by Mary Daheim
“Look,” I said, standing up but staying behind the desk which I always thought of as the moat that kept my public at bay, “you’re trying to interpret the sentence. Why? It just says that Dani’s father left town. Some other reader might figure that you chased him off with a two-by-four. Did you?”
Patti was still wild-eyed, but she was beginning to lose steam. I gauged that she was the sort of person who can bulldoze her way through life as long as there’s nothing very substantial in her path. In my guise as editor and publisher of The Advocate, I always felt fairly substantial. It was in my other roles that I sometimes felt like a will-o’-the-wisp.
“This town’s full of gossipy old bitches—the men, too.” Her brown eyes raked over my small cluttered office. Patti Marsh had a skittish, nervous gaze, as if her emotions were in charge of her vision. “How many calls have you had?”
My own stare turned blank. “About what?”
She pointed again at the paper. “About me. And … Dani.” It seemed she could hardly get her daughter’s name out.
“None. It’s a pretty tame story, Ms. Marsh.”
The expression of scorn she bestowed on me might have withered a person who wasn’t used to letters that started “Dear Knucklehead.” Or worse. “Hey, kiddo, you don’t know the half of it,” asserted Patti, with a toss of her bleached hair. “This whole ball of wax is anything but tame.” She started to heel around on her black thongs, then her mouth twisted into a nasty little smile. “If you ask me, we’ll all be lucky if somebody doesn’t end up killed.” Her eyes dropped to the stack of glossy photos at the side of my desk. “Who’s that?” she demanded, looking startled.
I glanced down. Reid Hampton’s picture was on top of the pile. “The director. Why?”
Patti Marsh gave herself a vigorous shake. “Hunh. So he’s the one who’s been pushing Dani. I wonder why.” There was a sneer in her voice, then she strutted out of the office, almost colliding with Vida, who was just coming in. I didn’t hear the exchange between them; I was too busy trying to figure out what on earth Patti Marsh was talking about. Whatever it was, I assumed it had nothing to do with Loggerama.
Vida surged through the newsroom, heading straight for my office. Her sailor hat was tipped over one ear. At least she didn’t have it on backward, as often happen with Vida’s headgear. Behind the tortoiseshell glasses, her eyes were afire. “If I didn’t think all you Catholics were a bunch of smug hidebound hypocrites, I’d convert so I could be eligible for sainthood. Any normal person would have put Patti Marsh’s nose in her navel.”
Accustomed to Vida’s fulminations against any religion but her own Presbyterian sect, I merely grinned. “Got you riled, huh? What’s really eating that woman?”
“Woman!” sniffed Vida, plopping down into one of the two chairs on the other side of my desk. “Patti doesn’t qualify. Real women aren’t so hare-brained.” She stopped fuming, then cocked her head to one side. “You’re right, Emma. What is wrong with Patti? Oh, she and Dani were always at sixes and sevens, but that doesn’t make for such bitterness. Patti’s the type who’d hitch her wagon to a star, especially if the star’s her daughter. Five years have gone by, and it sounds as if Dani has grown up considerably. I can’t help but think they ought to have worked through their differences by now.”
Not knowing either mother or daughter, I was in no position to speculate. Admitting as much, I let Vida continue her mulling out in the newsroom while I answered another rash of post-publication calls. By ten o’clock, I was mired in conversation with Alpine’s oldest rational citizen, Elmer Kemp, 101 years old, who had come to town as a teenager to work in the sawmill. Elmer had a laundry list of omissions from the historical coverage, and paid no heed to my attempts to remind him that we were limited in terms of space. He didn’t much like the implication that clear-cutting was bad; he objected to a reference to the Lumber Trust of the post-World War I era, claiming there never was such a thing; he asserted that the big price hike back in 1919 was due solely to an unprecedented demand for lumber in the mysterious East—i.e., New York, Boston, and Philadelphia.
I was taking desultory notes for a possible feature when Ginny Burmeister signaled from the outer office, mouthing something I couldn’t understand. At last, she whipped out a piece of paper and scrawled her message in red pen:
“Reid Hampton on line two.”
Getting rid of Elmer was no mean feat, and I was finally forced to resort to the promise of an interview, perhaps in early September. “I should live so long,” huffed Elmer. He finally hung up, giving me no opportunity to point out that having already reached 101, his chances of being around in another month might be better than mine.
The telephone only served to amplify Reid Hampton’s booming voice. “You’re a busy woman,” he remarked in what I took to be a chiding tone. It was likely that Reid Hampton was rarely put on hold.
“The paper came out yesterday,” I explained, holding the phone a half-inch from my ear. “We always get a lot of feedback. Like a movie premiere.”
His hearty laugh rumbled along the line. “But unlike the picture business, it’s too late for you to make any changes.”
“Yes. Journalism is real life.” I felt my voice tense.
“And movies are reel life,” Reid Hampton noted with a deep chuckle.
At least he hadn’t condescended to spell reel. We were making small talk, and I couldn’t see the point.
Reid Hampton went straight to it: “Are you free for dinner tonight?” The question was posed on a softer note.
“Why—yes.” Taken by surprise, I blurted out the truth.
“Where can we get a decent meal within a fifty-mile radius?” He sounded pleased with himself.
I was nervously shuffling papers on my desk. I didn’t particularly want to have dinner with Reid Hampton. But how often would Emma Lord, small-town newspaper publisher, have a chance to go out with a famous Hollywood director? How often would old Emma have a chance to go out at all? Alpine wasn’t exactly a hotbed of eligible middle-aged men who were sufficiently sophisticated to know they were supposed to sniff, not chew, the wine cork.
“There’s a good French restaurant just a few miles down the highway,” I said, gathering courage. “It’s run by a Californian and a Provençois,” I added, hoping to give the place credibility.
“French food via Rodeo Drive? That sounds fine to me.”
We settled on seven o’clock, and I gave him directions to my home. Then Reid Hampton was off, presumably to tell Dani Marsh how to shiver in eighty-six-degree weather. I had regained my poise and was smiling, a bit wryly. Take that, Milo Dodge, I said to myself. I, too, can strike California gold.
It was busier than usual Thursday, with all the Loggerama doings. I filled in for Carla at the Miss Alpine pageant rehearsal in the high school gym, stopped by the football field to catch the trials for the timber sports competition, and checked out the parade floats being assembled in an empty warehouse by the river.
Since I was afoot, I was hot and tired by the time I dropped off four rolls of film at Bayard’s Picture-Perfect Photo Studio, where we do most of our developing work. Buddy Bayard is efficient, competent, and contrary. He will argue any issue, any time, choosing any side you’re not on. I cut my stay at his studio short and dragged myself the last two blocks along Front Street to the Advocate office.
Vida was already gone, leaving a note atop a pile of copy. Ed was going over an ad with Francine Wells for Francine’s Fine Apparel. Francine was set on buying half a page to show the first of her new fall line; Ed was determined to cut the ad by half.
I stopped at his desk, greeted Francine, and admired the sketches she’d brought along. “Terrific separates,” I gushed, wondering how anyone could contemplate woolens in July. “What are the colors this season?”
Francine brightened; Ed blanched. No doubt he had visions of Francine wanting a special four-color insert. But before Francine could respond, a tall, lean young man with sun-streaked
blond hair came through the door, carrying a bouquet of tiger lilies, gladioli, and asparagus fern. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t immediately place him.
“Excuse me,” he said in a soft, diffident voice. “Could someone tell me where I could find the movie people?”
My first reaction was that the film crew probably preferred not to be found. But perhaps this self-effacing young man had a reason for going to the location shoot, such as delivering his flowers. “Do you have some connection with the company?” I asked, making an effort to sound friendly.
“Hey,” said Ed, looking up from Francine’s ad dummy, “aren’t you Curtis Graff?” He rose awkwardly from his chair, lumbering across the room to shake the newcomer’s hand. “I remember you from the fire department. You rescued a couple of kids from a burning house out on Burl Creek Road.”
Curtis Graff smiled in a modest manner. “I had help.” His smile grew wider. “I don’t think those kids wanted to come out, though. They’d been playing with matches and were more afraid of their parents than the fire.”
I backed off, allowing Curtis and Ed to get reacquainted. Francine sidled up to me, her carefully styled hair and her white sleeveless dress somehow keeping unruffled in the heat of the day. “He’s better-looking than Cody,” she whispered. “Maybe Dani should have married him instead.”
Francine was right. The weaknesses in Cody Graff’s features weren’t evident in those of his older brother. Perhaps it was a matter of character. Curtis Graff struck me as more serious, with a touch of melancholy. At any rate, he didn’t look as if he were prone to pouting.
“I just got in from Alaska,” Curtis was saying. “I’m staying with some friends.” He turned to me and his dark blond eyebrows lifted. “Say—are you Adam Lord’s mother? He asked me to have you send him a few things when I go back up north.”
“Surprise, surprise,” I murmured. “Just let me know what and when. Are you looking for anyone in particular with the movie or did you just want to watch the filming?”
Curtis, who was wearing knee-length shorts and a T-shirt, shifted from one foot to the other. “I know someone who’s making the movie. I just didn’t know how to get hold of anybody. Do they stay around here at night?”
“They’re all up at the ski lodge,” I said without further hesitation. The movie company’s lodgings were no secret. Indeed, a lot of locals—and maybe a few tourists, too—had probably made their way by now to the location site.
“Great,” said Curtis Graff. He offered us his diffident smile. “Thanks. I’ll get back to you in a couple of days, Mrs. Lord. Adam gave me a list, but he said he might call you about some other stuff he forgot.”
I inclined my head. Curtis Graff moved quickly out of the office, giving the impression that he was making an escape. “That’s odd,” I remarked, more to myself than to Ed and Francine. “I wonder why he isn’t staying with Cody.” My ad manager didn’t pay any attention, but Francine’s bright blue eyes fastened on me.
“If my memory hasn’t failed,” said Francine, “there’s no love lost between the brothers. Their parents retired to the San Juan Islands about the same time Curtis went up to Alaska. I never knew the boys very well, but Hetty Graff was always hanging around the sale rack. She never bought anything unless it was at least forty percent off.”
Ed’s head shot up. “Forty percent off? Gosh, Francine, don’t tell me you’re having a clearance sale!”
Francine’s carefully plucked eyebrows lifted slightly. “Not yet, Ed.” She gave him her sweetest smile. “I thought about having a renovation sale after Durwood wiped out my front window, but I’ll wait until September. Do you think I should take out a full page ad?”
Ed reeled against the desk. Trying not to laugh aloud, I crept into my office.
My walk home was uphill. I arrived at my cozy log house in a weary, wilted state, hoping that the shelter of the evergreen trees had kept the interior cool. Clutching the mail I had retrieved from my box by the road, I went inside and discovered that though there was no breeze, the temperature in the living room seemed at least ten degrees below the heat outdoors.
I got a Pepsi out of the refrigerator and poured it over a tall glass of ice. Collapsing on the sofa, I scanned the mail. The usual bills, ads, catalogues—and a single letter. The return address put my heart in my mouth: a well-heeled residential street in San Francisco. Hurriedly, I ripped open the plain beige envelope.
This was the third letter I had received from Tom Cavanaugh since he had visited Alpine the previous autumn. He had come to town to give me advice on running the newspaper. He had also expressed an interest in investing in The Advocate, since buying into newspapers was one of the ways he had built up the considerable fortune his wife had inherited. I had not been keen on a partnership, no matter how silent, and Tom had respected my wishes. But he and I were already partners in another far different enterprise: Tom was Adam’s father, and in this letter, he was insisting on playing a bigger role in our son’s life.
“With my other children virtually raised and on their own, I feel honor-bound to help you with Adam,” Tom wrote on his word processor. “I haven’t pressed you about this because I know how hell-bent you are on being independent. If you don’t want to tell Adam about me, you don’t have to, but in good conscience, I can’t go on ignoring my responsibilities. It’s not fair to Adam, and it’s not fair to me.”
Bull, I thought to myself angrily. None of it was ever fair to anybody. It wasn’t fair that Tom had married a wealthy heiress before I met him. It wasn’t fair that we had fallen in love and that his wife and I had gotten pregnant about the same time. And it certainly wasn’t fair that Sandra Cavanaugh had turned out to be a raving loony.
“I can see you wadding this letter up and throwing it across the room while you swear like a sailor,” Tom went on in his usual wry—and perceptive—manner. “But I’d like you to at least think about this. I may be coming up your way in the early fall again, so maybe we can have dinner. Meanwhile, there are a couple of recent developments that came out of a publishers’ meeting last month in Tampa …”
He went on to enlighten me about a new way of billing advertisers and how small newspapers could become the middlemen in job printing. I didn’t pay much attention. All I noticed was that he signed the letter, “Love, Tom.”
And I still did.
Perhaps I’d give his proposal some thought. After Loggerama. I might even consider his suggestions about the paper. Certainly I would think about having dinner with him if he came up from the Bay Area in the fall.
One thing I would not do: I wouldn’t crumple up the letter and throw it across the room. But I did swear like a sailor.
Chapter Five
MY DINNER WITH Reid Hampton was a dud. The food at the Café de Flore was excellent as always, the wine list was extensive and impressive, and the service was superb. But the company was definitely second-rate.
To be fair, I suppose a lot of women would find Reid Hampton fascinating. Certainly he had traveled a lot, read widely if not deeply, and knew everyone who had graced the covers of People magazine in the past year. But by the time the main course arrived, I was already full—at least of Reid Hampton, who was so full of himself. It’s an occupational hazard of journalism that much of one’s career is spent listening to other people tell you the stories of their lives. So maybe just once, I was hoping that in my off-hours, I’d find someone who might want to hear mine. As it turned out, Reid Hampton didn’t. He didn’t even ask any questions about Alpine, which struck me as strange—certainly a director who was setting a film in a small town should want to know what life was really like. But I gathered that Reid Hampton preferred to make up his own version.
It was no wonder that he didn’t ask to come in when he brought me home or that he made no romantic advances. I suspected that he was as glad to park me on my doorstep as I was to see him drive away. Most of the time he had talked about himself, his films, his ambitions, his philosophy. My
efforts at steering him away from his ego and onto his coworkers came to naught. He remarked that the camera loved Dani Marsh, and that she was like an empty bottle, just waiting for him to fill her up with emotions. He appeared to know next to nothing about her background, except that she came from Alpine. “Cute little town,” he had commented. “We’ll do a couple of street scenes after all this Loggerama crap is out of the way. I should have some of those buildings repainted along the main drag. They’re not right for this picture. I need more blue, some green, maybe even a splash of red. Say, Emma, how would you like to have your newspaper office take on a coat of canary yellow?”
The Advocate badly needed a make-over, but yellow coupled with journalism did not strike me as a suitable visual message. Somehow, I’d avoided a direct answer. Reid had waxed a bit more eloquently on the subject of Matt Tabor, praising the actor’s “brooding presence” and “unquenchable masculinity.” Matt was from Kansas and had started out as a dancer. I had refrained from asking if he’d worn ruby slippers or had owned a dog named Toto. My only revenge had been dessert, a marvelous confection of meringue and apricots and whipped cream topped with crystalized sugar.
If I had not turned Reid Hampton into a slathering beast, he had not stirred me to pulse-throbbing excitement either. It was strange, perhaps, since he was good-looking in his lion-maned, broad-shouldered way, and certainly had the trappings of power and success to provide the necessary aphrodisiac. As I slipped out of my plain black linen sheath, it occurred to me that the evening might have gone better if I hadn’t received the letter from Tom Cavanaugh just over an hour before Reid had picked me up. To my addled heart, Tom would have made Erich von Stroheim seem bland.