From Here to Paternity jj-6

by Jill Churchill

  "So have I," Jane said, "but it's interesting anyway."

  "Anyhow, that's why we have our meetings here. Bill isn't interested in being Doris's Tsar, but his nephew Pete encourages Doris and got us to meet here about four years ago for our annual meeting. The place, completely apart from the connection with Bill, suited our needs down to the ground, so we keep coming back."

  "You don't think it's sort of hard to get to?" Jane asked, remembering the long, dark drive up the mountains the night before.

  "Well, we plan for that. Of course, a lot of people at the conference are local — we sponsor all sorts of general genealogy classes at our conference and a lot of people from Colorado come year after year. As far as the members of the Society go, we book all our flights to come in around the same time and hire a bus to bring us all up here at once. That is sort of a nuisance, but one we're used to. Anybody who has to come in later or earlier can fly to Vail."

  "Vail? There's an airport at Vail? That's close, isn't it?"

  He did the "so-so" motion again. "As the crow flies, yes. But there's a mountain between here and there that you can't drive over except in the summer with a four-wheel drive. In the winter, you have to backtrack a long way to get from there to here, so we just stick with the Denver airport and the hired bus."

  Shelley had been listening with interest. "You have classes open to other people? Any for rank beginners?"

  "Sure. You interested?"

  "I am. May I sign up this late and sit in on some of your classes?"

  "We'd be glad to have you. It's only twenty-five dollars to attend anything and everything you want. A real bargain, if I do say so myself."

  While they'd been talking, Jane had gradually become aware of a faint repetitive noise in the background. In the silence following Lucky's last remark, they all became aware of it.

  "What's that sound?" Jane asked.

  "Probably a radio turned up too loud someplace," Shelley said.

  But people on the other side of the restaurant, where the windows faced the front drive, were craning their necks and looking out at something.

  Lucky glanced at his watch. "Ladies, I've enjoyed talking to you. You're very polite to let me run off at the mouth this way, but I've got to get going."

  "It's been a pleasure," Shelley said. "Thanks again for bringing me my message. I'll probably see you at some of the classes."

  As he departed, Shelley and Jane exchanged questioning looks and wordlessly agreed that they had to see what was going on in front. Shelley signed the breakfast tab, left a hefty tip, and they went across the room to an empty table to peer outside.

  At first Jane assumed that what she saw was a display of local color that the resort sponsored. A group of people in colorful garb were doing what appeared to be an Indian dance. There were tom-toms, feathers, beads, and lots of glossy black braids flying. But a moment later, she noticed the placards that others were carrying:

  Save our graves.

  Let our ancestors rest in peace.

  Don't desecrate sacred ground.

  And the cryptic, No lift.

  The diners were mumbling to one another, speculating on the meaning of all this. But no one had any answers. An attractive woman wearing a long skirt, high boots, and a heavy, fringed shawl had been speaking to one of the demonstrators; as she turned away from him, she caught a glimpse of Shelley at the window and raised a hand in greeting. Then she added a "Stay there" sign. At least that was what Jane assumed it meant.

  "That's Tenny Garner," Shelley explained to Jane. "The owner's niece. Or rather, his wife's niece, I think."

  They returned to their table on the far side of the room, now cleared. The waiter immediately returned and offered more coffee, which they turned down.

  While he was trying to talk them into just another half cup, Tenny joined them. She was probably forty years old, with long, streaky, dark blond hair pulled into a loose bun at the back of her neck. She shed her shawl and said to the waiter, "Bring me about a quart, Al, would you please? Shelley, I'm sorry about this. I'm sure it's all because your husband and his group are here, but how he knew about—"

  At that moment a young man Jane immediately categorized as a misplaced surfer stormed into the room. His artfully streaked blond hair, California tan, and muscular physique would have been very attractive if it hadn't been for the furious scowl that distorted his features.

  "Tenny!" he exclaimed, striding toward their table. "What are they doing? What are you doing about them?"

  "They're demonstrating and I'm having some restorative coffee."

  "But you can't let them just march around out there!"

  "I can't stop them. They have a permit. HawkHunter showed it to me."

  "HawkHunter! That—"

  "Pete, this is Mrs. Nowack," Tenny said quickly.

  That stopped him in his tracks. He gulped, visibly fought for control of his temper, and rearranged his face into a charming, if insincere, smile. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't kn — uh — Mrs. Nowack. How very nice to meet you. I hope you and your family and guests are enjoying your stay."

  Tenny and Jane launched into introductions. The young man was Pete Andrews, Bill Smith's nephew.

  "So you and Tenny are brother and sister?" Jane asked.

  "No!" they both said in unison.

  "Pete is Bill's nephew," Tenny explained, apparently embarrassed. "I'm Joanna's niece. Aunt Joanna is Uncle Bill's wife. Pete and I are no relation at all."

  "But you both work here?" Jane asked.

  Pete preened. "I handle all the entertainment aspects of the resort. Tenny handles the housekeeping." His almost-sneer made it clear that entertainment was the difficult, skilled, imaginative job and housekeeping was both easy and beneath notice. Jane and Shelley, who were both "entertainment directors" and "head housekeepers" of their own homes, exchanged quick glances.

  Shelley had sat up very straight and was getting her smiting-down-the-enemy look, so Jane quickly said, "I'm sure you both must work awfully hard. It's nice to see a business that involves the whole family. My late husband was part of a family business." Mention of a late husband usually managed to force people to be courteous, she had discovered.

  "Oh — uh — that's nice," Pete said. "And it's been nice meeting you both. I have things to — uh—"

  "Run along, Pete. Make sure you get all the quarters out of the video games," Tenny said.

  He scowled at her and left.

  She stared after him. "That wasn't really nice of me," she mused. "There's no sport in getting the best of him. Poor twit." Then, realizing she was with the wife of a potential investor, she said, "But he's really very good at what he does. Having spent all his useless life 'playing', he knows all about games and leisure pursuits."

  "I heard you mention HawkHunter," Jane said. "Is that the same HawkHunter who wrote the book?"

  Tenny nodded. " 'Fraid so."

  "Book?" Shelley asked. "What book?"

  "Oh, Shelley, you remember. We read it in book club about ten years ago. A very good book, but horribly depressing."

  "Sounds like most of what we read in that book club. Depressives Anonymous, we used to call it before we finally had the sense to bail out."

  Jane chuckled. "I think it was Ethan Frome that put us over the edge. This guy's book was just called HawkHunter, wasn't it?"

  "I, HawkHunter," Tenny corrected her.

  "Oh, yes, that's right. Anyway, it was sort of an Indian version of Roots. A story of his family from about the fifteen-hundreds up through his own childhood on the reservation. It really was fascinating, but bigoted in its own way. HawkHunter himself claimed not to have a single drop of 'evil' white blood, but virtually all his ancestors had been hideously mistreated by the white man."

  "I'm sure that would have stuck in my mind," Shelley said.

  "I don't know how you missed reading it," Jane went on. "Actually, I'm making it sound awful, but it was very interesting. Lots of nifty stuff about the history of this countr
y from the Indian viewpoint. It was a big best-seller for months and months."

  "So what's this HawkHunter person doing out there?" Shelley asked Tenny.

  "Rabble-rousing," Tenny said grimly. "There's a tiny reservation that abuts Uncle Bill's land — only about ten acres where the village and a couple of houses sit — and HawkHunter's convinced a few of the Indians that they're entitled to our poor little squashed-down mountain. It's a stupid, technical thing, but he's a lawyer, you know. Used to finding niggles. The worst of it is, he's trying to spoil the relationship we have with the tribe."

  "How's that?" Jane asked.

  "Well, we hire lots of them here. They're wonderful workers and we pay them well and it's been a nice working arrangement ever since Uncle Bill started the resort. Back in the old days, when this was just some primitive hunters' cabins, they worked as guides. Then, when he built it up like it is now, he employed about half the tribe in the construction. Our chef is one of them. So are our accountant and our conference planner, as well as most of the waiters and cleaning crew."

  "So what do the placards mean? Especially the 'No Lift' one?" Jane asked.

  "HawkHunter is claiming the top of our pathetic little mountain is an ancient tribal burial ground. I don't think the tribe ever believed that until he turned up, and there's no proof whatsoever that there's anything buried up there but a few unfortunate chipmunks that got in the way of a rock slide. But HawkHunter has some of the tribe convinced that somebody — Uncle Bill or the investors — is planning to build a ski-lift mechanism at the top. Which is stupid. It's just a silly hill, and nobody would build a ski lift for a bunny slope."

  She took a long, appreciative sip of her coffee.

  Shelley had been listening politely, but now asked sharply, "What's the legal niggle?"

  Tenny smiled. "Don't worry. Your husband and the other investors know all about it. Uncle Bill hasn't concealed anything from them. There is a sheaf of legal opinions and precedents in the financial packet he had prepared for them."

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply—"

  "I know. But even HawkHunter isn't sure enough of himself to file a suit. He just keeps threatening. And considering how easy it is to file a nuisance suit these days, I think that says a lot about how flimsy his reasoning is."

  "So what is it he wants?" Jane asked. "What are the threats about?"

  "Oh, not much," Tenny said sarcastically. "He just wants Uncle Bill to give the resort to the tribe."

  Chapter 4

  "I'm sorry," Tenny said to their questioning looks. "I've really got to get back to work. I left Aunt Joanna at the desk and she's probably knocking things off people's bills left and right. She can't stand the slightest hint of discontent. I really just came in to let you know that there's a big storeroom off the lobby that has all sorts of boots, mufflers, even snow-shoes and sun goggles. If you want to go adventuring but don't have the equipment, feel free to help yourself. It started out as a lost-and-found, but now we just let guests help themselves."

  "Thanks. I may take you up on that," Jane said. "Shelley's going to sit in on some of the genealogy stuff this morning, and I'll take a walk."

  Tenny left just as Katie and Denise straggled into the dining room. "Jane, I'm going to run to town and get a notebook," Shelley said. "You don't mind my abandoning you for the morning, do you?"

  "Shelley! What do I look like, a wallflower? Go. I'm looking forward to being all by myself for a while. Solitude is such a rare commodity that I can't imagine why you're not interested in it, too. Katie, I see your fingernails are back to normal."

  Katie and Denise had stopped by her table, but clearly had no intention of sitting with a mother in public. "The polish took forever to get off. That glue is really tough. You weren't waiting for us, were you?" Katie asked, glancing around to see if anybody had noticed them speaking to Jane. Her gaze lingered for a long moment on the handsome omelet chef.

  "Don't worry, I'm leaving in a minute."

  "Mom, there was the neatest guy in the lobby. And he was just leaving! Isn't that just morbid?" Katie glanced again at the buffet table, and especially at the handsome omelet maker.

  "Hideous," Jane agreed. "Fate deals us these blows sometimes. Katie, that young man is working. Don't try to take up his time, or he could get in trouble with his boss."

  "What young man?" Katie asked, all offended innocence.

  "The one you're staring at."

  "Mother!"

  "I'm off to explore. I'll be back here at lunchtime. I'd appreciate it if you'd check in with me then, or leave a note at the cabin."

  "I'm not a baby!" Katie said, sticking out her lower lip.

  "No, but I'm a mother for life."

  I can't win, Jane thought wryly as she headed for the lost-and-found. If I don't pay enough attention, I'm uncaring. If I show too much concern, I'm overbearing.

  The saving factor was that time passes and teenage girls eventually grow up. Her mother had once told her that about the time her daughters got to be nice young women she could actually like, they went away. There were days when Jane felt that that time couldn't come soon enough.

  The lost-and-found was an old-fashioned cloakroom just off the entrance to the hotel. She joined another woman who was rummaging among the items on the shallow shelves. Jane had brought along a heavy jacket and a good, warm stocking cap, as well as insulated boots that were cozy but made her walk like a robot. She added a soft wool muffler and a pair of darkly shaded goggles. Fearing her fur-lined leather gloves might not be warm enough, she put on a fat pair of padded mittens over them. She took a quick glance in the mirror on the back of the cloakroom door and decided the look was Pillsbury Doughboy-ish, but practical.

  She waddled out the front door of the hotel and began to follow the road back up toward the Eagle's Nest group of cabins, where she would set out from. Unfortunately, as she toiled chubbily up the hill, she met a couple of young women coming down the road. Jane was sweaty and out of breath. They were all spandex, long, easy strides, flowing tresses, and breezy tans. I don't think I looked twenty-five when I was twenty-five, Jane thought grouchily. As soon as they were out of sight, she sat down on an artfully fallen tree at the side of the road to catch her breath.

  By the time she'd reached the condo, she realized that she'd badly misjudged in the matter of wardrobe. It was cold, but the air was so thin and dry that it didn't feel cold. In fact, when she was in the sun, she felt downright hot in all those layers. She decided to shed several of them before continuing. Patting herself down, she found her room key in her back trouser pocket and let herself into the cabin.

  A pretty young woman with glossy black hair in a bun was sitting on the floor.

  "I'm sorry, I must have the wrong—" Jane babbled.

  The girl rose quickly. "No, no. You must be Mrs. Jeffry. I'm here to clean. I was just petting your dog."

  And sure enough, as she got up, she revealed Willard, belly-up, on the rug in front of the fireplace.

  "He probably told you he'd been abandoned and that nobody loved him. Right?"

  The girl's dark eyes sparkled. "Right. And that he hadn't been fed for four days."

  Jane shook her head. "He's such a liar."

  "I think he's a big sweetheart. Are you trying to get out of that jacket?"

  "Yes. I know it looks more like a seizure of some kind, but the zipper's stuck, I think."

  The young woman helped her. Up close, she was stunningly pretty, with high cheekbones, slanted eyes that looked faintly Oriental, and a nose that was merely strong now and would become dignified and possibly even imperious when she was older.

  "Thanks! I was beginning to think it was going to take the Jaws of Life to get me out of that jacket."

  "You're wearing a whole lot more clothing than you need to, Mrs. Jeffry."

  "I discovered that too late. And I'm Jane, by the way."

  "I'm Linda Moosefoot."

  "You're an Indian."

  "Yes, I know."
/>   Jane smiled. "I'm sorry. I should have known that you'd noticed."

  "You're trying very hard to figure out if I'm serious about my name, aren't you? It strikes people that way. But within the tribe, it's a common name. My brother always says we should just be happy it wasn't Elkballs or Badgerpiss."

  "Have I offended you by calling you an Indian? Do you prefer Native American?"

  "Oh, God! No! That's just trendy twaddle in my opinion. Anybody who's born in this country is a native American as far as I'm concerned. Your people might have originally come from Ireland or Germany or wherever and found my people already here, but only because we'd come over the land bridge from Siberia before that. Human beings are all immigrants on this half of the globe."

  "Why, that's a fascinating concept," Jane said.

  "Not original, I'm afraid. A college professor of mine said it and I recognized the truth of it."

  "Are you in college now?"

  Linda had gone to the closet and was unwinding the vacuum-cleaner cord. "Yes. I'm just helping out over the semester break. The Smiths are always looking for extra help over the holidays."

  "Do you go to college locally?"

  "No. Yale, actually."

  "That's a long way from home," Jane said.

  "In more ways than just geography," Linda replied. "You know what's best about being back? Nobody from around here thinks Moosefoot is a weird name. Everybody's gone to school with a Moosefoot or had one of the Moosefoot girls as a bridesmaid or employed a Moosefoot to put on their last roof. I'm not a token anything here. There are people at school who are forever trying to make me represent an entire race. Like I'm not entitled to individual habits and opinions and traits. You know, a professor — a grown man who should have known better — once said to me, "I didn't realize Indians were left-handed." "