never got the usual snowstorm or two we’ve come to expect, which makes me think we’re due for a thumper at some point.
“Okay then.” Beau claps his hands together. “Emma, you up for a quick behind-the-scenes tour of The Barn Door? Then we’ll get you checked into your cottage.”
“That would be great. I can’t wait to see this wine cellar I keep hearing about.”
“My cellar. Stocked with my bottles.” Samuel sends a meaningful glance in his brother’s direction. “The ones I began collecting long before I was Blue Mountain’s food and wine director.”
Ah. So he wants my job and he doesn’t think the resort needs me.
Great.
Rolling his eyes, Beau opens the door for me. “Excuse my brother. He’s still warming up to the idea of accepting much-needed help with our expanding programs. I promise he’ll see the light.”
I move through the doorway. “By the way, I appreciate that not-so-little perk of y’all putting me up in a cottage. I won’t lie, I’m really excited about staying here for a couple of weeks. Beau, your resort is stunning.”
“Of course. I wanted you to experience the farm as a guest so you can get a feel for the experience we’re trying to create. I’ll admit it’s also part of my shameless ploy to get you to stay, well, forever.”
As a part of my signing package, Beau offered me the chance to stay in one of Blue Mountain Farm’s insanely luxurious cottages for a few weeks. Considering they go for north of two grand a night, I would’ve never been able to afford to stay here otherwise. As much as I love my loft back in Asheville, a twenty or so minute drive from here, I’m excited about the change of scenery. Especially when that scenery is some of the best in the Smokies.
I take in the quiet of The Barn Door restaurant. It’s midafternoon on a Friday, and while a handful of diners linger over a late lunch, the place has the buzzy feel of a party about to begin. A small army of staff patrols the floor—front servers, busboys, a pair of hostesses.
The impeccable décor is beautifully designed without being stiff or overstuffed. A pair of enormous fireplaces anchor each end of the space, and antique beams that look to be as old—and weathered—as the structure itself cover the soaring ceiling. Leather booths curl around tables covered in pristine white tablecloths with artfully mismatched flatware and broken-in wooden chairs. The sign at the resort’s entrance told me the farm has been here since the 1750s.
The restaurant is a study in contrasts. The fine crystal glassware against the bohemian arrangements of purple and yellow wildflowers set out on each table. The smell of a smoker, something you’d find at a barbecue joint, against the briny, wet slate smell of a dozen oysters passing by on a server’s tray. The five-hundred-dollar bottle of California Cabernet on a table where a man and a woman are chowing down on fried chicken sandwiches.
This is not my first time inside these hallowed walls. As one of Asheville’s many resident foodies, I couldn’t resist the siren call of Chef Katie Gates’s high-low combination of Southern classics with a decidedly down-home twist.
But it is the first time I’m appreciating it as a project. A living, breathing entity whose story I get to help shape.
A zippy little chill darts along my spine, lighting up my chest like an exclamation point.
Yeah, I want this job. And I’m not going to let an entitled jackass like Samuel Beauregard keep me from getting it. Who knows? Maybe if I stick around long enough and dig my heels in deep enough, Samuel will call it quits and go live that cushy, pro-athlete retirement life. I imagine he’s got millions socked away.
I just have to outlast him.
Outsmart him.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say. “Seriously, one of the most romantic and beautiful restaurants I’ve seen. Ever.”
“Samuel,” Beau says, a note of warning in his tone. “Why don’t you give Emma the inside scoop on how The Barn Door came to be?”
Samuel lets out an annoyed sigh. I glance to my right to see him standing on the other side of Beau. As far away from me as he can get.
“What is there to explain?” Samuel rolls back his shoulders. “I came up with the concept, I executed it, and now I run it. Pretty fucking well too. Isn’t that right, Xavier?”
The passing server offers us a smile, despite the fact that his tray is weighed down by