by Mary Daheim
I took a chance that Ben might not have left right on the hour. To my pleasure, he answered on the fourth ring.
“Going out the door,” he said, slightly out of breath. “There’s a big barbecue tonight in Tuba City. I’m in charge of the white chilis. Have you made up your mind about Italy?”
I’d forgotten all about Ben’s offer. “No,” I confessed. “Gosh, that’s just a month from now, right? I don’t have a passport or anything else I might need to go abroad.”
“You’ve got time,” Ben said, then added, “though I suspect you won’t go and that you’ve never intended to.”
Despite the lightness of his tone, I caught the reprimand. “Let’s face it, I’m not ready to make big decisions, Ben. Are you really going?”
“Yes. The conference sounds worthwhile.” He paused. “What if I told you that you had to come under pain of mortal sin?”
“That’s coercion. And it’s a lie.”
“Good God,” Ben exclaimed, “since when does a woman have to be coerced into joining her only brother on a wonderful trip? Emma, are you sure you’re okay?”
I let out a big sigh. “No, I’m not. Doc Dewey ordered a Paxil prescription for me.”
Ben didn’t sound surprised. “How’s it working?”
“I haven’t started taking it yet,” I retorted, and knew that I sounded defensive.
“In other words, it’s still sitting at the local drugstore. Poor little Paxil.”
“It was only Friday that Doc . . .”
“You know, I’m not a medical expert, but if you don’t take your medication, it usually doesn’t do much good. You moron.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” There. I’d promised Ben. I’d have to do it.
“While you’re at it, go to the courthouse and apply for a hurry-up passport. Call me tomorrow night after six. Got to run, my chilis await me.” Ben hung up.
I’d deal with tomorrow when it came. For now, I had to answer my other message. It was from Max Froland, and it was brief, asking me to call him as soon as I could.
My initial reaction was that he was canceling dinner. As I dialed the Froland number, I felt a surprising sense of disappointment. Was I eager to see Max or did I just want to get out of the house and forget about my own problems?
Max, however, wasn’t going to call off dinner. “I couldn’t remember what time we’d agreed on,” he said. “Or if we’d set a time. It’s up to you. Vida has very kindly volunteered to spend the evening with Ma. I guess I’d forgotten what a selfless person she is, especially with Ma nodding off now and then. I hope Vida doesn’t get bored to death.”
“Oh,” I said, “Vida’s very resourceful. She’ll be just fine. Shall we say six?”
“I’ll pick you up then,” Max replied. “Meanwhile, I’ll make six-thirty reservations at Le Gourmand.”
“Oh!” I was surprised. Le Gourmand is pricey, but worth it. I assumed we’d go Dutch. “That’s sounds wonderful.”
“Good. See you in about ninety minutes.”
I hadn’t dressed up in months. In fact, not since Tom was alive and we had gone to Le Gourmand. I paused at the sliding door to my closet. Maybe I should have suggested another restaurant. But if Max Froland was in the mood for a real meal, the only other choice was the ski lodge. But Max had made the call. It was stupid to disdain a fine restaurant just because Tom and I had often dined at Le Gourmand. That was then, and this was now. I had to stop moping. I had to.
I’d never worn the moss green pants suit and the butter yellow satin blouse when I was with Tom. Standing in front of the mirror at five to six, I surveyed my image.
The yellow-green combination made my skin look sallow. My brown eyes seemed to have lost their luster—assuming they ever had any. I’d let my brown hair grow out since Tom died, and it was way overdue for a cut or maybe a perm. Admittedly, I looked too thin. At five-foot-four, I needed more weight than my current one hundred and sixteen pounds. Frankly, I looked like a mess.
But I couldn’t improve myself in ten minutes, so I left the bedroom and moved out into the living room to wait for Max.
He arrived precisely at six. I wondered if he was that eager to see me or—more likely—that anxious to leave his mother. After I got into his Ford Taurus, I demonstrated my concern by asking after June.
“She’s better, I think,” Max said. “I’m getting a college student to stay with her for the next couple of weeks. Classes here don’t start until the end of the month.”
“So you’re going back to Seattle tomorrow morning?”
“Yes. All those infernal meetings before fall quarter starts at the U.” Max negotiated the turn onto the main highway and headed west. He was wearing the same suit he’d worn for his father’s funeral.
We exchanged chitchat about the futility of meetings until we arrived at the restaurant ten minutes later. It had stopped raining, and the clouds seemed to be lifting.
Le Gourmand, which is owned by an expatriate couple from California, is a popular place for diners who come from as far away as Seattle. As usual, the tables were beginning to fill up on a weekend. Max and I were seated under a clutch of gourds, which were suspended from the ceiling to add to the French country atmosphere. Tom had always insisted on a corner table, where there was no danger of falling decor should we have an earthquake during dinner. He was kidding, of course. Or maybe half-kidding. West coast dwellers are accustomed to earthquakes, especially those who’ve lived in the bay area. Like Tom.
“The last time I was here,” Max said as he studied the wine list, “was with my parents for their fiftieth wedding anniversary a couple of years ago.” He laughed before continuing. “They couldn’t figure out the French words in the menu, thought the prices were outrageous, and both swore they were sick all night.”
I had my opening. “What do you think about the medical examiner’s opinion as to the cause of your father’s death?” I sounded overly formal, but at least the question was phrased more tactfully than asking, “Who popped Pop a poisonous mushroom?”
Max stared up at the gourds. “What can I say? Ma and Pa must have gathered them in the woods. Frankly, I haven’t had the heart to pass the news on to Ma. What good would it do? She’d only blame herself—or Pa.”
“Gosh,” I said, doing my best to sound baffled, “wouldn’t you think that after all these years they’d know which mushrooms were edible and which weren’t?”
Max looked faintly offended, but his response was polite. “They probably did, but neither of them could see as well as they used to. It must have been one of those horrible mistakes.”
“Then it’s probably best not to upset your mother,” I remarked. “She did the cooking, I suppose.”
Max nodded as the waiter approached. He was Peter, one of the owners’ sons who was enrolled at the community college. His twin brother, Paul, had waited on Tom and me the last time we’d dined at Le Gourmand.
Max asked me what wines I preferred, depending, of course, on what entrée I might be considering. I told him frankly that I couldn’t tell one wine from another—or from a bottle of mouthwash.
“If you don’t mind,” I said in an apologetic manner, “I’d just as soon have a bourbon and water.”
Max didn’t take umbrage at my pedestrian palate. He, however, ordered a pinot gris from a French vintner.
“I’ve come to appreciate wine over the years,” Max said after Peter had departed. “Unlike my sister, Lynn, I never cared much for the outdoors. I was the family bookworm.” He smiled faintly. “Jackie—my late wife—was a patron of the arts. She introduced me to classical music, ballet, theater—the whole gamut of good things. She also taught me about wine.”
From what I knew of the Doukas family, Jackie’s relatives wouldn’t have known Bach from boxwood. But I hadn’t known Jackie. She sounded like a first-class person. I said so to Max.
“She was,” he said softly. “She was bright and beautiful.
She played the cello,
you know. It always seemed like an awkward instrument for such a delicate woman, but she was very good at it.”
“Was Jackie involved in music professionally?” I inquired.
“She played with a chamber group,” Max said as Peter returned with our beverages on a pewter tray. My companion tasted the wine, pronounced it acceptable, and lifted his glass. “To Jackie. A wonderful wife and an exceptional woman.”
I think I hid my surprise. The toast seemed inappropriate. I couldn’t stop glancing to the corner table where Tom and I had sat. Silently, I toasted him as well.
“What,” I inquired after taking a big gulp of bourbon, “did Jackie do for a living? I assume she worked.”
“Oh, yes.” Max smiled fondly. “She was a landscape designer. Not long before her death, several of her gardens over on the Eastside of Seattle were featured in the Times. She had a remarkable eye for color and texture.”
Heaven help me, I was about to OD on Jackie Doukas Froland. How many years had the woman been dead? Close to fifteen, as I recalled. Did Max put off every woman he met by heaping praise on his deceased wife? No wonder he’d never remarried. I took another swig out of my drink.
“I like gardening,” I said in what sounded like a feeble voice. “It’s good exercise and a way of working off my frustrations.”
“It was the creative process for Jackie,” Max replied, picking up the menu. “She liked the research, too. You know— seeking out unusual plantings that fit into the client’s idea of what the garden should look like.” He chuckled softly. “Of course most clients don’t know what they want. Jackie was very good at handholding them through the process. Shall we order an hors d’oeuvre or two?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” I said, also perusing the menu. “What appeals to you?”
Max was silent for a few moments as he studied the selections. Peter sidled up to our table, informing us that there were some specials, both among the appetizers and the entrees.
“I highly recommend the sabayon of pearl tapioca with Similk Bay oysters and caviar,” Peter said with a less than perfect French accent.
Max nodded. “That sounds excellent. We’ll also try your very tempting smoked sockeye salmon with crème fraîche.” He closed the menu and looked at me. “Do you concur, Emma? Or have you got a better choice? Jackie was always one for the patés, especially from the Midi.”
“How about a baloney sandwich?” I blurted.
“What?” Max looked startled, but I thought I caught a twitch of Peter’s lips. “Oh! You’re joking,” Max said.
I made the acknowledgment with an inclination of my shaggy head. Along about now, Max probably wished he’d taken me to McDonald’s. I didn’t drink fine wines, I gardened only for the fun of it, and I’d never touched a cello in my life.
As soon as Peter left, I decided to take the initiative. “I’ve been going through more of our back issues with references to your family. Whatever happened to the young man— Gabe Foster, I believe his name was—who drove the car when your sister, Lynn, had the accident?”
Max lowered his gaze. “Gabe Foster.” He sighed and shook his head. “Now there’s a name from the past. I must have purposely chased him from my mind.”
“Was the accident his fault?”
Max sipped his wine before answering. “Probably not. The car skidded on black ice. You know how dangerous that can be. You can’t even see it under certain conditions. The only thing the state patrol told us was that it was possible the driver was going too fast.”
“Had they been drinking up at the summit?”
“That’s always a . . .” Max scowled at me. “Why did you bring this up?”
I hadn’t meant to broach the subject in such an awkward manner. But the endless eulogy for Jackie had gotten on my nerves. Maybe I’d asked the original question because I wanted payback. This wasn’t the rendezvous I’d hoped for, not that I had any romantic illusions regarding Max. But I’d thought we’d discuss some interesting topics such as history or maybe current affairs. Instead, the history had been Jackie’s, and the rest was old news.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I tend to overresearch certain kinds of stories.” That much was true. “As an historian, you can appreciate that. I have to get a feel for the people I’m writing about.”
“Yes,” Max said slowly, “yes, I understand. You never know where a path will lead. It’s the lure of research, the seeking of the as yet undiscovered.”
“Your family has suffered great tragedies,” I said, “right up to now, with your father’s death. I want to find out how all of you have handled these terrible losses.”
Max signaled to Peter who was at the next table. Having caught the young man’s attention, he silently pointed at each of our glasses, requesting refills.
“I honestly can’t tell you if the accident could have been prevented,” Max finally said. “Gabe Foster dated Lynn for two years. I don’t recall how they met, since they lived in different towns and went to different high schools. Skiing, maybe. Lynn made friends easily.”
“So they were going together at the time of the accident?”
“No.” Max drained his wine glass. “They’d broken up. Lynn was dating another boy. Terry Woods or Woodsman, from Monroe.”
I recalled what Milo had said about Lynn’s two steadies. “So she let her ex drive the car even if they weren’t still seeing each other? They must have parted on good terms.”
A shadow crossed Max’s face. “I guess so. For some reason, she’d always let Gabe drive the Valiant. He may have felt entitled to the privilege.”
“They still saw each other,” I remarked, “so they must have been friendly after the breakup. That is, they all went skiing together.”
“No.” Max stopped speaking as Peter returned with our fresh drinks. “Lynn and Terry had gone up by themselves. From what we learned later, Gabe and—what was her name?—the Thorstensen girl, I forget. Anyway, Gabe and his new girlfriend had driven to the ski area with someone else—Terry’s brother, or the girl’s brother, I don’t remember. The other two wanted to leave early, stranding Gabe and the Thorstensen girl. They begged a ride from Lynn and Terry.”
I tried to recreate the scene in my imagination. Max would have known if Lynn’s romance with Gabe had ended acrimoniously. Thus, I assumed that if the two met occasionally, there were no scenes. Gabe and his new steady had lost their ride back from the summit. If Lynn and Terry had agreed to give them a lift, Gabe might have wanted to show up the new beau by taking the wheel. It would put Terry in his place, demonstrating that Gabe still exerted power over his former girlfriend. A macho move, but typical of a nineteen-year-old star athlete.
Max was eyeing me with suspicion. Or maybe it was merely curiosity. I couldn’t tell.
“You seem awfully interested in my sister’s accident,” he said. “The details, that is. I thought you wanted to know more about the family’s reaction and how we dealt with tragedy.”
“I do,” I said hastily, then added with what was probably a goofy smile, “but we journalists have to get all the facts down first. If we can’t be an eyewitness, then we must gather the best information available.”
“Oh.” Max gave a nod. “That makes sense.”
“Speaking of reactions,” I went on, “how did you and your parents refrain from going after Gabe Foster?”
Max frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Did you file a wrongful death suit? Did you try to get him arrested? Did you threaten to beat out his brains with a baseball bat?”
Max considered the query as if I were questioning the Army of Northern Virginia’s military tactics at Gettysburg. “Pa did talk about revenge,” Max finally said. “But in that wild, abstract manner when a person is in shock. The state patrol ruled it an accident.”
“Despite the fact Gabe and the others may have been drunk?”
“They weren’t drunk,” Max replied, “though they may have done some drinking. As for suing Gabe and his family, that re
quired money my parents didn’t have. I doubt that it ever entered their minds.”
By now, I was certain that Max hadn’t made the connection between Gabe and Judge Marsha. Of course he hadn’t spent much time in Alpine lately, and Marsha was a relative newcomer. I broached the subject.
“Interesting,” Max remarked when I’d finished. He looked up as our appetizers arrived along with a warm baguette in a wicker basket and a small crock of butter. Peter’s presentation was a trifle clumsy, the breadbasket almost slipping out of his hands. Max, however, complimented the young man who seemed pleased.
As Peter left us, I waited for Max to continue his comments about the relationship between Marsha and Gabe. But he said no more, concentrating instead on an oyster.
I had an urge to spur him on. “Did you know that your family and the Foster-Kleins are actually related by marriage?”
“What?” Max dabbed at his beard with a linen napkin. “Is that right?” He chuckled. “I’m not surprised. Everybody in Skykomish and Snohomish counties seems to be related somehow.”
“But you didn’t know that at the time of the accident, I take it.” The oysters were indeed worthy of full attention.
“I didn’t know it until now. What’s the connection?”
I explained. “It’s definitely shirttail,” I added.
“What did you say Marsha and Gabe’s mother’s maiden name was?”
“Klein,” I replied. “Her father was a radical back in the first part of the century. He was one of the Wobblies who was arrested after the Everett Massacre.”
“Ah.” Max put his fork down. “Of course. Yitzhak Klein. He went to prison for a few years. Anna was very vocal during the McCarthy hearings. I don’t focus on those years in my area of expertise, but I’ve still done my research.”
“Did Anna follow in her father’s footsteps and get arrested, too?”
“No.” Max allowed me to finish the last oyster while he polished off the caviar. “Anna engaged in some demonstrations, but mainly she was a letter writer. Later she got involved in women’s issues and anti–Vietnam War protests. I can’t say that I ever read any of the letters or articles she wrote, but I do know that she was both prolific and vitriolic.”