Makin' Whoopee Read Online Free

Quiet, secret places. This was a different world from what they experienced daily. The city of Billings, Montana, became merely a state of mind as they left all reminders of the Great Plains behind.
    Since she and Charlie were never at a loss for conversation, the drive along the narrow, winding mountain road went quickly. In what seemed like a very short time, they burst out of the woods and the headlights struck a sprawling, two-story building. It looked vaguely eerie against the dark mountainside behind it.
    Sara rested her foot lightly on the brake, slowing the car to survey the lodge. The front section was an A frame, and behind it, extending to the east and west, were two wings.
    "It looks . . . dead," she said, unaware that her voice had dropped to a whisper.
    "Did you expect klieg lights?" Charlie asked, scoffingly. "The place has been closed for three years. Pull around to the back. Findlay said the front door is a little stubborn."
    By the time she got her bag from the back seat, Charlie had opened the back door. Cautiously she stepped into musty blackness. "This is not a place I would pay to visit, Charlie," she said, her voice low, almost furtive.
    The glare of a flashlight caught her in the face as she heard him chuckle. "Stay here for a minute and I'll turn on the electricity," he said, and handed her the flashlight.
    Before she could protest, he was gone. She moved the lonely beam of light around the room, passing it over indeterminate objects and indeterminate shadows.
    "If anything moves in this Charles Addams nightmare, I'm gone," she muttered.
    Suddenly the room was illuminated. "That's better," Charlie said, coming up behind her.
    She glanced around, taking in the now-visible cobwebs and dust that covered everything in the large room. "Not much." She walked a few feet into the room and ran a finger over a black surface. "It's a stove," she said in astonishment. "How old did you say this place is? My great-grandmother had a stove more modern than this."
    "Findlay said it was built in 'fifty-seven," Charlie said over his shoulder as he investigated something that could have been a refrigerator.
    "Are you sure he meant nineteen fifty-seven?"
    "Where's your sense of adventure? This place is fantastic. Look at this. The sink is slate."
    "Does water run into it?" she asked, rolling up her sleeves. "Or do we get it from a pump out back?"
    "I turned the water on outside when I got the electricity." He grasped the thin handle of the old-fashioned, rust-encrusted faucet. "Hey, check this out," he said over his shoulder. "The water's orange."
    "Do you have to sound so enthusiastic about it?" she grumbled. "If we want to eat tonight, we're going to have to use some of that wonderful orange water to clean this place."
    "I'll go check out the bedrooms while you do that," he said, his smile guileless.
    "Why did I know you would have a suggestion like that?" she murmured, watching him leave the room.
    For the next hour she was elbow-deep in soapsuds. With each stroke she pretended it was Charlie's face she was scrubbing. Somehow he always managed to get her into situations like this.
    Still, Sara gradually began to relax. She hadn't cleaned in ages. She had forgotten how soothing such a mindless chore was. There was something therapeutic about it, she thought, and smiled wryly. That was probably why they made people in institutions weave potholders and baskets.
    By the time Charlie returned to the kitchen, a good portion of it was at least serviceable. The floor was still thick with dirt, but Sara drew the line at scrubbing floors. She had cleaned a part of the massive counter, the top of a small wooden table, the stove, and enough dishes to last them during their stay.
    "One of these days ..." she said, glancing at him in warning. "I'm keeping track of all the times you've suckered me, and someday I'll get you."
    "Poor baby. You're all worn out. Here, sit down." He pushed her into a chair and propped her feet up on