Snowbound in Banff

The snow began on Thursday afternoon, and by evening the road back to Banff had disappeared. Bernice, who had run the Elk Ridge Lodge for thirty years, announced the news at dinner with the calm of someone who had made the same speech many times. "The highway's closed. Could be a day, could be three. We have plenty of food, plenty of firewood and one board game with most of its pieces." "Is there wifi?" asked Greg, a man from Toronto who had hardly looked up from his phone since he arrived. "Sometimes," said Bernice. "Not tonight."

There were six guests. Apart from Greg, there was Margaret, a retired headteacher from Leeds who was celebrating her eightieth birthday by doing, as she put it, "everything my doctor told me not to"; Kayla, a backpacker from Perth with an enormous appetite and a laugh to match; a silent, white-haired man called Mr. Lindqvist, who spent most of his time reading by the fire; and Diego and Valeria, who had flown in from Guadalajara four days earlier on their honeymoon.

The first evening went well enough. "Anyone for hot chocolate?" Bernice asked. "I'd love one," said Kayla. "So would I," said Margaret. Greg said he wouldn't, then changed his mind. "Actually, I will, if there's enough." "There is," said Bernice. Diego and Valeria held hands under the table and whispered to each other in Spanish, and everyone politely pretended not to notice.

By the second morning, the mood had changed. The snow was still falling, the wifi had not returned, and small things had begun to matter more than they should. Greg complained that the porridge was cold. Kayla pointed out that it wouldn't have been if he had come down on time. Diego wanted to call his mother; Valeria thought they had agreed not to call anyone for a week. "We did agree," she said. "Did we?" he said. "I don't think so." "Well, I do."

Then, in the afternoon, Bernice came out of the kitchen looking pale. She had baked a cake for Margaret's birthday, chocolate with three layers, and hidden it in the pantry to bring out after dinner. It was gone. Only the empty plate remained, and a few crumbs on the floor.

Suspicion settled on the room like a second snowfall. Greg, who had complained most about the food, glanced meaningfully at Kayla. "Don't look at me," she said. "I eat a lot, but I don't steal." "Nobody said you did." "You were about to." Margaret, whose cake it was, said that it really didn't matter. "It does," said Bernice. "Not to me, it doesn't," said Margaret. "But I can see it does to you." Mr. Lindqvist turned a page and said nothing at all.

That night, Valeria woke at two and found the space beside her empty. She followed a smell of melted chocolate down the stairs and stopped in the kitchen doorway. Diego, flour on his face, was whisking eggs. Beside him, sleeves rolled up and looking more miserable than any man she had ever seen, stood Greg.

It all came out in a rush. Greg had gone down the night before for a glass of water, seen the cake, and decided to cut himself a very thin slice. He had dropped the whole thing on the floor. Too ashamed to say so in the morning, and even more ashamed after looking at Kayla like that, he had come down tonight to try to make another. He could not bake. Diego, who had trained as a pastry chef, had heard him swearing at the oven and come to help. "You could have told me," Valeria said to her husband. "I was going to," Diego said. "In the morning. He asked me not to." "And you agreed?" "I did. He was nearly in tears."

The new cake appeared at breakfast, taller than the first, with eighty candles squeezed onto it. Before anyone could ask, Greg stood up and told them everything, including the part about Kayla. He apologized to her first. "Apology accepted," she said, "if I get the first slice." "You can have mine as well." "Then I will."

The road opened the following afternoon. As they loaded their cars, Margaret announced that it had been the best birthday she could remember. "Mine too," said Mr. Lindqvist, the first words anyone had heard him say in two days. It turned out that he had turned eighty the day before. He had simply not wanted any fuss. Valeria took Diego's hand. "Call your mother," she said. "Tell her about the cake."