The Welcoming

his own.
    Bob poked his head out of the office and handed her a computer printout. Roman didn’t miss the quick, uncertain look Bob sent in his direction before he shut himself away again.
    Charity and Block compared lists. Still smiling, he took a stack of bills out of his briefcase. He paid in Canadian, cash. Having already adjusted the bill to take the exchange rate into account, Charity locked the cash away in a drawer, then handed Block his receipt.
    “Always a pleasure, Roger.”
    “Your little party saved the day,” he told her. “My people consider this the highlight of the tour.”
    Pleased, she smiled at him. “They haven’t seen Mount Rainier yet.”
    “You’re going to get some repeaters out of this.” He patted her hand, then checked his watch. “Time to move them out. See you next week.”
    “Safe trip, Roger.” She turned to make change for a departing guest, then sold a few postcards and a few souvenir key chains with miniature whales on them.
    Roman replaced the globe on the ceiling fixture, taking his time until the lobby was clear again. “Isn’t it strange for a company like that to pay cash?”
    Distracted from her reservations list, Charity glanced up at him. “We never turn down cash.” She smiled at him as she had promised herself she would. Her feelings, her problem, she reminded herself as he climbed down from the ladder. She only wished the hours she’d spent soul-searching the night before had resulted in a solution.
    “It seems like they’d charge, or pay by check.”
    “It’s their company policy. Believe me, with a small, independent hotel, a cash-paying customer like Vision can make all the difference.”
    “I’ll bet. You’ve been dealing with them for a while?”
    “A couple of years. Why?”
    “Just curious. Block doesn’t look much like a tour guide.”
    “Roger? No, I guess he looks more like a wrestler.” She went back to her papers. It was difficult to make small talk when her feelings were so close to the surface. “He does a good job.”
    “Yeah. I’ll be upstairs.”
    “Roman.” There was so much she wanted to say, but she could feel, though they were standing only a few feet apart, that he had distanced himself from her. “We never discussed a day off,” she began. “You’re welcome to take Sunday, if you like.”
    “Maybe I will.”
    “And if you’d give Bob your hours at the end of the week, he generally takes care of payroll.”
    “All right. Thanks.”
    A young couple with a toddler walked out of the dining room. Roman left her to answer their questions on renting a boat.
    It wasn’t going to be easy to talk to him, Charity decided later. But she had to do it. She’d spent all morning on business, she’d double-checked the housekeeping in the cabins, she’d made every phone call on her list, and if Mae’s comments were anything to go on she’d made a nuisance of herself in the kitchen.
    She was stalling.
    That wasn’t like her. All her life she’d made a habit of facing her problems head-on and plowing through them. Not only with business, she thought now. Personal problems had always been given the same kind of direct approach. She had handled being parentless. Even as a child she had never evaded the sometimes painful questions about her background.
    But then, she’d had her grandfather. He’d been so solid, so loving. He’d helped her understand that she was her own person. Just as he’d helped her through her first high-school crush, Charity remembered.
    He wasn’t here now, and she wasn’t a fifteen-year-old mooning over the captain of the debating team. But if he had taught her anything, it was that honest feelings were nothing to be ashamed of.
    Armed with a thermos full of coffee, she walked into the west wing. She wished it didn’t feel so much like bearding the lion in his den.
    He’d finished the parlor. The scent of fresh paint was strong, though he’d left a window open to air it out. The doors still had to be hung and the floors varnished, but she could already imagine the room with sheer, billowy curtains and the faded floral-print rug she’d stored in the attic.
    From the bedroom beyond, she could hear the buzz of an electric saw. A good, constructive sound, she thought as she pushed the door open to peek inside.
    His eyes were narrowed in concentration as he bent over the wood he had laid across a pair of sawhorses. Wood dust flew, dancing gold in the sunlight. His hands, and his arms where