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There was, in fact, one last, brief paragraph. “ 'Ursula and Warren Wells, also formerly of Alpine, plan a December wedding at St. Mildred's Church. The archbishop is expected to concelebrate the ceremony.' “

I gritted my teeth. “It's not your fault,” I finally said. “You simply reported what Ursula said.”

“I could have censored it,” Vida reported with sparks in her gray eyes. “But I truly believe Ursula wanted to be quoted.”

I glanced down at the final paragraphs. “Maybe. Unless she's one of those people who speaks without thinking.”

“So?” Vida whipped off her glasses with their tortoise-shell frames. “Perhaps this will teach her to think the next time she's interviewed.”

“How are the pictures?” I asked, handing the story back to Vida.

“Fair. I took one at the house—it's that quasi-French Provincial that's been sitting vacant ever since Nyquist Construction built it on speculation three years ago. I understand Ursula got it for a song.”

I knew the house. It was one of the last to be finished in the subdivision at the edge of town. Once known as Stump Hill, the builders had rechristened the neighborhood as The Pines. By Alpine standards, the homes were very classy. The only problem was that there weren't many local residents who could afford to live in them.

“Go with it,” I said, though I suffered a pang of misgiving. “Ursula sounds like a silly, conceited ass.”

Getting to her feet, Vida sniffed. “Don't we strive for
accuracy?” With her impressive bust leading the way, she marched out of my office.

The rest of the day was busy and chaotic, but no more than usual for a Tuesday. Leo complained of too many last-minute changes from advertisers, Carla required heavy editing on three front-page stories, and Vida didn't have enough tantalizing tidbits for her gossip column, “Scene Around Town.” Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending upon one's point of view—a tourist from Utah rear-ended a carpet salesman from Seattle right in front of
The Advocate.
No one was hurt, and damage was minimal, which meant that the item was more suitable for Vida than for hard news.

By five-ten, we were ready to go to press. Until the first of May, we had sent the paper to a printer in Monroe, about forty miles down Highway 2. But during the late winter and early spring, I had finally reopened the back shop. Kip MacDuff, who had been our driver, was now an Alpine High School graduate. When he expressed an interest in working with the job printing, I hired him on the spot. Most of the added equipment was secondhand, and not quite state-of-the-art, but still light-years ahead of anybody else in Skykomish County. The transition hadn't been smooth, though by mid-June we seemed to have ironed out the glitches. We also had acquired some local desktop jobs, and though we weren't yet showing a profit, I was optimistic about the future.

Thus I felt reasonably sanguine as I left the office and headed out into the muggy late afternoon. Rush hour on Front Street is a relative term. From my vantage point I could see a steady stream of traffic in both directions. It would last for a good twenty minutes. As usual, there were more trucks, RVs, and logging rigs than passenger cars. I was about to get into my aging green Jaguar when the sheriff called to me.

“Emma!” Milo Dodge shouted, applying the brakes of
his Cherokee Chief so hard that we almost had another rear-end collision. “Dinner? Drinks?”

Milo's long, ordinary, tanned face was looking out from the open window of his sport utility vehicle. That face was special, and I had to smile. “Ah … okay. Now?”

Milo frowned. “How about six? Want me to come over?” He looked hopeful.

I grimaced. “I've got a meeting. It's now or never.”

“What about later?” The hope hadn't quite disappeared.

“Okay. Nine-ish? I'll call when I get home.”

Milo gave me a thumbs-up sign. The Cherokee Chief took off down Front Street. I didn't recognize the man who sat in the pickup behind Milo's vehicle, but judging from the fact that he hadn't honked, yelled, or cursed up a storm, he knew the sheriff.

A smile clung to my lips as I got into the Jag. Milo and I had been friends for a long time before we became lovers. That was good. In our forties, I thought it was important to have some basis for a relationship besides sex. Intimacy meant many things to me, and didn't always require the removal of clothing. Whether or not I was in love with Milo or he was in love with me wasn't as important as the fact that we genuinely cared for each other. I hadn't done well with passion. Except for fathering my son, the man I once referred to as the love of my life had brought me nothing but grief and frustration. Tom Cavanaugh was married when I met him twenty-four years ago; he was still married, to the same woman who held him hostage to her family's wealth and her fragile mental state. I hadn't spoken to Tom since New Year's, and I didn't intend to. After almost a quarter of a century it had finally occurred to me that he was never going to leave Sandra, and that I was a sap to think otherwise. I could hardly blame anyone who called me a slow learner.

My musings lasted as long as the five-minute uphill drive to my little log house at the edge of the forest. Alpine sits on the banks of the Skykomish River, nestled against the rugged crags of Tonga Ridge. Mount Baldy hovers to the north, its rounded twin crests bare of snow in late August. The town is a mile from the main highway, and fifty miles from a city of any size, Alpine's isolation, particularly in the long winters, causes its residents to look inward, to mistrust the wider world. After six years I'm still considered something of a stranger. Not having been born and raised in Alpine, I will never be accepted into the inner circle.

That's just as well. Journalists have to keep their distance. Though Vida is a third-generation Alpine native and proud of it, she does her best to maintain objectivity, at least in print. It was no wonder that she was disturbed by the results of her interview with Ursula Randall. But the patronizing words had come out of the woman's mouth. It would be interesting to see if Ursula tried to refute them after they were published. People often do. If they can't eat their words, they want them retracted.

I was still thinking about Vida's predicament when I chucked my mail—except for a couple of fall catalogs— into the wastebasket. There was nothing but junk in the current delivery, and I was disappointed. I'd hoped for a letter from my son, Adam. Usually, he spent part of the summers with me, but this year he had chosen to stay with my brother, Ben, at the Navajo mission in Tuba City. Both my son and my brother were amateur anthropologists, spending their spare time on an Anasazi dig. Ben had promised to visit over the Labor Day weekend; Adam had been stalling me since he finished spring quarter at Arizona State in June. I was annoyed and hurt. I hadn't seen my only child since Easter.

There was no phone message from him, either. The answering machine revealed a big fat red zero. I changed clothes, made a meager dinner, and ate while reading
The

Seattle Times.
Normally I don't mind being alone. But the lack of word from Adam somehow drained my log house of its usual cozy comfort. The air felt stuffy after the eighty-five-degree afternoon, and no breeze stirred the evergreens that flanked my small backyard.

A little after seven I assessed my appearance before heading off to St. Mildred's. A change of clothes was in order, since I'd perspired heavily in my cotton shell. Applying lipstick, I considered brushing my hair, but decided against it. I was in the midst of letting the heavy chestnut mane grow out, perhaps to my shoulders. Trying to coax what was left of my perm into some sort of style was hopeless. The rest of my five-foot-four, hundred-and-twenty-pound frame was presentable, at least for a boring session at church.

At seven-twenty I drove the five blocks to St. Mildred's. The church is old, a white frame structure that would look more at home in New England than the Pacific Northwest. The rectory is of the same vintage, but the school is much newer. Built of brick, its two stories overlook the playground on one side, and the church on the other. The convent was torn down a long time ago, and the two nuns on the faculty share an apartment in a building across the street.

To my surprise, there were at least three dozen vehicles in the parking lot. Since the parish council numbered five members, and the school board only three, I was puzzled. Maybe Ed hadn't exaggerated. Something was up at St. Mildred's.

Francine Wells pulled in just as I was getting out of the Jag. As the owner of Francine's Fine Apparel, she feels a responsibility to be well groomed at all times. In a town where designer clothes means handstitching your name on the back of your bowling shirt, Francine tends to stand out in a crowd. This evening she was wearing a simple pale yellow linen sheath that probably cost her a hundred dollars wholesale.

“Emma!” Francine exclaimed as she locked up her dark blue Acura Legend. “What are you doing here? Don't tell me Father Den talked you into serving on the school board?”

My puzzlement deepened. “No. Is there a vacancy?”

Francine fell in step beside me. “There's a move to expand the membership to five, just like the parish council. Didn't you see the notice in Sunday's bulletin?”

I hadn't. It had been very warm in church on Sunday morning, and I'd been inclined to drift. Father Den's conversational skills tend to outshine his speaking talents in the pulpit. Still, he's an enormous improvement over our previous pastor, Kiernan Fitzgerald, who was elderly and not always aware of the city, state, or century in which he was operating.

“Some of the parents are up in arms,” Francine was saying. “They don't feel fully represented. Do you realize that almost thirty percent of die pupils in the school aren't Catholics?”

I hadn't known that, either. But I did realize that Francine was leading me not to the rectory, but the school. “Where is the meeting?” I asked.

“The school auditorium,” Francine replied. “They expect way too many people to fit into the rectory parlor.”

That made sense. Three more cars pulled into the parking lot; I recognized Buzzy O'Toole, Roseanna and Buddy Bayard, and last, but certainly not least, Ed and Shirley Bronsky in their ice-blue Mercedes.

I also recognized most—but not all—of the fifty people who were milling about in the school auditorium. Those I couldn't place were all under forty. I figured them to be parents of St. Mildred's non-Catholic students.

Father Dennis Kelly was wearing his short-sleeve summer clerical garb, which was probably a concession to the gravity of the meeting. Usually, our pastor is seen around town in old sweats or blue jeans and a flannel
shirt. He is in his mid-forties, average height, average looks, and superior intelligence. What makes him stand out in Alpine isn't his religious vocation, but the fact that he is African American. Minorities are rare in Skykomish County. Indeed, the previous generation considered a minority as anyone who wasn't Scandinavian. When Father Den arrived at St. Mildred's two years ago, he was met by hostility, suspicion, and fear. Ironically it was his fellow clergymen, especially Regis Bartleby of Trinity Episcopal and Donald Nielsen of Faith Lutheran who had made overt gestures of welcome. Slowly, hopefully, most Alpiners had come to accept Father Den's presence, at least on some level.

As a member of the parish council, Francine had to take her place at one of the two lunchroom tables that had been set up on the stage. Thus I sought a discreetly placed folding chair near thejback. If I must attend meetings, it's my policy to sit where an early exit is not only easy, but unnoticed.

However, Buzzy O'Toole sought me out immediately. “What have you heard?” he asked in an urgent whisper.

I stared at Buzzy. He is about my age, but looks older. His auburn hair is graying and thinning, there are deep lines in his angular face, and his blue eyes are always sad. Unlike his brother, Jake, who owns the Grocery Basket, Buzzy has had bad luck in the world of commerce. Three years ago he was forced to close his BP service station. Since then, he's tried his hand at running a secondhand store and a bicycle shop. Both enterprises failed. Lately he's been working as Jake's produce manager. I'd heard a rumor that his wife, Laura, had left him recently, but so far, Vida, my source of all Alpine knowledge, hadn't been able to confirm it.

“I haven't heard anything,” I said in my normal voice, which seemed to disturb Buzzy, who signaled for me to speak more quietly. “That is, Ed Bronsky suggested I
attend because there are going to be some important issues on the agenda.”

Buzzy let out a gust of air between clenched teeth. “For once, Ed's not full of it. This is crucial. I can hardly afford tuition now.” Father Den brought down his gavel. Buzzy jumped. “Hard times for St. Mildred's,” he whispered, and furtively moved off to his seat.

The meeting was opened with a prayer, which seemed sufficiently harmless in that it wasn't incendiary. Then Father Den deferred to the parish-council president, Jake O'Toole. Jake is bigger and better looking than his younger brother, but when he speaks in a public forum he has an unfortunate habit of using big words he doesn't always understand.

“This convocation has been summoned tonight because of the distension between certain members of the parish and parents in the school,” Jake began. “There are diverse issues on the agenda. We're going to commence with one that was raised at the last regular parish-council meeting August eighth.” He turned to Nunzio Lucci, a grizzled unemployed logger who was seated on his right. “Luce?”

“It's about money,” Luce said in his deep, gritty voice. “Back when Father Fitz was here, nobody could say nothin' about how the money was spent. But times has changed. Father Den here knows that we got rights, too. This is America, not Italy or one of them places where the Church runs the whole show.”

A small woman with long, straight brown hair waved a hand at the far end of the tables. “Excuse me, I was in Italy last month, and I'd like to correct Mr. Lucci. While the Roman Catholic Church is an influential force in people's lives, I didn't get the impression that it ran its members. Of course, I'm a Unitarian, but I do have a major in sociology. And yes,” she added with a sour expression, “Italian men still pinch. They can't seem to stop being macho.”