by Mary Daheim
“Maybe you’re right,” she finally said as the first of the logging trucks stopped by the main mill. “But what are you doing to do?”
Carl’s smile was faint. “Wait.”
Chapter Seven
I TOLD MYSELF I hadn’t deliberately forgotten about the antidepression drug. It was just that I’d gotten caught up in promotional plans for the paper and the radio station. Besides, I was curious about Spencer Fleetwood. In the past, I’d backed away from getting to know him, perhaps hoping that by ignoring his presence, he might evaporate into the airwaves. The irony was that after spending over two hours with him, I had more questions than answers.
The red light glowed on my answering machine. Before checking the messages, I changed into my robe, got a Pepsi out of the fridge, and glanced through the mail that Marlow Whipp had left in my box.
A couple of bills, a bunch of ads, and yet more fall catalogs were my lot from the post office. I threw out everything but the bills, then turned to the answering machine. There were three calls that I listened to in reverse order. The most recent was from Vida:
“Where are you? It’s almost eight. What happened at the doctor’s office? You aren’t hospitalized, are you?”
The second call was from Marsha Foster-Klein:
“I don’t mean to nag, but is there anything I can do to help you with our project over the weekend? Call me back ASAP.”
The third message was delivered by Max Froland, who, after identifying himself in formal terms, asked if he could stop by this evening to discuss an article about his family. Despite the professed urgency of the other calls, I looked up the Frolands’ number and phoned Max first.
He sounded diffident. “This may be a bad idea,” he said, “but some of the family members think it might be nice to run a piece on the Iversons and the Frolands. My dad’s passing signals the end of an era, in a way. I’m staying through the weekend, so I could help you put something together.”
It occurred to me that I could combine the research into Max’s Iverson side of his family with Marsha’s project. Not that I really believed it would help her. But the article would fill up more space for our special edition.
“Okay,” I agreed. “How do you want to start?”
“I’ve spent a few hours going through Pa’s mementos and such,” Max replied. “Ma helped, but she’s asleep now. Doc Dewey prescribed some medication to settle her down. When do you want to start?”
“How about at the Advocate office tomorrow around ten?”
“That’s good. I’ll be there. Thanks so much.”
Judge Foster-Klein didn’t answer. I left a message, telling her that there was the possibility of new leads. I didn’t add that they might be coming from the souvenirs in Jack Froland’s attic.
Vida answered on the first ring. “What happened to you?” she demanded. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” I replied, then told her about running into Spence.
“You dined with the enemy?” she cried.
I explained about Spence’s ideas for joint promotions. Vida simmered down a bit, but not without a warning.
“I wouldn’t trust that man an inch,” she declared. “What about Doc? Did he give you a checkup?”
“No, we just talked.” I decided against mentioning the Paxil prescription. “By the way, Heather Bardeen is sporting an engagement ring. Did you know about it?”
There was a long pause at the other end. “I knew it was imminent,” Vida finally said in a strained voice.
“I assume Buck told you,” I remarked.
“Yes.”
I was puzzled. Vida never responded with one-syllable words. “How long have you known?”
“Oh—a few weeks.”
“Vida,” I said firmly, “what’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to discuss it over the phone.”
“Vida . . .” I began, then switched gears. “Let me ask the questions. You can say yes or no. Okay?”
“We’ll see.”
While Vida insisted on knowing everybody else’s business down to the last nuance, she was intensely private when it came to her own personal life. I respected that, I honored it, but sometimes it was frustrating.
“Are you going to the engagement party Sunday at the ski lodge?” I asked, slipping into my reporter’s mode.
“No.”
“Were you invited?”
“Yes.”
“By Buck?”
“Yes.”
“Did you decline?”
There was a long pause. “Not at the time.”
“You changed your mind later?”
“Yes.”
“Because of Buck?”
Another lengthy pause. “Yes.”
“Have you two broken up?”
This time, there was a heavy sigh at the other end. “I can’t say more. Not on the phone.”
“Vida, who do you think is listening in?” I demanded. “There are no party lines in Alpine any more, and the switching equipment is automatic. When was the last time you cranked your telephone?”
“There are ways to cut into conversations,” Vida said cryptically. “Crossed lines. You know that happens, particularly with cell phones.”
“You’re not on a cell phone,” I pointed out.
“We’ll discuss this later,” she said. “In person.”
I was forced to surrender. “Okay, I’ll meet you for breakfast at the Heartbreak Hotel Diner at nine.”
“Not in public!” Vida exclaimed. “Come to my house. I’ll make a lovely omelet.”
Vida’s omelets, like all of her cooking, were to be avoided. “Better yet, you come here. I’ll make French toast.” I knew Vida was fond of French toast.
“Oh. That sounds very nice. I’ll see you then.”
After I hung up, I sat lost in thought for several moments. Vida and Buck had broken off their long-standing relationship, I was certain of that. But why? I’d expected them to marry eventually. He was a widower and she was a widow. Their children were grown, indeed were approaching middle age. Buck had a house off Highway 2 in Startup. He’d been talking about selling it and moving to Alpine. Maybe he’d proposed and been rejected. Vida cherished her independence. Perhaps she saw no future for them and had called off the relationship. Or if Buck had been turned down, he might have ended it.
For the first time since I could remember, I went to sleep that night without grieving for my lost love. Instead, I was filled with curiosity about Vida’s apparently punctured romance.
Misery loves company. Perversely, a friend who also has a broken heart may help mend one’s own.
On Saturdays, I usually slept in, sometimes as late as nine-thirty or even ten. But on this September morn, I was up at eight-fifteen and in the kitchen by eight-thirty.
Vida was customarily punctual. I noted that she looked a bit drawn and didn’t have her usual bounce. Had she been like that for several days, even weeks, and I’d been too caught up in my own woes to recognize the change? I hoped not.
As soon as we reached the kitchen, I began frying bacon. The batter for the toast and the coffee were ready. I offered her a mug.
“I believe I will,” Vida said, though at work she usually drinks only hot water.
I didn’t try to question her until I’d finished cooking breakfast, which didn’t take long. At ten minutes after nine, we were pouring syrup over the French toast and sprinkling salt and pepper on our scrambled eggs.
“Okay, Vida,” I said after she’d taken her first bites of food, “what’s up with you and Buck?”
Rolling her eyes, she set down her knife and fork. “It’s just too much. I’m not sure I can even talk about it.”
I tried to suppress a smile. “There’s nothing you can’t talk about, Vida. Come on, let’s hear it.”
“Oh, very well.” Vida took another bite of eggs before she began. “I may have mentioned a month or so ago that Buck put his house on the market. He didn’t get any offers until a wee
k ago when he got two. Both were slightly below the asking price, but he decided to accept one of them. The couple—from Everett—wanted to move in as soon as possible, but Buck hadn’t really looked for a place here in Alpine. You know how men are—they put things off.” She stopped to sip at her coffee.
“In any event, he asked if he could move in with me, at least for a time. Naturally, I wanted to help, but I told him I simply didn’t have room. As you know, my house has three bedrooms, but one’s reserved for Roger when he stays with Grams.”
Roger was Vida’s dreadful seventeen-year-old grandson who occasionally bunked with her when his parents went out of town. “Isn’t Roger old enough to stay alone?” I asked.
“Certainly,” Vida responded, “but that’s not the point. Roger likes staying with me. We have such good times together.”
What Vida meant was that she spoiled the kid so much with special treats and extra pocket money that despite jeopardizing his status among his peers, he couldn’t subjugate his opportunistic nature.
“What about the third bedroom?” I inquired, offering Vida another piece of French toast.
“Thank you, Emma.” She paused to butter the fresh slice. “That room’s not usable.”
I gave Vida a quizzical look, then realized I’d never seen the third bedroom. “Why not?”
Vida stopped with a piece of bacon almost to her mouth. “That’s where I keep my hats.”
In all the years that I’d known her, I’d never really thought about where Vida’s millinery was stashed. Certainly she had dozens of hats—hundreds, maybe.
“Your hats?” I said stupidly.
Vida nodded. “Yes. They’re all in boxes. I don’t want them to get dusty between wearings.”
“Your hats,” I repeated. “How many are there?”
“I’m not sure,” Vida replied. “Three or four hundred, I suppose.”
I was dumbfounded. If Vida hadn’t been my House & Home editor, she certainly would have made the Advocate’s pages as a feature.
“There’s no room to store them in the basement,” Vida said. “It’s unfinished, you know. And I certainly couldn’t have Buck sleep in my room. People would talk.”
Admittedly, I had never known if Vida and Buck slept together. More specifically, if their relationship was of a sexual nature. But I had my suspicions. Buck was a vigorous man of late middle age. And if Vida’s appetite for food was any indication of her appetite for more sensual delights . . .
On the other hand, I didn’t really want to think about it.
“So Buck got angry when you turned him down? His request to room with you, I mean,” I added hastily.
Vida frowned. “Yes. He felt I was being unreasonable.”
“Were you?”
Vida’s gray eyes traveled to the ceiling. “I’m not sure. Now that school’s started, I wonder if I’ve been a bit hasty. That is, Roger doesn’t stay with me as often when he’s in school. This is his junior year, and he has to prepare for his SATs.”
For reform school? I thought, but made no comment.
“Besides,” Vida continued, “Amy and Ted have no travel plans in the near future.”
No doubt they were sticking around to help their son prepare for his SATs. Like teaching him to read.
“I gather that you and Buck quarreled over your . . . refusal,” I said, offering Vida another slice of French toast.
“I’m afraid so.” She paused to sip her coffee. “That’s why I’m not going to his niece’s engagement party.”
“But if Roger isn’t going to be staying with you for a while,” I pointed out, “couldn’t Buck use the room until he finds his own place?”
Vida heaved a big sigh. “I’ve considered that. But ever since Roger was a baby, that has been his room. I don’t want him to think his Grams is being frivolous and letting someone else stay there, even temporarily. Not to mention that I might be setting a poor example for Roger. Living with someone, you see.”
Since in the not-too-distant past Roger had bragged— falsely—that he’d gotten a teenaged girl pregnant, I found the last part of Vida’s argument ludicrous. I folded my hands on the table and looked Vida straight in the eye. “Have you considered yourself in any of this?” As Vida opened her mouth, I held up a hand. “Stop. Think. I know how much you love Roger. But you spoil him.” She started to speak again, but I kept talking. “You have other grandchildren, and even if they don’t live in Alpine, has it occurred to you that they might be resentful?”
Vida’s eyes were hot with anger. “The others don’t know. They live in Bellingham and Tacoma. What they don’t know can’t hurt them. I’d spoil them if they were here. That’s what grandmothers do.” The look she gave me said, “And you will never know because you will never be a grandmother.”
I took a deep breath and kept from lashing out. “You also have to think of yourself. And Buck. I thought you were fond of him.”
“I am,” Vida replied, lifting her chin. “As he is of me. That being the case, why can’t he take an apartment until he finds a house to buy?”
“Because he’d rather be with you?”
Vida actually looked surprised. “I . . . shouldn’t think so. That is, Buck’s very independent. As am I.”
“But where he lives has become an insurmountable issue, right?” Once again, I didn’t wait for an answer. “You’re mature adults, Vida. Why is this an all-or-nothing situation? Why can’t one of you give a little? What happened to compromise?”
Vida pursed her lips. The glint in her eye that I’d taken for anger now looked more like tears. “One thing led to another,” she said, dropping her voice. “We’ve had arguments, but we’ve never quarreled until now. Things were said. . . .” She blinked back what surely were tears and gave herself a shake. “I’m not certain it can ever be the same.”
I presumed the sticking point had been Roger. But I had to allow for obstinacy on Buck’s part. He was a retired Air Force colonel, used to giving orders and probably rigid in attitude.
“I don’t know what to say,” I admitted.
“I don’t either,” Vida said, staring beyond me to the window above the sink.
I wanted to tell her not to throw away anything as precious as love. All the wasted years Tom and I had spent apart came rushing over me. But I said nothing. Vida, being Vida, would chart her own course.
“I should be going,” she said, carefully wiping her mouth with a napkin. “I should have told you about this earlier, but you’ve had problems of your own.”
I must have looked upset, because Vida rose and wagged a finger. “Don’t feel guilty. This is a small matter compared to your loss.”
I also got to my feet. Her insinuating look about grandmothers still stung, but I had to let it pass. The truth always wounds. “It’s not a small matter for you and Buck. That’s what I’ve been trying to say.”
Vida was getting into her car when I suddenly remembered my appointment with Max Froland. I rushed out of the house, shouting and waving my arms.
“Do you want to join us?” I asked after explaining my plans for the rest of the morning.
Without hesitating, Vida said she’d be at the office in half an hour. It was almost ten o’clock, and she had some errands to run.
I arrived at the office ten minutes early to make coffee and clear some space on the table in the newsroom. Vida and Max joined me within a minute of each other. Max was carrying photo albums and a shoe box.
“How is your mother?” Vida inquired as soon as we were seated at the table.
“She’s sleeping a lot,” Max replied, accepting a mug of coffee from me. “Whatever Doc Dewey gave her has certainly knocked her out.”
“Just as well,” Vida said as I handed her a mug of hot water. “Now tell us what you have so that we can complement it with articles from our files.”
Max tapped the album that sat on top of at least three others. The one he indicated and the one under it were smaller and older, with black covers and
black pages. The two underneath were larger and newer.
“These are family photos from both sides,” Max said. “A few of the pictures go back to my maternal greatgrandfather’s day.”
“That would be Trygve Iverson?” Vida put in.
Max nodded. “His daughter, Karen, was my grandmother.”
Vida moved backward in Scott’s swivel chair. “I started a family tree,” she said, then quickly added, “I often do when a longtime resident passes away. Let me make sure I’ve got it right, and to make additions you may have.”
Vida propelled herself a few feet to the coat closet where she’d put the family tree. Scooting back to the table, she unrolled the big sheet of paper in front of Max, who studied her notations in silence.
“This is right—as far as it goes,” he finally said. “You’ve got a gap here under Trygve and Olga Iverson’s children.”
Vida leaned over the paper. “You mean I don’t have wives or descendants for Jonas and Lars?”
“Yes, but . . .”
Vida swung the family tree into her purview. “Do you have names, dates?”
“Lars was married just before the crash in twenty-nine,” Max said. “It was an old family joke—his wife, Alice, had been very extravagant, and Great-Uncle Lars was a tight-wad. He insisted his bride quit spending so much money. The rest of the family claimed that Alice’s sudden thrift affected the economy and caused the Depression.”
“Alice . . . ?” Vida bestowed a coaxing look on Max.
“Gough,” he said, then spelled out the name. “They’ve both been dead for several years. They were Uncle Jack Iverson’s parents.”
“Oh, yes.” Vida made the appropriate notations. “They lived in Wenatchee, didn’t they?”
“They’d retired there,” Max agreed. “They wanted to be in a larger town. Medical resources, transportation—all the usual reasons older folks sometimes have for moving out of a place the size of Alpine.”
Vida gave Max a sharp glance. “Most stay here.”
As an expatriate, Max seemed aware of how defectors were viewed. “That’s true. My own parents stayed in Alpine.”