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Untangling his long legs, Milo got out of the chaise longue. “Hey, stop worrying. Adam's not in jail, he's not on drugs, he hasn't knocked up a bunch of girls. You keep pushing him about his college degree. Maybe he still isn't sure what he wants to do.”

I looked up at Milo, who was now standing over me. “Did you, at that age?”

Milo's long face screwed up in the effort of recollection. “Twenty-two, twenty-three? Yeah, I did. I was finishing up my college law-enforcement courses then. It wasn't so much that I wanted to be a cop but that I didn't want to be a logger. I'd seen too many guys come out of the woods on stretchers—or not at all.” He leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “You want to stay out here and let the bugs eat you?”

I offered Milo a feeble smile. I hadn't talked out my distress over what I perceived as an estrangement between Adam and me. Like most women, giving voice to every angle of a problem was comforting; talking the subject to death was therapeutic. Like most men, Milo dreaded confrontation and dismissed dilemmas with a few pat phrases. “It's still awfully warm inside the house,” I hedged.

Milo took my hands and hoisted me to my feet. “Let's pretend we're on a desert island or some damned thing.” His arms closed around me. “Let's pretend we don't have kids and that we're not middle-aged and that it's not hotter than a sawdust furnace and that a bunch of drunks won't kill each other on Stevens Pass this weekend. Okay?”

I lifted my face to his. “Okay. Let's.”

We went inside.

Coincidences aren't unusual in a small town like Alpine. On my lunch hour Tuesday, I discovered Warren
Wells in front of me in the line at the post office. Never having met the man, I wouldn't have recognized him. But neither did Amanda Hanson, who worked behind the counter and had moved to town a couple of years ago. When Warren identified himself as the recipient of a parcel, I leaned around and introduced myself.

“So you're the one responsible for that interview with Ursula,” Warren said with a broad smile. “Isn't she something? No flies on that young lady.”

“That's true,” I temporized, grateful that he seemed pleased rather than outraged by Vida's article. “Ursula is very … frank.”

“You bet.” Warren Wells's attention was diverted by Amanda, who had retrieved the parcel from the rear of the post office. It gave me a chance to study the man who had gotten away from Francine and now was Ursula's designated consort. He wasn't a heartthrob: Warren was no more than average height; his brown hair was thinning; and his features were undistinguished except for a prominent, hawklike nose. His hazel eyes were nervous, almost shifty, appearing to seek out every nook and cranny of the drab old post office lobby. WThile Warren appeared fit, there was nothing exceptional about his physique. Perhaps the most attractive thing about him was that broad, engaging smile. Warren had white, even teeth that looked as if they were part of the original equipment.

“Could you wait just a minute until I get some stamps?” I asked as he started away from the counter. “I have a question for you.”

Warren gave me a faint look of surprise. “Sure. I'm in no rush.”

After purchasing my six dollars and forty cents' worth of commemoratives, I led Warren over to a solid oak table by the door. “I hear you're planning on opening a sports shop. Is it true? And if so, can we print the story?”

Warren chuckled. “I forgot how rumors get loose in
this town. Well, yes, that's the plan. But that's all it is right now. I haven't settled on a site yet.”

I stepped aside so that a man I didn't recognize could get a change-of-address form from one of the official postal document slots on the oak table. “I heard you might go into Buzzy O'Toole's former BP station.”

“That's a possibility,” Warren replied, the hazel eyes still roaming around the foyer. “I really haven't decided. There are a couple of empty storefronts on the main drag, and at least one more at the mall. I've got a commercial realtor from Seattle working on it. There's no rush.”

“But it's definitely something you want to do,” I said, trying to pin Warren down. “It's not just a pipe dream.”

“Oh, no.” Warren smoothed his thinning dark hair back from his high forehead. “I'll do it. But it takes planning. It can't be hurried.”

“Then I can mention it in the paper?” I inquired.

Warren lifted one shoulder. “Why not? It's no secret. Hey,” he said suddenly, the hazel eyes darting in the direction of the street, “I've got to run. Just spell my name right. Ha-ha!” The budding entrepreneur all but ran out of the post office.

I gave the story two inches. Maybe Warren's plan to open a new business in Alpine would smooth some of the feathers ruffled by his bride-to-be's condescending quotes. Vida, however, was annoyed. She couldn't imagine why she hadn't heard the rumor.

“My sources are slipping,” she complained. “Or I am. What's going on around this town? Why does everything lately seem to be emanating from you Catholics?” Furiously she rubbed her eyes. Vida's complicated network of relatives, in-laws, friends, and acquaintances usually provided her with any hint of a budding story. I sensed that the recent rash of parish-connected news made her feel as if she were out of the loop.

By deadline, we had yet another St. Mildred's item.

There were two more rivals for the school board. The latest candidates were Debra Barton, wife of Clancy, who owned Barton's Bootery at the mall, and Laura O'Toole, Buzzy's wife.

“Most interesting,” Vida commented shortly before sending this week's edition to the back shop. Typically she had calmed down since her earlier outburst. “Laura is Ursula's sister-in-law. What do you make of it?”

I was surprised at Vida. In Alpine, pitting family members against each other isn't unusual. So many people are related that the situation is almost impossible to avoid. “Maybe they want to make sure an O'Toole gets elected. Maybe they have opposing views. Maybe Laura and Ursula don't know each other very well. Was Ursula still in town when Laura married Buzzy?”

Vida's encyclopedic memory didn't fail her. “No. Buzzy married late—for Alpine. And Laura Doyle was a Sultan girl. Unless I've missed something over the years”—Vida's face hardened at the mere idea—”Ursula rarely visited, and if she entertained Jake and Betsy or Buzzy and Laura, I never heard about their trips to Seattle. But that wasn't my point.” Now Vida had squared her shoulders and sat at her desk with fists on hips. “Laura O'Toole is a mouse. I can't imagine her speaking up at any kind of meeting. Why on earth is she running for the school board?”

A mental image of Laura crossed my mind. She was fortyish, too thin, more dark than fair, and, as Vida had noted, very quiet. “Who knows?” I shrugged. “Didn't we hear Laura and Buzzy were separating? Maybe they, have, and this is some kind of gesture on Laura's part to become independent.”

Vida harrumphed, but before she could say anything else, a young woman entered the news office. Her Armani suit, Chanel handbag, and stylish short blonde hair made her look as out of place in Alpine as a Monet at a shopping-mall art sale. It took me a faltering moment
to recognize Alicia Wells, Francine and Warren's daughter. Vida, of course, was much quicker, and of course remembered Alicia's married name.

“Alicia Lowell! How nice. When did you arrive in Alpine?” Vida's gracious greeting sounded almost genuine.

Alicia's smile was brittle. “This afternoon. I got in a couple of days early. My meeting in Chicago was can celed. How are you, Ms. Runkel?” Without waiting for

Vida to reply, she turned to me. “And Ms Ward, is it?”

“Lord,” I replied. At least she hadn't called me Lard, as Carla had done in one of her more memorable typos.

“I'm waiting for Mother to close the shop,” Alicia went on, her Delft-blue eyes taking in her surroundings. Judging from the crease in her forehead, she found the news office only slightly more edifying than a charnel house. “She asked if I'd walk over here to invite you both to dinner Friday night.”

“Oh, pity!” Vida cried. “I already have an engagement.” She gazed at me over the rims of her glasses. “Mr. Bardeen. We're going to see a musical in Everett.”

It may or may not have been true. Mr. Bardeen was real enough, however. Vida and Buck, a retired air-force officer, had been seeing each other for over a year.

Fortunately I, too, had an excuse. “My brother and maybe my son are arriving from Arizona Friday. How long will you be in town?” I asked, aware that I was climbing out on'a limb that Alicia probably would be delighted to saw off behind me.

“I'm not sure,” she answered. “My return is open-ended. I work for myself as a children's-book illustrator, so my schedule is fairly flexible.” The slim figure in the expensive suit retreated to the door just as Ginny stumbled into the office.

“I'm going home now,” Ginny said in a thin voice.
“Everything's done, and I don't feel so good. It must be this awful weather.”

Alicia's eyes followed Ginny out of the office. “The weather? It's gorgeous. What is she talking about?”

Vida's courteous mask slipped a notch. “How long have you been gone, Alicia? Four years? You know we natives don't do well without rain. Don't tell me you've turned into a New Yorker!” Vida made the appellation sound as odious as the Ku Klux Klan.

Alicia had the grace to laugh. “I haven't forgotten. But summer in New York is beastly. If we weren't air-conditioned, I'd die. Blue skies, eighty-five degrees, and almost no humidity seem like heaven to me.”

Apparently having succeeded in bringing Alicia back down to earth—or at least with one foot on her native heath, Vida nodded. “I understand. But lack of rain is a serious matter, especially in a logging community. The woods are closed. The forest-fire danger is extreme.”

A faintly wistful look touched Alicia's face. “I remember all that. There was one summer that we couldn't even use the barbecue. And some kids I knew from high school got in trouble because they roasted marshmallows upriver from the holding pond.”

Vida tipped her head to one side. “Yes, very difficult. But I imagine you have problems in New York, too.”

The understatement was taken seriously by Alicia, who still seemed caught up in long-ago summers. “We sure do. You can't begin to guess.”

“I believe I could,” Vida replied, her smile a trifle smug.

I had done my best to make Veronica Wenzler-Greene sound reasonable, even humble. It was a tricky piece of writing, achieved mainly by describing the more sentimental ornaments in her office and her dedication to the school. By paraphrasing indirect quotes, I toned down Ronnie's more derogatory opinions about public education. Whether or not I had taken some of the sting out of
Ursula's offensive remarks, I couldn't be sure. Maybe this week's controversy would revolve around the catch-and-release editorial.

Milo liked it, though he felt I should have taken a tougher stand. “Go beyond supporting the angler's right to bring the fish home, and tell those morons in Olympia to plant the rivers,” he said as we lay in bed after making love Thursday evening. “Get those bureaucrats in D.C. to sit up and take notice, stop mincing around with the Japanese and the Canadians and whoever the hell else steals our fish out in salt water. Jump on those jerks who give the Indians the right to gillnet. Hell, if there's a way to screw the average fisherman, the government'11 find it. I think I'll take up golf.”

The vision of Milo strolling the greens was incongruous. He was an unlikely golfer, even more so than Ed Bronsky, who had taken up the game as part of his idle-rich persona. But our discussion was brief. Milo had been able to stop in for less than an hour. While the weekend might not have officially begun, criminal activity had already increased: ex-boyfriends stalking ex-girlfriends; campers getting harassed by young troublemakers; stolen checks being passed; DWIs resisting arrest; cars broken into; attempted burglaries; and an APB from King County for three men in their mid-thirties suspected of drug dealing who had been spotted heading east on Highway 2. Milo was up to his ears, at least when he wasn't under my sheets.

“Sorry I have to … uh … you know … and run,” he said sheepishly while he got dressed. “Maybe I'll see you over the weekend.”

“Ben's going to be here, remember? And maybe Adam.” I still hadn't received official notification from my errant son. “Ben's due in tomorrow around three.”

“Oh, yeah.” Clumsily Milo buttoned his regulation shirt. “I lose track when things get busy.”

“Right.” The sidelong glance I gave him made no
impression. Milo lost track of just about everything when he was in the sack. Except fishing.

After he left, I got out some of my recipes to plan menus for the weekend. I wanted to try some new things, preferably entrees that didn't require turning on the stove. I was mulling over a Greek chicken salad when the phone rang.

“We're wiped out. It's all gone, even the sanctuary.” My brother's usually crackling voice was heavy.

“Ben? What are you talking about?”

“The fire. We had a fire this evening. Lightning, I think. It happened while Adam and I were calling on a Hopi family over at Bacabi. One of those big summer storms came through here and—” Ben's voice broke.

In early March I had visited the small frame church and stayed at the tiny rectory. Both buildings were modest, even by Alpine standards, but Ben had built them up, maintained them, taken pride in efforts that he could share with his fellow parishioners. Pride was essential to the Navajo and the Hopi. Though they might practice the same faith, they suffered from the burden of traditional enmity. I could imagine how devastated Ben's flock must be. I could also agonize with my brother, whose most recent life's work had just gone up in smoke.

“Should I come down?” I offered. “What can I do?”

“Not a damned thing,” Ben responded, now sounding more angry than disturbed. “Pray,” he added as if in his own anguish he'd forgotten to seek help from a Higher Authority. “Yeah, that's about it. Damn, I probably can't even get a refund on my airline ticket this late.”

“They may make an exception under the circumstances,” I said in consolation. “I take it there's no chance that you can come a little later? Like in a week?”