slushy layer of snow that covered the area in front of the hotel. A courtyard was off to one side, an open stretch of space beyond with a snow-covered playground. Signposts pointed the way to the glacier valley and listed various hiking and cycling routes.
Inside, it was warm and dark—aged wood and framed old photos on the wall, small windows to keep out the cold. Fresh flowers sat on a reception desk that looked like it had been transported straight out of the eighties, at odds with how all the other furniture seemed to be at least a century older than that.
They took off their coats and browsed brochures about hikes and historic train rides while waiting for a tall woman with long, greying hair to finish checking in the guests that had arrived with them—mostly German speakers along with a French couple, it seemed. Hopefully, Kojo hadn’t been overly optimistic in his assessment that language would not be a problem.
“You must be Kojo and Eric,” the woman addressed them once the last pair of guests made their way up the stairs. “Welcome to the Gletscherhaus.”
“You’re British?” It was out before Eric could swallow his surprise—talk about donning a Captain Obvious cape.
“Born and raised. Liverpool, to be precise.” Her smile was easy as she waved them closer. “I only meant to stay for a season, really—that was over thirty years ago.”
“Fell in love with the mountains?” Kojo asked, propping his elbows on the reception desk.
“Among other things.” She laughed. “I’m Sarah. And you”—she nodded at Kojo—“must be our new chef Kojo, correct?”
“That’s me.” He reached across the desk to shake her hand, grinning. “Pleasure to be here.”
“Pleasure is all ours. We’resoglad Adrian found you.” Her attention slid to Eric. “You too. Eric, right? It will be wonderful to have some additional help around here.”
“Thank you.” Eric grasped her hand—slender, elegant fingers—and shook it. “I’ll be honest, Kojo kind of sprang this on me out of nowhere. But this is such an amazing location, and I love the history of this place.”
“It’s been a hotel for over two hundred and fifty years.” She sounded personally proud of the fact, and Eric was about to reply when hurried footsteps on the stairs interrupted him.
“Mum?” A male voice, and something sparked in Eric’s stomach—recognition, except that didn’t make sense. “Urs Egli is on the phone, wants to know if he can drop by around four with the papers.”
Sarah raised her head to smile at her son, presumably. “That should be fine. When you’re done with him, can you show Kojo and Eric to their room?”
Room. As in singular. Because of course.
Eric arched a reproachful eyebrow at Kojo and received a shrug in return. They’d need to sort this out, ideally yesterday.
