Alpine Gamble

by Mary Daheim

  The spa story might prove equally tricky. Under fitful clouds, I drove up to the ski lodge for my lunch date. While the lodge is old, if well maintained, the restaurant is relatively new. Until about two years ago there was only a coffee shop, which still exists in a refurbished state. But King Olav's itself features handsome Scandinavian decor and, for lunch, an eclectic menu. I was thinking about a crab omelette as I pulled into the parking lot.

  In the high-beamed lobby with its knotty pine and gray stone decor, I spotted my hosts without difficulty. Their casual but expensive attire, the deep suntans and their easy manner, stamped them as Californians. Blake Fannucci was stocky, with wavy brown hair and deep-set blue eyes. His partner, Stan Levine, was tall, lean, and sharp-featured, with a receding hairline. They greeted me as if we were old high school chums, which was mathematically possible, since they both appeared to be in their early forties.

  “Excuse me if I don't shake hands,” Blake apologized, holding his right arm at an angle. “I took a spill at poolside last month and I've got gamekeeper's thumb.”

  Deciding that was a subject we could tackle later, I smiled with sympathy. Stan Levine's handshake was firm and friendly. His manner was somewhat more reserved than Blake's, however, and I figured he was the less outgoing of the pair.

  “This restaurant isn't half bad for being in such an out-of-the-way place,” Blake remarked as we sat down at what I assumed was the power table. I'd never considered that King Olav's possessed such a thing, but Blake had made a point of indicating where he wanted to sit. The hostess, Angie Patricelli, had regarded him with mild curiosity. Even Mayor Fuzzy Baugh didn't seem to mind which table he was given, as long as the chair legs didn't collapse under him.

  Stan Levine was nodding agreement with Blake Fannucci. 'The wine list features some reputable California vintages. I can't speak for the Washington vintners. What do you think, Ms. Lord?”

  I blinked, at the wine list. “I'm no connoisseur,” I admitted. “My favorite drink is Pepsi.”

  Blake and Stan chuckled as if I'd said something genuinely droll. Maybe I had and didn't know it.

  “You've hit on something,” Blake said, carefully placing his injured right hand on the blue and white linen tablecloth. “Whether it's soda pop or mineral water or Dos Equis beer, we'll offer it at the spa. People are tired of being told what to eat and drink. They're going right off the edge of the envelope. We intend to give them choices.”

  I, however, was not given any. Our waitress, who was one of the Bjornsons, was told to bring a bottle of che-nin blanc from the Napa Valley.

  “Nice,” Blake commented, waving his left hand at the room in general. “Very integrated with the environment. Native American in the lobby, Vikings in the restaurant. But too narrow a purview. How many people know Odin?”

  Odin was represented by a Fogelberg replica perched on high between the tall windows at the far end of the dining room. “Odin's big around here,” I noted. “We have a large percentage of Scandinavians.” I wasn't one of them, but suddenly I was feeling defensive.

  Blake nodded. “My point exactly. That's insular thinking. We want to attract people from all over the Pacific Northwest—Washington, Oregon, British Columbia. We're thinking global. What're hot springs about, really? Using high tech to get back to basics, right? In touch with their bodies, in touch with the earth itself, but with state-of-the-art convenience. This is alternative medicine in a luxury setting. What's more therapeutic than minerals coming right out of the ground? What we're talking here with our Windy Mountain spa concept is Marienbad Goes Digital.” He leaned back in his chair wearing a self-satisfied smile.

  “Wonderful,” I said lamely. “But isn't Windy Mountain on the other side of the highway?”

  Blake wagged a finger at me. “Sharp, very sharp. Yes, but the view from the spa will be of Windy Mountain. Unfortunately, the peak nearest the springs is called Spark Plug. We can't name a five-star resort after something like that. Unless,” he added, frowning up at the open-beam ceiling, “we have the state or whoever change the mountain's name.”

  I tried not to look askance. “Is your plan to build the facility on top of the hot springs?” I had already taken out my notebook and was prepared to write.

  Stan Levine, who had been gazing out the window at a sassy flock of crows in a cedar tree, nodded gravely. “That's right. If the architect considers it structurally feasible. We've hired one of your people.”

  I regarded Stan quizzically. Until the first of the year, Alpine had no architects. But Scott Melville and his wife Beverly had moved to town in early February. Scott's first job was the renovation of the Skykomish County Sheriff's headquarters on Front Street.

  Stan was nodding again, still solemn. “Melville's from California, originally.”

  I knew that, courtesy of Vida's feature story on Scott and Beverly. They were an attractive young couple who had been frightened by the recent earthquakes in the Los Angeles area. Scott had been quoted as saying he didn't want to design or live in buildings that could be demolished every time the ground shifted.

  “Good,” I said, making a note. “Have you actually acquired the property yet?”

  Stan and Blake exchanged quick glances. Melissa Bjornson arrived with the chenin blanc and went through the presentation ritual, which clearly bored her.

  It did not have the same effect on Blake Fannucci, however. “That's the wrong year,” he said in a pleasant yet assertive voice. “I asked for a Ninety-one. This is Ninety-two.”

  Melissa, who was barely of legal age to serve liquor, narrowed her blue eyes at Blake. “So? It's wine, isn't it?”

  Blake assumed an avuncular air. “My dear … Melissa,” he said after a quick glance at her name tag, “let me give you a short course on wine. Every year brings change. Climate conditions create differences in grapes. In Ninety-two, the Napa Valley was subject to …”

  Blake went on. And on. I turned to Stan. “Leonard Hollenberg owns that property. It covers a large parcel of land, mostly uphill. Has he put a price on it?”

  “We're negotiating,” Stan replied. 'This Hollenberg is trying to hold us up, of course. But who else would want it?” His expression was ingenuous.

  “Right,” Blake chimed in, having concluded his sermon on grape-raising. Melissa had taken away the offending bottle. “VineFan, cap V, cap F—that's the corporation's official name, half Levine, half Fannucci— VineFan's willing to purchase all or part of what Hollenberg owns. Our big bargaining chip—besides money—is that he can keep the acreage by the highway. The springs are actually two miles up into the mountains.”

  I considered the site, trying to draw a mental map in my head. A washed-out gravel road led to the steep hot springs trail, or so Vida had informed me before I'd left for lunch. The land must be very rugged. I posed the obvious question:

  “You'll have to buy the right-of-way to build a road, though. Won't this be an expensive project?”

  Blake and Stan both nodded, with varying degrees of certitude. “You bet,” Blake replied. “Offhand, we're figuring fifteen million, total. But if you want the best, you have to pay for it.”

  I couldn't help but be impressed. As far as I knew, no one had ever spent that kind of money to build anything in Skykomish County.

  “Where do you get your financing?” I inquired, making another note.

  Melissa returned, bearing the proper vintage. Blake sniffed the cork, took a sip, and pronounced the chenin blanc acceptable. Despite his approval, Melissa seemed sulky as she left the table.

  “Ah, financing.” Blake savored the term, along with the wine. “Naturally, we'd like to use your local bank. But we met with their people Friday right after we got here, and frankly, the Bank of Alpine doesn't have the resources for a project of this magnitude. We'll deal with our usual contacts in L.A.”

  I nodded, wondering if Blake was right or merely tactful. It was true that the Bank of Alpine was small. It was also true that the Petersen family, which had run
the local financial institution for years, wasn't inclined to take on risky ventures.

  “What projects have you been involved in recently?” I asked, after sipping my wine and wondering if I could have distinguished this particular year from any other, or, say, from a glass of 7UP.

  Blake responded with a list, featuring names such as Leisure Palace, Indoorsport, and Innertainment. They all seemed to be in places such as Long Beach, Newport, and Rancho Mirage.

  My next question had to wait until after Melissa had returned to take our orders. This exercise lasted several minutes, with Blake going over the menu item by item, and Stan asking about various substitutions.

  “Very odd menu,” Blake said when Melissa finally trudged off. “So many beets and potatoes and fish. Haven't you people learned how to graze?”

  I was beginning to feel as if my hosts and I weren't merely from different states, but different cultures. “Graze?” I echoed a bit numbly.

  “Right,” Blake said. “It's not a new concept in southern California. Not at all. It refers to small portions of food that can be eaten on the move, as at a party or a gallery showing or even in a restaurant.”

  “But the selections have cohesion,” Stan put in. “That's essential.”

  “Right,” Blake agreed. “Interactive cuisine, that's the concept.”

  I tried to envision the Burl Creek Thimble Club grazing its way through a monthly meeting or Vida's fellow Presbyterians devising a mobile John Knox menu. Somehow, the concept didn't work for me. Or for Alpine, either.

  “What brought you up here?” I inquired, refocusing on my story.

  “New worlds to conquer,” Blake answered easily. “People in California are backing off from big construction projects right now. Too many earthquakes, fires, floods—all the rest of it. We thought about Alaska, but that's too remote. British Columbia gets complicated, though the exchange rate is very favorable with Canada at present. Oregon's environmental laws are tougher than just about any other state. Washington seemed promising. It offers natural irony—the wilderness is still close to the cities. You know, Nature Meets Microsoft.” He turned to Stan. “By the way, did you call Bill?”

  Stan inclined his head. “He's out of town. He'll get back to us next week. I'll send an E-mail reminder.”

  My pen was poised over the notepad. “Bill? Bill Gates of Microsoft?”

  Blake nodded. “Right. It's always smart to touch base with the local movers and shakers. Who knows? Bill might want to get involved. We'd consider it—wouldn't we, Stan?”

  Stan's high forehead creased. “Probably. But these self-made software billionaires can be a pain. I've always felt it's better to keep the decision making in our hands.”

  The mention of hands recalled Blake's accident. “What happened?” I pointed to Blake's right arm. “Did you break something?”

  “Chipped, actually,” he answered as a glum Melissa brought our salads. “Right at the base of the thumb where the ligament's attached. I just got out of the cast last week. There's some permanent damage to the ligament, which causes lax or gamekeeper's thumb. It's named after a condition gamekeepers in England used to get from strangling rabbits.” Blake grinned at me. “You know—D. H. Lawrence Does Hollywood.”

  I tried to appear amused and sympathetic at the same time. The attempt felt as awkward as it must have looked. “Will it go away?”

  Blake shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Oh, it's annoying. I can't write. That's the obvious loss. But you'd be amazed at how many things you do with your thumb that you take for granted.”

  Steering the conversation back to the proposed project, we spent the next hour talking about the development's possible directions. While many of the Pacific Northwest's mineral springs had been left in their natural state, others already had been converted into modest spas, retreat centers, or destination-style resorts.

  'This is where Scott Melville comes in,” Blake declared, critically eyeing his veal cutlet. “There's not much level ground. Form will determine function, in this case. We're open.”

  It had occurred to me that I should talk to Scott Melville before I wrote the story. My watch indicated it was after one o'clock. A call to Leonard Hollenberg was also in order. I was beginning to feel the pressure of deadline.

  Consequently, when Melissa asked us if we wanted dessert—though her hostile tone dared us to do so—I declined, saying I had to get back to work. I thanked Blake and Stan for their generous hospitality and prepared to leave.

  “Let me walk you to your car,” Stan offered as Blake scanned the bill that Melissa had slapped down in front of him. “We appreciate the coverage you're giving us.”

  “It's news,” I said, nodding to Henry Bardeen, who was standing behind the front desk, looking grim. “If you go ahead with this, it'll be the biggest thing to hit Skykomish County since the railroad.”

  As usual, Stan was wearing a serious expression. “It's reassuring to have you on our side. I sense that not everybody around here welcomes Californians. But we're not all greedy opportunists.”

  We had stepped outside, into the parking lot. On the last day of May, there were only about two dozen occupied spaces. The ski season was over, and the summer tourists hadn't yet started to arrive.

  “Alpine's been going through a recession,” I admitted. “The timber industry, you know. The downturn in jobs started in the late Seventies, with the technological revolution. Then came the spotted owl ruling in Ninety-one. Sometimes it feels as if the town's at war with the environmentalists.”

  Stan's dark eyes studied the patches of snow on Mount Baldy. “Oh, yes. I know all about those environmentalists. But they have a point. Personally, we'll do everything we can to avoid causing problems. It's essential.If we harm the environment, we could ruin the hot springs. We'd certainly harm the natural setting.”

  Somewhat to my surprise, Stan seemed awestruck by his surroundings. When he finally stopped staring at the second-growth timber that marched up the mountainsides, he broke into a smile and pointed.

  “See the chipmunk? The only wildlife we have in L.A. carries handguns.”

  I smiled back. Stan Levine might not be quite as relaxed as Blake Fannucci, but his company was more relaxing. The ninety-minute concept lunch had worn me out.

  “It's quiet up here,” I remarked. “And it usually smells good. Damp earth. Evergreens. Wood smoke, from the cedar mills.”

  Stan took a deep breath, appreciating my litany. “And just plain fresh air.” Abruptly, he turned to me, exhibiting almost boyish excitement. “Do you know I saw a MacGillivray's warbler this morning?”

  I must have looked blank. “You did?”

  Again he nodded, this time with enthusiasm. “They breed in all the western mountains, from Vancouver Island to Arizona. Townsend's, the hermit, and the black-throated gray warbler all nest around here, too. 1 haven't seen them yet. I hear the cedar waxwing winters here. Now there's a handsome bird! I'd love to sight one of those.”

  I wouldn't know one warbler from another, but I recognized the cedar waxwing. In fact, a pair of them were frequent visitors to my backyard. A bit shyly, I asked Stan if he'd like to drop by on Saturday.

  “If you and Blake are still in town,” I added.

  Stan considered the invitation. “We may be. It'll depend on how things go with HoUenberg. Have you got fruit trees in your yard?”

  I didn't. My cozy log house was virtually built into the forest. The waxwings perched among the Douglas firs and western hemlock.

  “Waxwings usually nest in orchards,” Stan said, once again very serious.

  “The neighbors have a couple of apple trees,” I said, edging toward my aging Jaguar XJE. “Stop by, if you can. I've got binoculars.”

  “So do I,” Stan replied, his smile returning. “I take them everywhere. You never know when you're going to find something startling.”

  How true. How prophetic. How sad.

  Chapter Two

  I WAS FORCED to hang up on Leonard Holle
nberg. Not that the old windbag was telling me anything, but Ginny Burmeister had shoved a note onto my desk saying that my brother Ben was on the phone from Tuba City, Arizona. I interrupted Leonard's coy evasions about the proposed hot springs sale and pressed line two.

  “Hey, Sluggly,” said Ben in his crackling voice, “you owe me two hundred bucks.”

  “Like hell,” I retorted. “Listen, Stench, if you were dumb enough to fork over Adam's speeding fine, that's your problem. Besides, it was only one fifty. And stop calling me Sluggly. We're not ten years old anymore.”

  “Then stop calling me Stench,” Ben ordered, though I knew neither of us was inclined to surrender our childhood nicknames. Maybe, in our forties, it was a way to hold on to our youth. “Has Adam left for Tempe?”

  “About two hours ago,” Ben replied, now sounding slightly disgruntled. “I know the ticket wasn't two hundred. I took the extra fifty out of the poor box so he could buy beer.”

  I ran a hand through my shaggy brown hair. “Great. You shouldn't have given him anything. The boy—the man—has got to grow up.”

  “Why?” Ben shot back. “So we can feel really old? Hell, Emma, I was forty-six on my last birthday. Besides,I wanted to get him out of here. Things are a bit ticklish in Tuba City just now.”

  “The war?” I wasn't sure whether to take it seriously. “What's happening?”

  Ben sighed. “Some Navajo sheep got their throats cut. There was a fire at a Hopi cornfield early this morning. I'm trying to get everybody to talk it through, but let's face it, I'm an outsider. You know what that's like.”

  I certainly did. After five years in Alpine I still hadn't been completely accepted into the community. Probably I never would be, unless I died. Non-natives can only expiate the sin of being born elsewhere by getting buried in Alpine's cemetery. The locals will embrace a headstone before they take another human being to their collective bosom.