The Alpine Pursuit Read Free

almost meek. “I’d like to get together with you tomorrow or Friday,” he began. “I didn’t want to bother you on press day. Would lunch at the ski lodge work for you?”
    If Nat wanted to see me, there must be a problem. I assumed it had nothing to do with his part in
The Outcast
. He was playing Sheriff John Brown, an apparently heroic figure, though it had surprised me when he took on the role. Nat Cardenas guarded his dignity closely.
    “Tomorrow’s fine,” I said, “assuming we don’t get more snow and the road to the lodge is open.”
    “Let’s hope for the best, despite the forecast,” Nat replied. “Would twelve-thirty be convenient?”
    I said that it would. “Is there a crisis at the college?” I asked.
    Nat didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his voice was very formal. “There are some challenges emerging. I’ll tell you about them tomorrow. Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”
    The calls that followed included the usual irate readers, three of whom didn’t agree with my editorial advocating the flood control project. One of them was Rita Patricelli, the Chamber of Commerce secretary and a member of a large Italian family that had been in the area for years. I had first known her as Rita Haines, but she’d dumped both Mr. Haines and his last name some time ago.
    “I’ve lived here all my life, more or less,” Rita declared in her brisk voice. “I’d write a letter to the editor, but I don’t want the merchants to think I’m speaking for all of them. You’ve been here for at least ten years, Emma. How many times has the Sky flooded?”
    I thought back over the decade. “Twice.”
    “How much damage?”
    “Some of the businesses and homes along River Road got almost a foot of water the last time,” I said.
    “Which they could bail out with a couple of buckets and a dishpan,” Rita retorted. “The Sky’s not big enough this close to the source. It’s a waste of money. The project wouldn’t even bring more jobs to Alpine. You know damned well the county would hire some outsider.”
    “I appreciate your opinion,” I said, trying to be gracious even though I’d never been particularly fond of the abrasive Rita Patricelli. “You may be right. But I’m not backing down. In any event, it’s up to the county commissioners.”
    “Those old slugs,” Rita sneered. “Maybe that’s a good thing. They’ll dither around until the river dries up. The three of them already have. Now if they’d only blow away.”
    I wouldn’t admit to Rita that I agreed with her.
    “And by the way,” she went on, “that picture of me in this week’s
Advocate
is god-awful. I look like I weigh four hundred pounds.”
    Rita referred to the group photo of
The Outcast
troupe. She was playing a waitress at the Emerald Café. I wouldn’t exactly call Rita fat, but she had put on some weight in recent months.
    “You look fine to me,” I said blithely.
    “Speak for yourself,” Rita grumbled. “I still wish you’d visited Avezzano when you were in Italy. It’s not that far from Rome. I’d have liked a souvenir from my ancestral home.”
    “You ought to go there yourself,” I said, aware that I had another call on hold. “Got to run, Rita. I think Fuzzy’s on the other line.”
    “Good-bye.” Rita hung up.
    ∗ ∗ ∗
    There hadn’t been time to visit the countryside that surrounded Rome. I’d never been there before, but my brother had made three previous visits, including a six-month stint several years earlier when he’d studied how to be a missionary priest. If he’d learned nothing else, he’d discovered that his vocation was not in the jungles of Papua New Guinea or the deserts of North Africa. Ben had opted for the home missions and had been sent to the Mississippi Delta, where I had gone when my son, Adam, was born.
    Thus, Ben knew Rome fairly well, though he was surprised at the city’s expansion since his last visit seven years ago. While he attended meetings in the