“So… that’s nice. Pelle working for one of our suppliers. You can keep tabs on him.”
“Uh-huh. That was the idea. I don’t want him going the way of his father.”
“John Russ strikes me as a straight shooter. Good people.”
Neeka flushed again. “Yes, he’s a fine man.”
Barely concealing a smile, Eve said, “We’ve been getting such great service lately, too. Advance notice on what’s coming in season, the pick of the peaches…”
“Uh-huh.”
Eve left it there. Neeka’s husband had died some four or five years ago from a crystal meth overdose. Well before Ani left, Eve thought. It would be great if romance had found Neeka again. And high time, that nagging inner voice added, that you do the same. Waiting until next summer is just more denial. You’ve been hiding in a cave, waiting for…waiting for what, exactly? To find out it was all a mistake? Didn’t matter—Ani had run away rather than talk. She had thought Ani had loved her, but without trust how could there be love?
She and Neeka worked well as a team to assemble a dozen pies, ready for baking. The dishwasher finally checked in and tackled the stacks the morning dish dude hadn’t finished. Eve took a break herself, carrying a fresh cup of coffee and a stack of produce and meat receipts to the dining room counter. Pelle finished his pie and mumbled thanks on his way to the kitchen, empty plate in hand. Without being prompted he rinsed it and set it in the wash tub. An exceptional teenager, she decided.
Her coffee went cold after she realized that some of the paintings from the university art collective were dusty. Working quickly, before there were any additional customers, she whisked a cloth around their edges, lined them up, and made sure the cards giving the artist’s name and the price were neatly displayed. Art on consignment was free décor, and she’d been able to avoid the usual Alaskiana vistas of moose feeding in forests, or blue on white stretches of ice floes. Instead, she’d said she’d display any art that used in some way the iridescent hues of dragonflies. The students had been so grateful for a chance to display their work—let alone sell it—that some had banded together to paint a wall-length mural of a summer meadow to show off their work. Hidden in the mural were at least six dragonflies. More than one bored and cranky toddler had been distracted when told there was ice cream if they found them all.
Satisfied the dining room looked homey and fresh, and loving the comforting aromas that were flowing out of the kitchen, she settled down with her coffee and receipts again. Fifteen minutes of respite left her feeling clearheaded and ready for the evening. It was getting on toward five. She changed the greeting sign from Seat Yourself to Be Right With You. Menus wiped down and stacked, she was gratified when friendly chat and a recommendation of the hot-from-the-oven shepherd’s pie had half of them sold before the Friday dinner rush began in earnest. The Dragonfly was only open for dinner on Fridays and Saturdays, when profits from wine and beer would pay for a chunk of her overhead. A steady year-round breakfast and lunch trade would hopefully see her cash flow the rest of the way through.
She was just to the point of being too busy supporting Neeka in the kitchen, uncapping bottles of beer and waiting tables when the part-time waitress arrived. She was a college girl who went by Saffron, and was good with the customers, even the soldiers from Fort Wainwright. Eve had initially worried the peace symbol tattooed on Saffron’s arm would incite some unpleasantness, but Saffron insisted she had nothing against soldiers, just war. She’d worked at a chain place, but had adapted to actually writing orders down with a pencil instead of punching them into a computer. It was always a relief when Saffron arrived—another reason Eve felt blessed in her business, so far.
The entire restaurant got into its dinner service groove and Eve relaxed. So far she had enough income to pay enough staff so she wasn’t working her fingers to the bone. December and January would be another matter.
“Hey, partner.”
Eve turned from restacking menus to find Monica leaning against the counter. She always looked as if she’d just come from the invigorating beauty regimen known as the Great Outdoors. A dust of her hands, a flick of her hair and she was fit for dinner with royalty. With her was another prof from the university, familiar from AIDS breakfasts and breast cancer walks.
“Welcome, partner. Dinner for two?”
“Absolutely.”
The other woman, an attractive brunette somewhere in her late thirties—whose name escaped Eve—said, “What is that heavenly aroma?”
Even though Monica had not shown any doubt that her investment was safe, Eve was eager to show off. She explained about the homemade shepherd’s pie, offered wine and was surprised at how friendly the woman was. She’d had the distinct impression from numerous catering jobs that her name was presumed to be “The Caterer.” But you’re not a caterer anymore, she told herself, now you’re a restaurateur. You’ve come up in the world.
She plainly heard, in a memory from at least three years ago, Ani saying about her ambitions to have a Bycall accepted by the university, “It’s our obligation to better ourselves, don’t you know? That way there’s less chance they’ll hurt themselves looking all that way down their noses.” They’d had that in common, the awareness that working in Fairbanks meant revolving around the social strata of the university and GlacierPort. It was there that people could afford to hire a caterer. The folks at Fort Wainwright, near home, used the mess services.
Smirking at the recollection of Ani’s remark, Eve spent the next few minutes trying to remember when it was Ani had said that. Early on, but not that first night. She vividly remembered running into Monica at the botanical gardens, and it hadn’t been then. She’d been a little put off by how much Ani quoted Monica, but Monica was Monica. Then there’d been that kiss…
“Join us for a few?” Monica scooted over to make room as Eve delivered two glasses of red wine.
Feeling as if she didn’t really have a choice, Eve perched on the edge of the booth cushion. “This red is an Oregon varietal. Very drinkable without being overpowering.”
The brunette sipped and made a sound of appreciation. “How has business been? Monica said you opened back in March?”
“Just before the end of mud season, yes. Business has been great. The location is good, and breakfast has been especially brisk. Santa-shaped pancakes—I have a chef who can make a thousand of ’em an hour.”
“What else do you expect in North Pole, Alaska?”
Eve wished in the worst way she could remember the woman’s name. Had Monica brought her along to fix them up? A muffled crash from the kitchen saved the day. “Oops! I think I’m needed.”
She lingered in the kitchen to help Neeka recover from a tray of dropped garlic toast, and with the arrival of a large party—all of whom looked as if one beer would not be enough, thank the brew gods—she was kept busy for the next half hour.
She’d just finished pushing six more shepherd’s pies under the broiler when Monica appeared. With a charming pout, she said, “I was hoping you could chat a little more with Suzy and me.”
Suzy, okay, Eve thought. “Sorry, it got really busy.”
“We could see that.” Monica paused, looking as if she wasn’t sure if she should go on. She finally said, “I might as well be honest. Suzy is a bit of a foodie and I thought you might hit it off.”
Eve carefully did not say, “And that wasn’t true last year or the year before?” Instead, she said diplomatically, “That’s very sweet, and maybe you’re right, but this year is going to be very intense.”
“I worry about you, is all.”
“I’m fine, Monica.”
“It’s been three years.”
Eve couldn’t have said why she pretended not to understand. “Since when?”
Monica touched her hand. “Brave soul. I feel guilty, I guess. If I hadn’t vented…I should have known she’d interpret what I said the way she did. She was too young. I really do believe she did it to help me, not because,
well, not what other people said. Especially about her father, people saying he was a communist.”
Eve didn’t want to think about the ugly rumors surrounding Ani’s motives. “It’s okay, Monica. Ancient history. I really am too wrapped up with the Dragonfly to think about dating. If I change my mind, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Okay. Hope the rest of your night goes well.” She waved an elegant hand and returned to the dining room.
Three years, Eve mulled. Maybe that was why Ani was in her head. A kind of an anniversary, maybe. Driving home after a satisfactorily busy night, and too aware that it all started over again far too early in the morning, she remembered that she’d made shepherd’s pie for Ani the first time she’d come over for dinner. God, she’d been nervous. Nervous to pieces about this gorgeous young woman, very smart but way too young for her. Ani would point out that six years wasn’t that much of a difference, and she was right—if they were both in their forties. But she had been twenty-six while Eve was thirty-two. Ani had so many crossroads ahead of her while Eve had already made a lot of her big choices.
“Why are you living in Fairbanks if your family is from Juneau?” Ani had asked her that night. After dutifully handing over a bottle of wine and loaf of bread, Ani had accepted the task of slicing mushrooms.
“I followed a guy. I was young and stupid.”
“A guy?”
“I already said I was young and stupid. Todd convinced me to drop out of culinary school and come make a fortune cooking on fishing boats out of Sitka. The pay was great—for two months a year. He seemed happy to be unemployed after that. I grabbed the first cooking job I could find that had a steady paycheck—City Hall, Fairbanks. In the cafeteria. After a couple of years I was moonlighting more as a caterer than I was cooking for the city, and it paid better. I guess I developed some guts. Fairbanks does that to a person.”
“That it does. So what happened to him?” Ani passed over the chopping board with the mushrooms, and Eve added them to the diced potatoes she was steaming in the microwave.
“He’s probably still unemployed in Sitka.” Eve shrugged. “I met a girl. It wasn’t heaven, but it did sort out some of my issues. We dated for almost two years.”
“Is that the one who went back to her ex?”
“Yeah. Cyndy. She was so sorry she had somehow forgotten to tell me she was still in love with her ex while she was saying she loved me.” Eve knew she sounded bitter, but, truthfully, the bitterness was real. She’d felt like the old cardigan that Cyndy had kept around until she was absolutely sure she was going to get the mink coat she really wanted.
“That’s cruel. I hope they broke up after two months, in a spectacularly public fashion.”
Eve smiled. “Well, it was six months and private, but I have to say I wasn’t broken up to hear the news.”
“Oh—not to change the subject, but Tonk is in the truck, which is cool. He likes going with me and hanging out. But he could use some water. Can I get a bowl?”
Eve found a good-sized candidate. Ani slipped into her boots and went out to the truck. Moments later Eve could hear the clank of the dog’s collar and Ani’s chatter as she pointed out the water.
The pies were just about assembled. Only the mash needed to be spooned into place on top. Eve went to the back door. “Tonk can come in the house, you know.”
“I don’t want to impose—he takes up quite a bit of floor space.”
“It’s okay,” Eve said. “I like dogs.”
The relieved grin that crinkled the corners of Ani’s eyes was proof she’d said the right thing. And it was true. She liked dogs well enough. She’d just never been around one that was to a Chihuahua what Alaska was to Rhode Island.
“Sit!” Ani’s firm gesture had Tonk happily ensconced in the corner of the kitchen. She took off her boots again with the same apology about the mud on them she’d made when she’d arrived.
“It’s okay, really. The floor has seen more messes than a little mud. There’s the great spaghetti sauce spill of two years ago—when it gets really warm in here I crave garlic bread.” She broke off when Tonk flopped over onto Ani’s boots with a deep groaning sigh, his nose buried in the depths. “What do you put in your shoes?”
“Just my feet. They must smell like steak or something.” Ani looked mildly embarrassed. “And it’s only ever been my shoes. Nobody else’s.”
Eve giggled at the happy noises Tonk made, and realized she was just a bit envious. Part of her wanted to flop onto Ani and make the same sounds. She was glad to have the oven to tend to because suddenly she couldn’t breathe. She’d been worried dinner wouldn’t be elegant enough, that she hadn’t fussed enough, but Ani wasn’t a 30-ingredient-sauce kind of a woman, not when butter and a bit of salt and pepper would do most of the time. She was casual, but that wasn’t the same as ignorant. And kissing her…
Eve leaned into the heat blasting from the broiler, hoping it would explain her flushed cheeks. Those kisses… She’d been kissed before and found it great fun, especially after she’d figured out women’s kisses were what could make her knees melt. When she’d kissed Ani she’d realized that she’d been subsisting on nice table wines, unaware that there was a deep, powerful special reserve wine, grown and matured right here in Fairbanks. After those kisses she wasn’t sure about being able to go back to an everyday vintage.
How do you know? Eve asked herself as they ate dinner. You know when you meet someone and they’re not right and you don’t question it, you move on. So how come it’s not that kind of certainty when you meet someone who’s right?
“Tell me about dogsledding. I can’t believe you put something that size in a harness.” Eve gestured at Tonk, who had stayed in his corner though many longing looks were cast their direction.
“I started with junior competitions more as something to do nights. My dad had a good team but they weren’t racers, they were working dogs. I had Tonk Senior and borrowed three dogs. We were totally mismatched, but—” She tapped one temple. “The Bycalls have fabulous night vision. When everyone else goes off course, slow but steady wins the race.”
She took another hearty bite of the pie. “This is fabulous, by the way. I swear it’s something I could make, though I haven’t a clue how to make it all juicy. I’d be using Betty Crocker.”
“I’m a comfort food cook, though I find every way I can to cut out fat and sodium. It’s just a good habit to have.” Eve added more wine to Ani’s glass. “Thanks for this, by the way. I hadn’t realized Oregon had some good vineyards.”
“I cheated and asked Monica. Professor Tyndell. She said she never admitted to her friends how inexpensive it was for the taste.”
Eve had another tingle of misgiving, but then reminded herself that it was probably typical for grad students to idolize a mentor who was at the top of her field. My, my, a critical inner voice added, aren’t you feeling proprietary already?
“The thing about dogsledding is the diet for the dogs. They only sweat through their feet and they are furnaces. If it weren’t below freezing they wouldn’t survive the effort. You have to feed them a high fat diet, just to meet the fuel needs. Sixty percent at least.”
“So your father had serious sled dogs.”
“Yeah—that’s how you get out on the ice. Dogs are a piece of the equipment. But unlike a sled they lick your face and are happy to see you.”
“Which is a definite plus.”
“It is. But to treat them as anything less than a crucial piece of equipment endangers them and you. My dad could do three or four nights with almost no notice. He was amazing, and he taught me how important it is to be prepared. He lived closed to his team, I mean—nothing against the scientists at GlacierPort. They were okay to my dad, but one of the things they looked down their noses about was that he kept his own dogs instead of hiring them. Like…he couldn’t be a good scientist at the same time. Someday, when I’m all official and tenured and all of that, I’ll have my own team and be just a little
bit eccentric.”
“This is Alaska. Eccentric is normal here.” Eve found herself intrigued by everything Ani said. It wasn’t as if she was interested in ice touring, but the way she talked about her father, their adventures, every bit of it was a little more light on who Ani the little girl and teenager had been, and who Ani the grad student was. It illuminated who Ani the woman might become. “Eccentric won’t mean you’re not careful, will it?”
Ani licked her fork with an appreciative sigh before answering. “Earlier this week we were doing our usual rounds checking the metering stations on the ice. It takes about four hours to do each of the loops and we do three every week. Me and the other two incoming grad students, that is. The guys aren’t idiots but they’re so into showing off how great they are on the ice that they don’t use all the gear. So on Tuesday we’re gearing up and they take off before I’m ready, saying they don’t need the full crevasse kit and it’s too warm to add liners under our jackets. I never do catch up to them and they take all the measurements and get back to GP a good five minutes before I do.”
“How foolish,” Eve said. “I would imagine warm or not, the liner is there if you get stuck. Didn’t those two really experienced climbers die in a crevasse accident last year?”
“That’s just it.” Ani sipped her wine and scraped up a last hearty bite of pie. “The good thing is that they were five minutes ahead of me and Professor Tyndell was still ripping them a new one when I came in. Lack of gear and they’d left me behind.”
Monica Tyndell went up in Eve’s estimation. “Good for her.”
“Well, she chewed on me a little bit too. Given the lead they had on me, I should have known I wouldn’t catch them and stayed put. I’m fast on the ice, but not that fast. The only time someone should be out solo on the ice is with a sled. The weight distribution means less chance of opening a crevasse, let alone falling in.”
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