by Sue Henry
Fifteen minutes later, she was waiting on a bench under an overhang outside when a brown, semi-antique Chevy four-door sedan with one gray fender pulled up in front of her, with a rattle and screech of brakes, and a girl of around twenty, wearing jeans and a bright yellow sweatshirt, bounced out and came around to offer her hand with an eager grin of welcome.
“Hey. You must be Jessie Arnold, right? Are you really the Iditarod musher? Oh, hell—I know you are. I’ve seen you on television and in the paper enough times to recognize you easy. I’m Connie, the local cab jockey—when my brother Dave isn’t doing this job. Welcome to Petersburg. Hop in.”
Snatching up the duffel, she trotted to the rear of the Chevy where the trunk, lacking a mechanism to secure it, was held shut with a purple bungee cord, and tossed the bag in with a thump that made Jessie glad she was carrying her camera equipment in her daypack. Opening the rear passenger door, she waved Jessie into the backseat with a flourish, slammed it behind her, and, still talking, hurried around to fling herself behind the wheel.
“Okay,” she said, revving the engine to life and shifting into a gear that screeched in protest. “Where do you want to go? Downtown—yes? Or are you staying with some friends while you’re here?”
“The Tides Inn,” Jessie informed her, managing to get a word in edgewise while catching her balance with a grab at the back of the front seat as Connie let off the clutch with a jerk and made a quick U-turn. Clearly, her driving was as enthusiastic as her nonstop conversation.
“Cool,” she approved, tossing the words back over her shoulder. “Tides Inn is a good place—great people and close to downtown. But then everything is close to downtown. Petersburg is so small you can practically see it all in an hour. Be prepared for Scandinavians though. The place is overrun with Norwegians and most of them like to dress up as Vikings and have parades as often as possible. I’m a Swede myself, but they’re generous and let me live here anyway.”
As Connie continued with a wealth of details on the attractions of Petersburg, a fishing and logging community that had come into being in the 1890s, Jessie turned her attention to what they were passing. While fall had definitely come to her home in the Mat-Su Valley, gilding the birch leaves and scattering them in a ground-covering carpet, she was pleased to see that here the leaves on the trees were still green and there were beds of late flowers blooming in the yards of the houses that sped by the windows of the car. It would be a while longer before winter made an appearance in Southeast Alaska, which was more prone to rain than to snow.
“How far is it into town?” she interrupted Connie’s continuing monologue to ask.
“Oh, not far at all—couple of miles. We’ll be dropping into it in just a few minutes. Nothing’s far from anything else here—even the airport. That’s why the cab doesn’t have a meter. We just know how far everything is from everything else. It’s impossible to get lost because—”
“That is a grocery store, isn’t it?” Jessie asked, seeing that they were passing what appeared to be a large modern supermarket, prominently labeled HAMMER & WIKAN.
“Oh yeah. That’s our new one. You want something there? We can stop if you want. I got some stuff I could pick up anyway, so I won’t charge you any more.”
She was already swinging a right turn into the parking lot as Jessie, amused, agreed. As they turned, she glanced out the window at the road they were leaving. Not far along it, a figure was walking toward town with a small black suitcase in one hand—the young woman from the plane, without a doubt, for her auburn hair was a dead giveaway. Though the rain had all but stopped, she walked with her shoulders hunched, had turned up the collar of her jacket, and had her free hand thrust into a pocket of her jeans.
She must live here, Jessie thought—but forgot to wonder as they pulled up in front of the grocery and parked with a lurch.
“Take your time,” Connie said as the automatic doors swept open in front of them at the entry. “I’m in no hurry.”
Wheeling a cart through the aisles, it wasn’t long until Jessie, remembering that Laurie had promised to feed the working crew, had collected the few things she wanted to take to the island. Still, she thought snacks were a good idea, as were two cases of soft drinks, fruit, cheese, salad greens, and a couple of tomatoes. She added a box of her favorite peppermint tea, milk and sugar for it, and picked up a few candy bars at the check stand, where a friendly woman was waiting to tally up the bill. When Jessie asked if her purchases could be packed in a box or two, explaining that she was going out to Five Finger Lighthouse, the clerk improved on the idea.
“We can put all this in the cooler and deliver it to the dock tomorrow if you’ll let us know when and where. No charge. It’s a service we provide—mostly during the summer for boat people, tourists, and fishermen.”
Handing her a credit card, Jessie gratefully agreed, glad to be relieved of carrying the groceries to the hotel—to say nothing of getting them, along with her personal gear, to the dock to meet Jim Beal and his boat the next day. Knowing she might like some later in the evening, she put the box of tea, a couple of candy bars, and a box of cookies into a plastic bag to take with her, then helped carry Connie’s purchases to the taxi.
Back on the road, they were shortly headed downhill into Petersburg and soon pulled up at the front door of the Tides Inn on the corner of First and Dolphin Streets, a block from the main street, Nordic Drive. Connie had the duffel on the sidewalk before her passenger could make it out and close the door of the Chevy.
“Thanks,” she said as Jessie handed her a large tip along with the fare she quoted. Trading the cash for a battered business card from the same pocket of her jeans, she handed it over. “If you need wheels while you’re here, just call me at this number.”
“I might need a lift to the dock tomorrow if it’s very far. But I don’t know where the boat will come in yet.”
“Probably the public dock, but maybe not if, as you said, he’s picking up construction materials. Anyway, the hotel has a complimentary van that could take you—could actually have picked you up at the airport for that matter—but call if you need me. Or Dave, who will probably decide to drive if he knows you’re the passenger.” She grinned impishly. “Maybe I just won’t mention that then, will I?”
“Thanks, Connie,” Jessie said, laughing. “And for the grocery stop.”
“You bet. Anytime. If I don’t see you, have a good trip. A week at Five Finger Light! Wow. You’ll get to see a lot of whales.”
She was gone, a hand raised to wave out the window, before Jessie could respond.
Hefting the duffel, Jessie walked into the hotel, where she was met by the smell of coffee that filled the air from a pot on a low table across the room. The coffee was, she could see, accompanied by paper cups and packets of sugar and creamer. As she filed away this visual information as a source for a morning brew, a short dark-haired woman came out of a rear office to stand behind the counter with a welcoming smile.
“Have some if you like. It’s fresh. Can I help you?”
“Yes, please. You have a reservation for Jessie Arnold?”
The woman’s smile grew broader and she held out an eager hand to shake Jessie’s with some excitement.
“Oh yes, we certainly do. The whole staff’s been looking forward to having you here, Jessie. We’ve seen you in the Iditarod reports—and the year you ran the Yukon Quest—though we could only get part of it. You’ve got some real fans in Petersburg, including all of us here at Tides Inn.”
All of them—really? Jessie wondered.
It always made her slightly uneasy when someone was so obviously impressed by her. This was one of those times that left her a little embarrassed and not quite sure how to respond. That’s nice wouldn’t quite do it, but what would?
“Thanks,” she said finally, with her usual smile. “Glad you like the races.”
Though she could understand Alaskans’ pride and fascination with what had become the state sport, to be sing
led out had always seemed inappropriate in some odd way. The taxi driver’s recognition had been filled with a particular brand of humor and it was doubtful that Connie was as impressed with much of anything as was this woman, whose fervor bordered on a sort of unrealistic, starstruck awe that seemed to have more to do with who Jessie was than with what she did—race sled dogs. She’d rather people were rac-ing, instead of rac-er, fans. The feeling, however, was not one she could, or should, communicate to anyone but other mushers—who had experienced the same thing and sympathized. So she smiled and signed the register, relieved that she wasn’t asked for an autograph.
Given a key, carrying her duffel and daypack, she went, as directed, back out the front door and around the side of the building to where the Dolphin Street sidewalk sloped steeply downhill. A passage halfway down it led to the left like an alley between the multilevel hotel and its annex next door. Turning in there Jessie soon found the room she had been assigned.
It was dark and a bit crowded with two queen-sized beds, but pleasant enough, though a little cool. Turning up the thermostat, she left the duffel, washed her hands and face clean of the feel of travel, and thought for a minute about calling Alex to let him know she had safely completed the airplane part of this adventure. Checking her watch, she decided that he and Delafosse might still be finishing up their meetings and would soon settle in the bar of their hotel for a beer before dinner, probably with the visiting officers from Vancouver. She would wait till later to make the call, when he might be back in his room. For now, she would go out, get a look at downtown, and find a place to have her own dinner in the process.
It was raining again, so she put on the waterproof slicker she had brought along and, shouldering her daypack, closed the door, checked to be sure it was locked, and headed down the hill into Petersburg.
CHAPTER SIX
AT JUST AFTER SIX O’CLOCK IT WAS ALREADY EVENING, FOR the sun had disappeared behind the mountains to the west. The rain had, at least temporarily, slowed to what was almost a mist but, though the general temperature was noticeably warmer than at home in the Matanuska Valley, the breeze off the waters of the harbor was chilly. Jessie zipped her green insulated slicker and tucked her hands into its pockets, rather than bother to retrieve her gloves from the daypack.
At the bottom of the hill, she rounded the corner onto Nordic Drive, where the tantalizing scent of pizza wandered in suddenly from somewhere to tickle her nose, but was immediately whisked away by the wind. Walking west past several closed businesses, a little way down the block she came to the Harbor Bar with an adjoining liquor store, both open and casting warm inviting lights onto the sidewalk from their windows. As she paused to look into the bar the door swung open, letting out the sound of canned music, the cheerful buzz of conversation, and two young men, one wearing a bright blue hooded sweatshirt with VIKING printed in white across the front and smaller print below. He turned left and went on along the street with his friend, leaving Jessie to wonder about the small print, but she smiled at the appropriateness of the larger word. Petersburg people were clearly as proud of their Scandinavian heritage as Connie had indicated.
Peering through the glass, she could see a large room that was well lighted for a tavern, with a long bar against the left-hand wall. It was lined with tall stools, a few of them empty. More than half of the chairs clustered around an assortment of tables in the remaining space were occupied by a casually dressed, cheerful crowd of people sharing relaxed conversation along with their drinks. A carryout box on one table held a crust or two that were left from a pizza. A poolroom occupied the rear of the space and a dartboard hung on the back wall, both in use.
The atmosphere was persuasive, so when the door opened for an arriving customer, she followed him in and claimed one of the tall stools near the front window, slipping off her slicker and depositing it with her daypack on another stool beside her, leaving two spaces between herself and the nearest occupant.
“Hi there.” The bartender, a tall young woman wearing a plaid shirt tucked into her jeans, a metal bottle opener slipped into a hip pocket, greeted her with a smile. “What can I get you?”
“A Killian’s Red,” Jessie told her, naming her favorite lager.
It appeared in rapid order along with a glass that she pushed back as she laid a bill down to pay for her drink, which she sipped straight from the longneck bottle.
The first taste was always best, Jessie decided appreciatively, setting the brew down with a satisfied sigh. Though it had taken three air hops to arrive here, her plane travel was over for the rest of the week and it felt good to know that on this evening she had no commitments, could relax and make decisions on dinner for one. Glancing inquiringly around she saw no source for the pizza she had observed on the table across the room and had a question ready when the bartender returned to lay her change on the bar and remove the unnecessary glass.
“From a place down the street,” the bartender told her. “You can get one to go and bring it back if you want—lots of people do. We don’t serve food, so we don’t mind.”
Though pizza was not without appeal, the idea didn’t satisfy Jessie—not in seafood country.
“Where would I go to find a place with crab or shrimp on the menu?”
“The Northern Lights will be open,” the woman told her, glancing down the bar to where a pair of mugs had been set back to indicate their drinkers were ready for refills. “Oops. Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”
Jessie watched as she filled the mugs and came striding back with a grin. “Sorry. It’s usually slower on Monday, but we’ve got a thirsty crowd tonight for some reason.”
“You said the Northern Lights?” Jessie prompted.
“Right. Where are you staying? I’ll walk you through it from there.”
“The Tides Inn. But I’ll go from here.”
“Okay. If you go across the street and walk west for two full blocks you’ll come to a garden on the corner with the statue of a bear with a fish in its mouth. Take a right, then curve to the left on Sing Lee Alley. Keep going, and where it turns into a bridge that goes over the slough, you’ll see the Sons of Norway Hall. From there you can see the Northern Lights Restaurant—on pilings at the other end of the bridge.”
“Great. Thanks,” Jessie told her. “I think I’ll try that.”
“They have a good menu—all sorts of—”
“Hey, Carol. This’d be a great place to open a tavern,” someone interrupted with a call.
The bartender shook her head and grinned. “If I had a nickel . . . You’ll like the Northern Lights,” she called back as she hurried off to fill the order for the impatient someone at the other end of the long bar.
Jessie leaned forward on her elbows and, taking another swallow of the Killian’s, returned to her thoughts of spending time on her own. The Harbor Bar was warm, dry, and comfortably full of agreeable background music, the crack of balls hitting each other on the pool table, and easygoing conversation—all in all, an undemanding and relaxing place to be for the moment. Purposely, she had chosen a seat away from others, feeling a need for time by herself and knowing the week at the lighthouse would be crowded with other people.
As she considered it and sipped the lager, someone gave a hoot of laughter at a table behind her.
“You made that up, Hal.”
“Did not—I swear it really happened.”
“Yeah, sure it did.”
For a second or two, Jessie wished she were in a pub at home and could walk over and join the friendly conversation, but quickly returned to appreciating time on her own.
She was used to being alone and independently making her own decisions as by necessity a majority of her time as a sled dog racer was spent in training teams for competition, which involved hours, even days, in the wilds of Alaska with only her dogs for company. It was a solitary occupation that was not for everyone, but suited Jessie for she was introspective at heart. Sometimes she wondered if she liked it so much
because the sport was matched to her personality, or vice versa.
Growing up in a family of extroverts, she had not been a shy child, but had learned early in life to be on her own, when the loss of a younger sister had focused the attention of her parents on an endless, anguished search for the seven-year-old who disappeared on her way home from school one afternoon and was never found. As a result, Jessie knew she had felt unreasonably responsible and had come to be most comfortable when depending on no one but herself—being in control of what went on around her and what she did. If it hadn’t been for the loss of Lily things might have been different and . . .
I’m not going there, she decided firmly, realizing such thoughts were taking her into territory that, unresolved, was deeply painful.
Casting about for something else onto which to turn her attention, Alex Jensen immediately came to mind, along with a vague sense of discomfort about their relationship. His return had somehow made her feel uneasy in her own living space and she wanted to know why—but not at the moment. Not going there right now either, she told herself sternly, and swinging partway around on the bar stool once again noticed the pool table in the back of the room. It was a game she enjoyed. Should she go and lay a quarter on the edge of the table—play a round or two? No. She didn’t want the rituals of meeting new people—what she wanted was dinner, and soon. She would finish the half-emptied Killian’s and go, she decided. Petersburg was known for its shrimp, so she might as well take advantage of it.
Turning the other way, she took a look out the window and saw that it was full dark, but the rain seemed to have ceased for the time being.