by Maddy Hunter
“You will. I hope you stocked up on repellent. So…about my next assignment.”
“Next assignment? You’ve just begun this one.”
My ex-husband, Jack, who’d undergone gender reassignment surgery to become a curvaceous knockout named Jackie, had recently divorced her philandering husband and had been desperate for a job. We’d offered her a travel escort position in our agency and were giving her a test run at the new theme park—five days (two of which were travel days) and four nights, with only eight guests, all of whom were widows and widowers. A small group. A minimum of days. No jet lag. No language barrier. No Bernice Zwerg. With her theater background and extroverted personality, I figured her first tour was bound to be a rousing success, which might induce us to assign her to more lengthy trips abroad.
“I know I’m just getting started, Emily, but I’d like to request a destination other than a converted Iowa cornfield. I feel as if I’ve been transported back to the Dust Bowl days of the early thirties. Really, my sandals are absolutely ruined. You can’t even see the rhinestones.”
“Why are you wearing rhinestone sandals in a cornfield?”
“Why does any woman squeeze her feet into strappy flats with a dinky toe box and no discernible arch support? Because they make my feet look small. So…can I expect to be reimbursed if I list them as a loss on my clothing allowance?”
“You don’t have a clothing allowance, Jack.” Even though the world now knew her as Jackie, we both understood that she’d always be Jack to me.
Silence. “You were serious? No kidding? I thought you were pulling my leg.”
“So aside from your wardrobe malfunctions, how are you doing so far? Any concerns with the group?”
“These people are so sweet, Emily. The dust doesn’t seem to bother them at all. They’re not even wheezing. They’re much more tolerant than your regulars. Less whiny. More mentally alert. Better auditory skills. They’re still neurotically punctual, but I don’t mind because they adore me. It’s so cute. The guys follow me around like lost puppies and the ladies are all clamoring for beauty tips. I might throw a makeover party in my room tonight because if there’s one thing that bonds us girls, it’s our eagerness to learn how to apply expensive cosmetic products. And I brought plenty with me, so I’m happy to share.”
“That’s really nice of you, Jack.” Despite her narcissistic tendencies, she did show occasional signs of thinking about someone other than herself.
“I know. I’m hoping it’ll be worth a few brownie points on my evaluation. Oops! Gotta run—the boys just bought me a novelty snack: deep fried corn on the cob dipped in chocolate. Maybe I can scarf it down before the dust hits it. Bye for now. Oh, and I’ll mark you down as an undecided on the clothing allowance thing.”
“No! No clothing allowance.” I followed up by texting her those same words in capital letters, just in case she hadn’t heard.
She replied by sending me a happy face emoji.
I love being taken so seriously by my employees.
four
Our journey toward Girdwood on the Seward Highway had us meandering through a national forest, around gleaming bodies of water, and alongside mountainous foothills, enjoying what Alison told us was one of the most scenic byways in America. It provided plenty of Kodak moments between Seward and Girdwood, but not one PDQ, 7-Eleven, or Kwik Trip, making it a virtual desert in the convenience store department. I’d never seen so much natural beauty unspoiled by signage for cheap gas, 64-ounce fountain drinks, or chili corn dogs.
“The area up ahead used to be a thriving little town called Portage,” Alison announced as a long bay came into view. “It had a great location on the bay here, which is the Turnagain Arm branch of Cook Inlet, but the Good Friday earthquake completely obliterated it. The only reminder that it once existed are the trees we’re about to pass on your right—or at least what’s left of them. We call it the Ghost Forest.”
Steele slowed the bus as we passed a sunken marsh choked with fractured tree trunks that were gray as ash. “This is what happens when sea water inundates a root system. It kills the entire forest, leaving what you see today—a really spooky bog of petrified spruce trees. Not a place you’d be keen to visit on Halloween.” She peered out the windshield with concern. “I hope we don’t lose our sunny day, but I’m seeing clouds on the horizon, and in the higher elevations, that could mean fog. Let’s hope it holds off until after dinner so you can appreciate the view of Turnagain Arm from two thousand feet up.” She turned back to the group, wagging a finger at them with intended good humor. “I hope you’re paying close attention to what I’m telling you because there’s going to be a test later.”
The bus erupted in laughter and applause. Not even Bernice hurled a wisecrack.
Yup. Alison sure was a people person.
As signs appeared announcing our approach to Girdwood, Alison continued her narrative. “In the 1800s Girdwood was known as Glacier City, but that changed after an Irish immigrant landed in town. His name was James Girdwood. He had arrived in New York City when he was twenty years old, made a fortune selling Irish linen, then decided to head west. He did so much to improve the Glacier City settlement, they eventually named it after him.”
I wasn’t sure what improvements she was talking about because when we drove past the town’s one main street, it looked as if Girdwood was an isolated backwater with a few eclectic businesses housed in ramshackle buildings. That a town this rustic could be home to a purported grand hotel seemed an impossibility…until we rounded a bend down a long forested road to discover a sweeping structure bounded by evergreens and mountains and landscaped with ponds, fountains, statuary, and a profusion of summer flowers. The multi-tiered pagoda-inspired roof ranged over an area that looked to be the length of two football fields, presiding atop an updated version of what resembled a Far Eastern palace. Sleekly designed, with dramatic architectural angles and acres of window glass, it was the proverbial diamond in the rough…and we’d be enjoying its amenities for two whole nights at a substantial discount.
Could I strike a deal or what?
As we pulled into the circular drive, Etienne took over the mic to reiterate our schedule. “You should be able to check into your rooms immediately, so after you’ve freshened up a bit and sneaked a peek at the amenities the hotel has to offer, head down to the lobby around six o’clock. Our dinner reservations aren’t until seven, but I’d like to give you time to explore the mountaintop before you sit down to eat. There’s no dress code for the restaurant, so you can be as casual as you’d like. And since it’ll stay light until at least two or three in the morning, you won’t have to worry about squeezing in all your picture-taking before dark, because it won’t be getting dark.”
“How are we supposed to get up to this mountain?” shouted out Dick Teig.
“Aerial tram. The station is located just behind the hotel. After we’ve gathered in the lobby, we’ll all walk over together. Any other questions?”
“I have one,” called Delpha Spillum. “If the inside of this place looks as good as the outside, do we have to leave?”
“Do you mean tonight?” asked Etienne. “Or ever?”
“I’m just saying that if we have access to a pool, hot tub, and sauna, I might skip tonight’s festivities in favor of spending a relaxing evening pampering myself.”
“Me too,” said Goldie Kristiansen. “Aerial tram sounds like it might be worse than whale watching boat, and thank you very much, but I’ve had more than my fill of motion sickness for one day.”
“Oh, come on, ladies,” encouraged Alison. “The tram ride only lasts seven minutes and the views from the top are spectacular. The hotel swimming pool and sauna will still be here tomorrow, unlike your dinner reservations, which were probably made months in advance. Trust me, you’ll kick yourselves tomorrow if you stay behind.”
“We’ll see,” hedged G
oldie. “I could end up kicking myself if I do go, so I might just decide to join Delpha.”
Even though Etienne and I arrived in the lobby a half hour early, most of the gang were already there, snapping selfies against the posh backdrop of leather furniture, potted plants, intimate lighting, and expensive artwork. Flitting from the stone fireplace with its antlered moose head, to the spear-wielding Eskimo sculpture in the middle of the floor, to the Arctic habitat display above the main entrance with its stuffed polar bear and blue lighting, they were atwitter with excitement. Not, I suspected, because they were about to dine in one of Alaska’s finest four diamond restaurants, but because they were finally getting a chance to break out their selfie sticks, purchased in bulk from Pills Etcetera for a fraction of the price advertised by the big-box stores.
Iowa seniors are incredibly adept at scouring the weekly shopper’s guide to find really good deals on flimsy plastic items made in politically repressed countries.
Dad was sitting in one of the leather armchairs by the fireplace brandishing his cell phone while Osmond, George, and the two Dicks stood behind him, pointing fingers at whatever Dad was showing them. “Look at that.” I nudged Etienne. “Dad’s having a conversation with the guys. Isn’t that sweet? He’s really opening up.”
“I’m not sure it’s an actual conversation, bella.”
“Why?”
“His lips aren’t moving.”
“I don’t know what’s so special about the pictures your dad took,” groused Bernice as she walked toward us. “Shoot, Osmond’s ten-second video of ‘Bird Sitting On Large Rock’ is more popular than your father’s stuff.” She swiped her finger over her touch screen. “Number of likes for Osmond? Sixteen. Average for all your father’s uploads? Two. Look at the trash he posted.” She angled her phone so I could see and began flipping through his photo gallery. “A lamppost. A garbage can. Pickup trucks. A squiggly crack in the sidewalk. Talk about derivative. He needs to get with the program. Think outside the box.”
“But…but Steele was very complimentary when he saw Dad’s photos.”
“Oh, right. It takes a huge amount of effort to suck up to the boss. You are so naïve. Who has more credibility about photography? A pretty boy bus driver or the woman whose face once graced the pages of a whole host of now-defunct magazines?”
I gave her a squinty look. “Did you post content too?”
“Of course.”
“How many likes do you have?” Maybe on this website, two likes might be considered good.
“I’ll put it in perspective for you: Dick Stolee’s stupid video of ‘Glacier Gives Birth to Iceberg’ has 148 likes. My video, which I’ve cleverly entitled ‘Panicked Boat Passengers Narrowly Escape Death from Approaching Tsunami,’ had over a thousand the last time I looked.”
“There was no tsunami,” I argued, my voice rising in tandem with my shock.
“Okay. A wave. Same thing.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Loved the selections in your father’s photo gallery,” chirped Alice Tjarks as she brushed by us.
Bernice snorted. “Must have been Alice who gave him the two sympathy likes. There’s a bleeding heart in every crowd. Lunkheads.”
I sighed as Bernice shuffled off, my heart breaking as I watched Dad sit in contented silence while the Dicks whooped it up behind him. I looked up at Etienne. “Do you think Dad’ll be crushed if his photos get panned on that website?”
“I think your father has his priorities in the right place, bella. He’ll survive despite the snub.” He kissed the crown of my head. “Be right back. I want to check the front desk for messages.”
I thought about perusing his photo gallery myself but figured my hands were tied until someone gave me a URL more specific than “new website.” Scanning the room, I spotted Nana in an alcove with George and was about to wend my way in their direction when Orphie Arneson stopped me.
“Have you heard anything about a tornado hitting Windsor City, Emily?”
My stomach went into freefall. My breath caught in my throat like an oversized hairball. “Omigod, not another one! Was anyone hurt? When did it happen?”
“I don’t know if it happened or not, but Al was supposed to call me at precisely five o’clock and he didn’t, so I was wondering if a tornado might have gone through and taken out all the cell towers.”
I felt a little lightheaded as air rushed back into my lungs. “So you think the reason Al didn’t call was due to a massive technical problem?”
“I guess having all our cell towers wiped out would be considered a technical problem, right?”
“Was he going to call you at five o’clock his time or your time?”
“I told him to call me at five o’clock every day.” Her gaze floated upward as she searched her memory, looking suddenly guilty. “But I might have forgotten to specify which time zone.”
“If he thought he was supposed to call you at five o’clock Iowa time, you should have received a call at two o’clock Alaska time.”
Orphie shook her head. “Never happened.”
“So that narrows things down, doesn’t it?”
“It should. But he didn’t call me at five o’clock Alaska time either.”
I checked my watch. “It’s closing in on nine o’clock in Iowa. Anything going on tonight in Windsor City that might be occupying his time? City council meeting, maybe?”
Her eyeballs seemed to freeze in her sockets as she stared at me, looking abashed. “Oh geesch, that’s right. Council meeting tonight and there’s a lot on the agenda, so…” She tucked in her lips and lifted her shoulders in an embarrassed shrug. “I’m so sorry, Emily. I’m remembering now that he said this could be an all-nighter, so he might not have a chance to call at all. He’s so dedicated.” She smiled proudly. “I keep encouraging him to run for Congress. Of course, the downside is we’d have to move to Washington. But the upside is he’d only have to work half as much.”
As I maneuvered my way around the furniture toward Nana, I saw Alison hurry across the floor to join us, looking like a million bucks in a short flirty skirt and clingy top. “My watch stopped,” she apologized as she joined the group. “Am I the last one to arrive? I was terrified I’d be late on my first night out.”
“Yeah,” Bernice said dryly. “You’re lucky we didn’t leave without you.”
“We’re still missing a few,” Margi Swanson commented.
“Mostly the book club folks,” added Tilly.
“If the book lovers keep holding us up like this, I vote to leave ’em behind,” fussed Bernice. “We could be knocking back drinks in the restaurant bar already if we didn’t have to stand around here waiting for those bozos to arrive.”
“This is their first time traveling with us,” explained Margi, “so they obviously don’t have their schedules quite synchronized with ours yet.”
“Speak of the devil,” said Dick Teig, breaking into applause as Thor Thorsen strode toward us, charging in front of Florence as if she were an afterthought.
Whistles. Hoots. More clapping.
“ ’Bout time you showed up,” needled Dick Stolee.
“What’s your problem?” challenged Thor. “We’re here, aren’t we? No thanks to Florence. Blame her if you have any complaints.”
Why did I get the impression that Thor was quite willing to blame Florence for just about everything?
As the guys continued to razz Thor, Delpha Spillum appeared from a side corridor off the stairs, looking out of breath and uncustomarily rattled as she loitered on the perimeter of the room, her gaze darting back and forth as if she were searching for someone. I couldn’t tell from her swirly pink-and-black speed tights if she’d decided to join us for dinner or remain at the hotel, but if she was looking for someone, I suspected it might be Goldie. Could it be that the ladies had decided to make alternate plans tha
t included neither a mountaintop nor an aerial tram?
I waved to her from across the lobby, but she’d shifted her attention to the arrival of the remaining latecomers, Goldie, Grover, and Ennis, who were making their way across the floor, egged on by cheers and more clapping.
But Delpha was neither cheering nor clapping.
Her teeth were clenched, her eyes were narrowed, and her gaze was locked on the trio, not with longtime affection and accord but with pure, unadulterated loathing.
five
“Tower swing!”
Everyone grabbed for a handhold as the tram car swayed left and right on its way past one of its supporting towers.
Woos. Giggles. Stumbling. But Goldie Kristiansen didn’t look as if she was about to lose her cookies, so that was a plus.
With fewer than two dozen of us in a tram that held sixty, everyone was able to claim a decent spot at one of the car’s observation windows, so we were spared any complaints from Bernice about not being able to see. The gang collapsed their selfie sticks to limit the risk of knocking each other’s brains out inside the tram, but they continued to snap their selfies, with large images of their own teeth and nostrils obscuring the ruggedness of the terrain below.
Dad had yet to master the art of the selfie, so with Mom oohing and aahing beside him as she pointed out mountains and trees, he shot his photos the old-fashioned way, with something other than his own face filling the frame.
“Okay, folks,” announced our youthful tram attendant in his mirrored aviator glasses and shaggy hair, “I’m Cody, and we’re taking off here at 250 feet above sea level and will work our way up to 2,330 feet. That’ll take us seven minutes at a gnarly twelve miles an hour.”
Thor stood in front of a window with his camera whirring nonstop as he aimed it back down the slope toward the hotel. Florence stood dutifully at his side, weighted down by only two camera cases this evening. I spotted Delpha at the opposite end of the car, so as our attendant continued to talk, I inched my way in her direction, fearful that if she was warring with her longtime friends, it would have a negative impact on the rest of the group. Since my escort’s manual advised that a competent tour escort would try to smooth over guests’ altercations before they got out of hand, I was on it.