The Alpine Nemesis (18 page)

“When's the funeral for the O'Neills?” I asked. “I thought Father Den would announce it at the wake.”

“Oh, dear!” Vida shot me a sheepish look as she stood up. “I forgot to tell you. It's a Mass, tomorrow morning, ten o'clock. Father Kelly's secretary called it in to me late this afternoon. The O'Neills apparently want to be buried in Ireland with their father. Dan Peebles said the bodies would be shipped from here tomorrow morning right after the service.”

“Another burial abroad?” I said in surprise. “What is this, some new fad? Are we running out of room at the cemetery?”

“Actually, we may be,” Vida said as she moved toward the door. “I believe one of the county commissioners mentioned recently that we may have to expand across First Hill Road to some vacant property by the women's shelter.”

“I'll have Scott check on that,” I remarked as I accompanied Vida to the door. “But I still find all these overseas burials peculiar.”

“In a way,” Vida allowed. “I must dash. Roger will wonder what's happened to me. I don't like leaving him alone for too long in the evenings. He won't admit it, but I'm sure he gets lonesome.”

I was sure that Roger was out in Vida's backyard smoking cigarettes, or even wacky tobacky. “He's old enough to amuse himself,” I said, keeping my thoughts to myself.

In the doorway, Vida paused to scrutinize me. “You do look very pretty, Emma. I hope you have a lovely time with Tommy.”

“Thanks,” I said, and felt my stomach give a lurch of excitement. Or fear.

Whatever the cause, pacing the living room wouldn't help. After Vida had been gone for ten minutes, I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. And all the better to see Tom's arrival. The rain had almost stopped, and a waning moon was forcing its way through the clouds. Or so it seemed. My brain wasn't working on all cylinders. I felt like a silly fool.

Back inside, I got out two glasses and the bottle of Irish whiskey I'd purchased for Tom earlier. It was precisely ten o'clock. Wandering back into the living room, I checked for any stray dust. Then I searched the carpet for dirt. Finally, I went into the bathroom to make sure my makeup was still in order. It was, but the face that looked back at me seemed pale and just a little frightened.

I
was
frightened. Here was the biggest decision of my life, and my mind still wasn't at peace. Still, Milo had given good advice—let Tom make some of the choices. Our future shouldn't fall only on my shoulders. But what if Tom was unwilling to accept his role? I couldn't bear to contemplate a deadlock.

Giving myself a good shake—without disarranging my short brown curls too much, of course—I set my jaw and stared again into the mirror. That was better. I didn't look quite so much like a deer facing a twelve-gauge shotgun. If only my heart would stop pounding like a jackhammer, I thought, and then realized that the thudding wasn't coming from me, but from the front door.

“Oh, Jeez,” I said out loud and raced to the door. I didn't bother to look through the peephole.

“Hi, there,” Tom said, grinning at me. “Where were you? I rang about three times. Is the bell broken?”

“Ah … no,” I said, suddenly short of breath. “I was in the bathroom.”

For a long moment, we stared at each other. It was
game time. I felt like a pitcher who hadn't thrown any warm-up tosses, an actress who hadn't memorized her lines. I was suspended in time and space, frozen to the floor.

Tom broke the spell. He came inside, shut the door behind him, and swept me into his arms. “You look terrific,” he declared, kissing my forehead, my cheeks, my chin, and finally my lips.

“So do you,” I said after a long moment. And he did— the chiseled profile, the silvered brown hair, the keen blue eyes, the perpetual tan. If age had eroded some of his good looks, an air of distinction had compensated. He was as attractive to me now as he'd been when I first met him almost thirty years ago on the copy desk of the
Seattle Times.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked from the circle of his arms.

“Sure,” he replied, holding me close as we headed for the kitchen. “How are you?”

“Nervous,” I admitted.

He didn't comment, but asked instead if I'd talked to Adam.

“Yes,” I answered, moving away to make our drinks. “The other night. He was kind of rough on his old mother.”

Tom gave me a sidelong look and a wry grin. “He's been kind of rough on his old dad, too.”

I was surprised. Having seen Tom and Adam together so seldom, I didn't understand the dynamics between them. “How so?”

The grin disappeared. “I guess it was about a year, maybe a little less, after Sandra died that Adam started pressing me to make a serious commitment to you. He had trouble accepting the fact that Kelsey needed me to help with her baby.”

I'd had trouble accepting the fact, too. Tom hadn't
seemed half so concerned when I'd had my own child out of wedlock. “You never told me Adam felt that way,” I said, trying to push the old resentments aside.

Tom took his drink from me and we returned to the living room. “I didn't see the point. You knew my situation.”

We sat down and he put his arm around me. “The baby's walking now,” he went on, looking rather proud. “ Aidan has Kelsey and Sandra's coloring, but he's got my eyes and mouth.”

“Aidan,” I said. “That's a wonderful name. Where did Kelsey come up with it?”

“It was my father's name,” Tom said, sipping his drink. “You never met my folks, though you must have seen them in church.”

One of life's ironies was that my family and the Cav-anaughs had been members of the same Seattle parish, though we lived in different neighborhoods. I had seen Tom as an altar boy at St. Benedict's, but the seven years' age difference had kept each of us from noticing the other.

“You said your father had an artificial leg,” I said. “I vaguely recall a man who limped, but I honestly don't remember his wife.”

Tom smiled softly. “Mom had hair about the color of yours when she was younger. She was about your size, too. But she wasn't someone you'd pick out of a crowd. She'd had a hard life, after losing her first two children.”

I'd known that both of Tom's brothers had died, one while being born, the other in a hit-and-run accident, when a drunk plowed into their front yard and ran over the three-year-old. Tom had come along several years later, when his parents were in their forties. Aidan Cav-anaugh had died when Tom was a college senior. Tom's mother had passed away some twenty years later. While I
had known Tom while Charlotte Cavanaugh was still alive, I wasn't his wife, I was his girlfriend, and not the sort you'd bring home to Mother.

“So Kelsey and little Aidan are getting along on their own?” I ventured.

Tom nodded. “They're living in a condo near the Presidio. Her brother, Graham, is coming up from L.A. for a couple of weeks next month.”

“And the sale of your house?”

“I took it off the market.”

I craned my neck to look up at him. “Why?”

He kissed my forehead. “Because Pm not sure what's going to happen. With us.”

“But I thought you were buying a condo on Nob Hill,” I said, feeling a new surge of panic.

“Pm not in any rush.” He finished his drink and put both arms around me. “Not about real estate, anyway. I think it's our bedtime.”

“I think you're right.” I wrapped my arms around his neck. As always, he smelled like pine-scented soap and soft leather. I buried my face in his shoulder and wished all decisions were as simple as this one. “Carry me,” I whispered.

He did, with relative ease. In the bedroom, we undressed each other, slowly at first, then with greater urgency. Time and place seemed to dissolve. There were no pressures, no decisions, no panic—only joy. When at last we were spent, Tom held me close and rested his lips against my temple.

“Well?” he breathed. “What's your decision?”

I couldn't believe my own ears. The damned phone rang on the nightstand. I let out a little yelp and Tom laughed.

“Answer it,” he said, adding what only a fellow journalist would advise. “It might be breaking news.”

As if I wanted to strangle the phone, I gripped the receiver with both hands. But of course it was the caller I wanted to choke.

I all but shouted: “Hello?”

“Emma?” Vida sounded shaken. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” I shot back, then lowered my voice. “What's wrong?”

“Roger,” she said, her voice still unsteady. “He hasn't come home.”

I glanced at the digital clock radio on the nightstand. It was almost eleven-thirty. “He hasn't?” I said stupidly, then added for Tom's benefit, “Roger's been out all evening?”

“Yes,” Vida replied. “He left before I went to the wake. He was going to Old Mill Park for a while. Oh, Emma, should I call the sheriff?”

I didn't know what to tell her. Roger was probably horsing around somewhere, doing whatever sixteen-year-olds did on a late-spring evening. Not that that couldn't be bad, especially where Roger was concerned. But Vida wouldn't have been so uncertain if she wasn't truly upset.

Damn the kid, I thought. “Maybe you had better call the sheriff,” I finally said. “Whoever is on patrol tonight will probably find him with some other kids. Roger's probably lost track of time. It stays light so late this time of year.”

“That's so,” Vida allowed. “Very well, I'll do that.” She hung up.

“Roger, huh?” Tom said, propping himself up on the pillows. “What is he, fifteen, sixteen?”

I said he'd just turned sixteen.

Tom chuckled and shook his head. “I remember Graham at that age. It's a wonder I didn't get as off-balance as Sandra. Graham got picked up twice for shoplifting and once for an attempted breaking-and-entering. Did you know that?”

“No,” I said in a vague sort of voice. I didn't want to think about Tom's son or Vida's grandson. “You asked me a question before the phone rang, remember?”

Tom nodded, his blue eyes keen. “I've been damned curious about your response.”

I took a deep breath. “Let me ask you a question first. How do you feel about moving to Alpine?”

Tom's face grew very serious, though he didn't register surprise. “You don't want to give up the
Advocate,
right?”

I tried to keep my gaze steady. “Right.”

Tom shrugged his bare shoulders. “I can understand that.” He paused while I held my breath. “I suppose I could learn to live in Alpine. You did. So what's your answer?”

My astonishment was so great that I couldn't speak. I just stared at Tom with my mouth open. Then, with enormous effort and tremendous relief, I threw myself against his chest and cried, “Yes!”

We spent the next half hour sitting in bed, drinking more Irish whiskey and making plans. Tom explained how San Francisco didn't hold so much charm for him anymore. It had grown too congested, too crowded, and the grande dame fagade was crumbling around the edges.

“Graham plans to stay in L.A. to pursue his acting career,” Tom said as the digital clock clicked over to midnight. “Kelsey wants to work with underprivileged children, maybe in San Francisco, maybe somewhere else. She liked New York, but doesn't want to go back. Too many bad memories, involving that idiot who fathered her child.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “An idiot like me, only more so.”

I smiled at the self-deprecating remark. I could afford to, now. “You must have some bad memories of San
Francisco,” I said. “Life there with Sandra wasn't always happy.”

“No, it wasn't,” Tom said simply. “I don't know how I'll adjust to small-town living, but you did. Anyway, I visit plenty of small towns when I'm out checking on my weeklies.”

Setting the date had been easy. I had at first suggested an autumn wedding, but Tom thought it would be a great idea to let Adam marry us. That meant in the spring, following our son's ordination. The idea filled me with pride.

I was still glowing when the phone rang again. This time, I was neither startled nor angry.

“Dwight Gould found Roger,” Vida announced. “He's quite safe, but very naughty.”

“Where was he?” I asked, relieved for Vida's sake, if not for Roger's.

“Coming down First Hill with two of the Gustavson boys. Cousins, you know. Such little mischief-makers. They'd simply been out strolling around the town. I think I'll put it in next week's Scene.”

I pretended to be pleased, though I would have preferred it if Dwight had cuffed the kids and hauled their butts to jail. They could have spent the night in a cell next to the Hartquists. It would have served all of them right.

“See you in the morning, Vida,” I said cheerfully.

“Of course,” Vida responded, then her tone grew a bit breathless, no doubt with rampant curiosity. “Oh—did Tommy arrive safely?”

I looked down at Tom, whose eyes had closed. He was safe, he was with me, he was mine. “Yes,” I said, and bade Vida goodnight.

F
RIDAY MORNING
, June eleventh. It was no ordinary day; it felt like the first day of my life. Unlike most mornings, I woke up feeling almost alert and definitely happy. I couldn't remember when I didn't pause in full consciousness to enumerate the negative aspects of the coming day. Instead, I gazed down at Tom, who was still asleep. In my bed. Next to me. Where he belonged.