Lake Bittersweet

Chapter 1-1

Maybe the problem had all started with her name. “Bliss” was a lot to live up to. Sometimes Bliss Gault wondered if she’d simply cracked under the pressure, and a lifetime of near-disasters, partial catastrophes, and skin-of-her-teeth escapes had been the result.

Like now, for instance. Here she was, making her way through a blizzard down an empty Minnesota street, essentially sneaking into town for her half-sister’s wedding, hoping that whoever had been following her in Thailand had given up at the first sight of snow. How did she get into these messes? If only she could figure that out before she stumbled into the next one.

Snow crystals stung her face. She pulled the hood of her hunter-green wool cloak down a little further. She’d bought it at a thrift store near the airport and found it ideal for hiding out in. Her favorite kind of garment.

None of her siblings knew she was here yet, not even Carly. She’d been deliberately vague about her arrival. Even without someone possibly chasing her, that was how she operated, and had for a very long time. People tended to assume she was “flighty” or “spacey” or even just “blond.”

Okay, that last part was true. Ish. Sometimes she was blond, sometimes not, but she always kept her plans and movements to herself. Life was just easier that way.

Which meant that she’d be surprising her new temporary roommate at the Bittersweet Inn. But since he was an FBI agent, she had no doubt he could handle the unexpected. The one time she’d spoken to him on the phone, he’d come across as pretty unflappable, if not downright inscrutable. He’d shown absolutely no personality in their brief conversation. All she knew about Special Agent Earl Granger was that he was a friend of a friend, he needed a place to stay, and that he didn’t mind pretending he was her chief of security.

Given her current potential catastrophe, that was well worth giving up one bedroom of her suite. It filled the entire top floor of the inn, so surely the two of them could coexist for a few days until Carly’s wedding.

Through the thickly falling snow, she spotted the sign for the Bittersweet Inn, written in cheerful flowing script with a vine pattern twining around it. The inn had been a rooming house when it was originally built, but the new owners had upgraded it into the most sought-after hotel in Lake Bittersweet. Bliss was used to expensive hotels; she’d just come from shooting a swimsuit ad in Thailand, where the entire crew had stayed in a five-star resort. But there was something to be said for cozy and comfortable, not to mention far away from the scary people possibly following her.

On the other side of the street, she spotted the pink neon sign for the Blue Drake Club, but she quickly looked away. It had been her father’s club, and she still couldn’t think about Gault’s death without approaching a panic attack. She definitely couldn’t afford one of those right now.

When she pushed open the inn’s door, for a moment it felt as if she was walking into a forest. Evergreen boughs were draped everywhere—on the reception desk, over the windows, over the staircase. The air smelled like pine resin and potpourri. A fire crackled in the hearth that formed the focal point of a comfortable seating area. More pine boughs adorned the mantel.

Right. Christmas was just a few days ago. The crew in Thailand had celebrated with a beach party, then moved on.

Here in Minnesota, Christmas lasted a little longer, apparently.

A middle-aged woman wearing a red sweater and a large broach of a loon looked up as she stepped to the antique roll-top desk labelled “reception.” “I’m sorry, we’re…”

She trailed off as Bliss pushed her hood away from her face and allowed herself to be recognized.

“It’s you.”

“Hello,” Bliss said warmly. “You’re Mrs. Wegman, right? Didn’t you used to teach violin?”

Astonishment passed across the woman’s face. “I can’t believe you remember. You only took one lesson, and you were, what, seven?”

People might think Bliss was flaky, but she had a spot-on memory for names and faces. Which was part of why she was in trouble right now, but that was another story.

“Yes, I was about seven. I’m sorry, I didn’t really take to violin. I remember I got a crick in my neck from holding my arm up. It certainly wasn’t your fault, you were a wonderful teacher. Have you retired from teaching music?”

“I have. My husband and I run this inn now.” The pride in her voice was chased away by an embarrassed expression. “I’m sure it’s very drab compared to what you’re used to.”

“What? Absolutely not. It’s so welcoming and warm, it makes me feel like it’s still Christmas here in Minnesota.” She spent a few minutes gushing about the inn—its down-home charm, its wintertime magic.

“I was so sorry to hear about your father,” Mrs. Wegman said when Bliss was done complimenting the inn.

“Thank you, that’s so kind.” Bliss’ heart stuttered the way it always did when anyone offered their condolences. Steven Gault, her rock star father, had died nearly a year ago, and it still seemed impossible that he was gone. He’d come in and out of her life—or she’d come in and out of his, or maybe both. She compared their relationship to trying to tune into a radio station—longing to—but never finding the exact right frequency.

And now she never would.

“Is my…head of security here?”

““Oh yes. He’s been here a few days. He’s made quite an impression. I think we all feel a bit safer knowing he’s here.” She leaned closer. “No one would dare even think about criminal activity with him around.”

Bliss thought about the weed one of her friends had slipped into her bag, and decided to ditch it immediately.

“I believe he’s in the room now,” Mrs. Wegman continued. “Not that I keep track of our guests, but we only have one entrance so I do tend to know what’s going on, and that goes for all of Lake Bittersweet. Of course we have fire exits too,” she added quickly, “signed off by the fire marshal, the former one, Thomas Cooper, who’s getting married to your sister. Did you know he shut down the Blue Drake for a while due to code violations? Boy, did he and Carly have some battles over that.” Her face was slowly turning beet red. “I’m so sorry, sometimes the gossip just slips right out of me. I can’t help it.”

Laughing, Bliss put a hand on her arm to soothe her before she melted down from embarrassment. “There’s nothing quite like a small town, is there? I used to love that about Lake Bittersweet. So did my father. I remember he used to hang out in the bar and soak in all the news from anyone who stopped by.”

“So he did, so he did,” Mrs. Wegman said nostalgically. “We used to chatter on for hours, me and Gault. I could almost forget he was a famous rock star if it weren’t for those purple stovepipe hats he always wore. He was just like a normal person, not like most…” She trailed off again, turning nearly as red as her sweater. “I don’t mean…”

Bliss gazed at her blankly before catching on. “Oh, no doubt, celebrities are so full of themselves. It’s a good thing I’m not one, just someone who stands in front of a camera.” She winked at her former violin teacher, then gestured toward the old-fashioned key she still clutched. “Shall I take that off your hands and check in with my head of security?”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Here.” She practically shoved the key into Bliss’ hand. “The very top floor. It has a private elevator, well actually, it’s an old dumbwaiter that we converted. And then our daughter told us we shouldn’t use that term, dumbwaiter, so forget I mentioned it. Twice.” She clapped a hand to her forehead.

“You had me at elevator. I already forgot the rest. Is there parking? I’d like to pull my car up closer to unload my bags. I’m doing the hair and makeup for Carly’s wedding, so I have several cases of supplies.”

Mrs. Wegman gave her directions for where to park, and filled her in on other essentials such as morning coffee in the lobby and which local restaurants delivered to the inn.

A moment later, Bliss slumped gratefully against the cherry-wood paneled wall of the elevator. She got so uncomfortable when people didn’t treat her like anyone else. What on earth did it matter if they’d seen her on a billboard or in a magazine? That was just a face, and really, not even that. Photos were nothing but light and shadow as captured by a piece of technology. They had nothing to do with her.

faceher.And Mrs. Wegman knew her. She’d attempted to teach her how to play the violin, and Bliss definitely remembered some impatience and frustration. How had she gone from, “Don’t pick your nose with the bow,” to babbling just because Bliss had now posed for Vogue? It made Bliss a little sad.

VogueHaving grown up with a celebrity father, she’d seen how people reacted to him. But Gault was a charismatic and talented rock star. Bliss just happened to have a face that photographed well. It seemed odd that something so out of her control could be so important in determining her life. Looks were such a quirk of fate. Every single person she’d ever met had their own certain particular kind of beauty. The fact that the particular combination of genes passed down from Gault and Monica Mayhew, aka Serenity Om, her mother, just happened to come out in a way that cameras loved…it was just a fluke, really.

Oh well. It was what it was. She was Bliss Gault, the photogenic one, the flighty one, the carefree one. That was what people wanted from her, and she gave it to them. Because it mostly felt like an act that didn’t fit her, she had a mantra: “When in doubt, smile it out.”

She said it now, alone in the elevator, which rose to the top floor so quietly and smoothly that at first she didn’t notice when the door slid open.

Someone cleared their throat, and she jerked her head up to see a large figure standing just outside the elevator door. It was a man, quite tall, broad in the shoulder, solid as quarry rock. His arms were folded across his chest and he was squinting down at her.

“Do you always talk to yourself in empty elevators?”

“No,” she said immediately, defensively. “I mean, what business is it of yours?”

“I need to know if I should buy headphones. Do you talk a lot, generally?”

His sheer size had her so flustered that it took her another long moment to put it together that this was, of course, Earl Granger, her “head of security.”

In person, he was very intimidating. Not just because of his height, but also thanks to the stern expression on his face. His skin was several shades darker than hers, somewhere between bronze and copper, his hair was cropped no-nonsense short, and his general manner was one of badassery.