All Snowed Inn

Bethany's POV

I had just come down the stairs to see my inn crowded with customers. Max, Cheryl and Phillipe ran across the floors as they tried to handle all the orders simultaneously.

"I'd gladly take my bacon and eggs any minute now, cos it's been thirty damn minutes since I ordered."

A customer seated alone had shouted over the noise in the building. I never liked hearing loud voices in my inn, but I couldn't just refuse customers because they shouted a lot. And honestly, they have the right. I watched Cheryl race back to the counter with a tray full of dirty dishes.

She should have gotten him his order in five minutes, but she was much slower today. With a long sigh, I entered the kitchen to prepare his breakfast myself. My chef called in sick late last night and his assistant was hardly any better. Maybe it was time to employ new staff.

It's almost that time of the year again when people flock to Sedona for the starry nights and the white snow dusting the red rocks. There's no way I could handle business if my chefs are always unavailable.

I tossed the bacon and eggs onto a plate and walked out of the kitchen. My spot is normally in my office upstairs or sometimes, behind the counter. But today, I decided to be more hands-on and handle things directly.

I dropped the plate gently on the table, smiling at the customer as he glared at me, then took his first bite while I hoped he had no more complaints. I heard footsteps behind me - Cheryl's - and turned to see her holding a pitcher of our complimentary orange juice.

I walked off, leaving her to handle any other grievances he might have with the food. As owner and manager of the inn, my place is in my office, and I was heading there when I saw the mailman walk in.

"Good morning, Mr. Garnett. It's been ages. Hope your kids are doing well?"

He smiled at me, that soft and compassionate smile that looked better each time I saw it, before telling me how great things were. He pulled out a large brown envelope and passed it over to me.

On the front, I could see my name and address boldly written so I had no doubt this was meant for me.

At a corner, though, I could see the logo of Orange Trust Bank and I was sceptical. They might be the only bank in town, but I have no business with them.

Mr. Garnett headed out, and I climbed the stairs to my office, ripping the envelope open. I was apprehensive about what I might find, but I had to open it. Slowly, I pulled out its contents.

Two large sheets of paper and a yellow piece that had been folded down to roughly three inches wide fell onto my table.

I opened it and the letter's subject shocked me. My heart rate sped up as my eyes widened in shock. For a minute, my lungs stopped working and I gasped for air.

Part of me hoped that this was a prank or some kind of mistake, but there was no way a bank would pull a prank. Would they?

According to the letter, my father had signed a loan agreement with Orange Trust Bank that dated back to when I was eleven years old. I read through all the documents, seeing the signed agreement between my father and the bank.

He had used the inn and the land as collateral, with an agreement to pay back in ten years. Fifteen years had passed since then and my father said nothing till he died two years ago.

My heart burned in my chest, and I began to feel an unusual pain. My body sank lower into my chair as I raised my head to the ceiling.

Did we owe money on the inn? Why hadn't my father told me? Where do I go from here?

Dollar figures swam on the page. The amount I had to pay back was too steep. I kept searching my thoughts for the reason my father would take a loan, but I came up empty.

Would I have to pay without having any say on the matter? Wasn't there something I could do?

I jumped to my feet, pushing the letter and documents into the envelope as I grabbed my bag. I checked my watch: a few minutes past eight in the morning. There was a bus to Phoenix in a few minutes, so I hurried out of my inn.

Using the address on the letterhead, I hoped I could find their head office. I couldn't sit in my office, trying to sort things out over the phone and some emails. There was an obvious solution: meeting the person who sent me that letter and talking things over.

There had to be a way to compromise or reach an agreement of mutual benefit.

I ran past my assistant Phillipe, telling him to handle things until I returned.

"But where are you headed?"

The only response I could give him was a pat on his shoulder and a soft smile. I couldn't let him know what was going on; it was my burden to bear.

My inn is just a few minutes away from the bus station, and since I had no time to get a ride, I started running.

I hurried down the road like I was being chased, with people staring at me in wonder. Some of them, clearly tourists, wore terrified faces but I paid them no mind, wiping the sweat off my face as I pushed forward.

By the time I got to the station, there were only a few seats left.

With sore feet and panting lungs, I forced myself onto the bus and found my seat at the back. The bus left the station and all I could think about was my father, and if I should hate him for this or try to understand him.

What other secrets could he have kept from me? And what were his reasons for keeping them?

I couldn't get an answer before I got to my stop, no matter how much I pondered on it. If only I could go to his grave and ask him directly.

I heard the driver call my stop, bringing my mind out of my thoughts. As I walked down the aisle, I looked around to see that the bus was almost empty.

As the bus drove off, I crossed the road and walked into the bank.