Matthew Cornachione - Dansk Bay Hotel

This work has been a wonderful collaboration. Story concept and ideas were developed with extensive help from Adam Cornachione, Kristen Cornachione, and Allie Cornachione. Thank you to my creative family. A special thanks goes out to my wonderful wife Kristen, who not only helped with the work, but encouraged me along the way.

This piece has also benefitted immensely from reader reviews. Another thank you to Harriet Cornachione, Brian Joy, and Hollie Richards.

Lastly, I owe a big thanks to Jake Clark for a fantastic cover design.

The conductor’s voice rang out over the loudspeakers. “Dansk Bay. Last stop.”

Last stop? It’s supposed to be “end of the line!” Seriously, don’t these conductors watch any movies?

Well, maybe not out here in rural Alaska. If Dansk Bay’s Hotel turned out to be a good buy we’d have to work on the intro. Much better for the tourists.

Brakes shrieked as the massive train slowed. I swayed side to side until we finally came to a stop. Hopping up, I grabbed my overnight bag from the rack. No one else was in the passenger car—looked like this wasn’t a hot spot. Now it was my job to make it one.

I stepped onto the platform, my travel bag slung over my shoulder. The station was small, but nice. Newly poured concrete, polished wood benches, and a metal canopy greeted me. They even had a set of heaters for the winter. No office building, just an automated ticket kiosk, but a new one. Not bad.

Behind me the conductor leaned out of the engine window, watching me depart. I politely nodded his way. He politely spit onto the ground and continued chewing his tobacco.

Once I stepped off the platform, he pulled his head inside. The engine throttled up and the train lumbered back toward Anchorage, off to pick up folks from a host of other small towns.

Dust stirred, disturbed by the passage of the bulky train. I watched as floating particles glittered in the midday sun. A beautiful introduction to Dansk Bay.

Unfortunately, the beauty ended there.

Behind the thin veil of dust stood a… a market maybe? It was little more than the shell of an ancient mobile home. I mean ancient. Loose siding, sagging roof, front door missing. Well, not technically missing, just sitting off its hinges next to a gaping opening. If it wasn’t for a tattered banner advertising “Cheap Smokes,” I wouldn’t have identified the structure as a store.

Part of checking out a prospective hotel is getting to know the town, no matter how shabby. Normally I check out the first stop I can find, but this one dictated a change to protocol. I’d walk out infected with a bout of the plague, but only if the roof didn’t collapse on me first. Besides, it looked abandoned.

As I continued past, the market proved me wrong on that last count. A teenager in a torn shirt stepped into the empty doorway. Untidy waist-length hair obscured her face. Only her eyes peeked through, staring into mine. She made no effort to signal me, so I waved. Instead of waving back, the girl ducked out of sight.

Um, okay. Moving on.

Off to the right, I spotted a narrow, but paved, road. Looked like the only way to town. Time to see if the rest of Dansk Bay favored the train station or the derelict market.

The asphalt wound through some scrub then sloped downhill. The brush cleared, giving me my first view of the town. Immediately, I spotted the Dansk Bay Hotel, and, just as immediately, I picked my winner.

Score one for the market.

Where to start? I wasn’t sure Dansk Bay could even be classified as a town. It had but a single intersection where my little road ran into an equally tiny cross street. To the side huddled a small smattering of buildings, including several more mobile homes. On the bay was a pathetic marina with a mere three weathered docks and a couple rusty boats.

As bad as the town was, the hotel was worse. It sat to the left of town, a drab concrete tower, all blocky angles and no imagination. An absolute monstrosity.

My job wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe Regina had finally lost her touch.

Regina, my boss, was the reason I was here. She had a knack for seeking out hidden gems, finding those properties that none of the others in the travel industry could. I’d lost count of how many junk heaps she’d converted into profitable hotels. The Dansk Bay Hotel was supposed to become the latest in that long list.

This one came with an added bonus. Alaskan Adventures had announced a new cruise line passing directly through Dansk Bay. A freshly renovated hotel would serve as a welcome stop for the tourists. The ships would ensure that we had a steady supply of visitors, at least in the summer.

Of course, that only worked if the tourists had a reason to come to town. Right now, I wasn’t seeing much.

Dansk Bay’s sole redeeming quality was the ocean. Sunlight reflected off its rolling surface. Mountainous islands covered in evergreens rose from the waters. A few specks moved lazily across the bay, probably the fishing boats that provided this town’s only revenue. If you cropped out the town in the foreground, you had a classic Alaskan picture.

That would play great on the brochures. I could see why they were sending a cruise liner up here. Problem was, I had to find a way to convince them to stop overnight.

Looking closer, I saw that the hotel was situated atop a short but steep cliff over the bay. Waves lapped against the rocks below, sending up sprays of mist. Perhaps there was some hope yet. The view from the oceanside rooms would be fantastic.

In any case, I had to do my job. Nice destination or not, my plan didn’t change. One: scope out the property and ensure that no nasty surprises awaited. Two: meet with the owner, in this case a man named Nigel Nekker, and negotiate terms of sale. Regina would have final say, of course, but I was the man who got it all started. Someone needed a firsthand look.

Still, as I gazed over the hotel’s weather-stained concrete, I couldn’t help but worry what mess awaited inside.

A few minutes later, I stood at the central crossroad, the thriving center of Dansk Bay. To my left was a post office, and to the right a log cabin trading post. Not a mini-market, an honest-to-goodness trading post. That was actually cool.

Across the road, Main Street, was the sheriff’s office and a restaurant. Okay, a diner would be more accurate. “LUCY’S” hung in faded letters over the entrance. The building was yet another mobile home, albeit in better repair than the gas station shack.

Standing here, I realized how out of place I was in Dansk Bay. My look, khaki slacks and a blue button up shirt, no tie, was already relaxed by my normal standards. Here though, it was several tiers above anything I might encounter. At least, I’d packed a pair of jeans and a polo in my overnight bag. That would fit in better. Too bad I hadn’t brought a sturdy pair of cowboy boots. My Oxfords would have to survive the next two days. That was okay. I preferred to be overdressed than under. People respected nice clothes.

After one last scan of the side roads, I decided to try my luck at Lucy’s. I crossed Main, instinctively checking for traffic, though there didn’t seem to be any cars around. The intersection didn’t even have a stop sign. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, the only way into town was by train or boat. Everyone must walk around here.

As I approached the door, I checked the place over. It wasn’t like the small-town diners I was used to. There was no neon “Open” sign, no menu, no flyers for local events. Just a set of dingy windows. But, there was movement inside.