Ken continued. “Since we’re thinking of good energy, then this is as good a time as any to talk about some of the upcoming events at the hotel.”
Dan stopped by with their coffees, silently dropping them off. Claire sat up straighter, apparently eager to hear what Chip had to say.
Chip watched them both closely, He couldn’t help but notice that Ken made a face after taking his first sip of coffee.
Chip suppressed a smile and said, “We have a few annual events. Our next one is the Valentine’s Day dinner.”
“Excellent. Now is that a six or seven-course dinner?” asked Ken.
“Neither,” Chip said slowly. “It’s four courses. Guests choose an appetizer, an entrée, a dessert, and then a selection of cheeses, all paired with local wines and cider.”
Ken frowned. “You know, if we’re going to go for the four-star designation, you’ll have to kick that up a notch.”
“Noted.” Chip set his coffee down. “After that, we have our Easter egg hunt on the grounds.”
Claire smiled. “Oh, how sweet!”
Chip kept talking before Ken could make another comment. “Something new we’ll be adding this year is the summer Fruit Festival.”
“I think I’ve heard of that,” Claire said.
Chip smiled at her. “You might have. It used to be held at an orchard on the other side of the island. Every year it got bigger and bigger, and last year the owner asked Steve if we could start hosting it.”
“How neat!” said Claire. “How many people attend?”
“Last year there were almost five hundred.”
“For a festival offruit?” Ken asked, spitting out the word as if it were rotten.
Chip nodded. “Yes. Orcas Island used to have hundreds of acres of orchards. It was a major industry for the first settlers.”
Claire leaned in. “Really?”
“Yep. It was all fruit, fishing, and logging.” Chip liked that Claire seemed genuinely interested in this. He made a mental note to give her one of his Orcas Island history books later. “It wasn’t until they figured out irrigation on the mainland that farming sort of fell by the wayside, and tourism became the major industry. The event combines the old and the new.”
Claire smiled. “I love that. What kind of attractions are there?”
Chip looked around the table, relishing how unhappy Ken looked. “Well, there is a jam and preserve competition, of course. A pie baking contest, a pie eating contest – ”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Ken said, putting up a hand. “Do we really want our hotel to be associated with a pie eating contest?”
For the first time during this conversation, Chip felt his temper flare. He decided to hold his tongue rather than respond to the “ourhotel” comment.
“I think it’s nice,” Claire said. “What’s wrong with a pie eating contest?”
Ken made a face that showed there was something very wrong with a pie eating contest. “If you want history, why don’t you have something like…a Thanksgiving reenactment, later in the year?”
“What would that entail?” asked Chip.
Ken waved a hand. “You know, dress up half of the town children in pilgrim costumes and the other half in feathers. One could be the turkey. I know a company that designs magnificent sets. We can order one.That’sthe sort of aesthetic you want to go for. Not people shoving pie into their faces.”
Chip cocked his head to the side. “Should I send a boat to the reservation and pick up some native actors for you?”
“Oh my gosh,” Ken darted a hand to his mouth. “There’s a reservation nearby? Even better!”
Chip nodded. “Yes, the Lummi tribe. My grandmother grew up there.”
Ken let out a laugh. “Don’t get your feathers ruffled, Chip. It’s just an idea. This is all about ideas.”
Chip raised an eyebrow. Luckily, he had no issues holding his temper this time. Not that Ken needed to know that. “My feathers?”
“Oh my goodness, I didn’t mean it that way,” Ken added, rushing to pat him on the shoulder. “You can’t take it the wrong way.”
Chip stared at him for a beat before cracking a smile. “I’m just pulling your leg.” He stood up, pleased with the effect that he’d had. “I’ve got a couple of things to take care of, but maybe we can meet later, Claire?”
She nodded. “Sure, any time.”
Chip walked off, smiling to himself.
