Alpine Kindred

Einar Rasmussen Jr. was angry. The deep grooves in his face that reminded me of cedar bark were twisted, and the agate-blue eyes never blinked. "So Miss Steinmetz told me to be here by noon," Einar Jr. growled, planting both fists on my desk. "It's twelve-fifteen. I've been waiting for her out front, but nobody's there." Unseen by Einar Jr., a small child sat on my feet. "Carla--Ms. Steinmetz--left before eleven to do a story on a new restaurant," I explained, trying to keep my patience along with my composure. The child was bouncing up and down. "She should be back any minute." The agate eyes narrowed. "A new restaurant? So you mean that harebrained scheme the Bourgette kids came up with?" I nodded. "Dan and John. They want to build a Fifties-style diner where the old warehouse burned down by the railroad tracks." "Dumb," Einar Jr. declared. "Alpine doesn't need a new restaurant. My son, Beau, would never come up with such a harebrained scheme. When it comes to business, those Bourgette kids haven't got the sense to pour sand down a rat hole." I didn't know the Bourgette kids--who were actually thirty-something--well enough to assess their business acumen. But then I didn't know Einar Rasmussen Jr. much better, and I'd never met his son, Beau. "It's different here now with the college," I countered as little Brad Erlandson started to squeak like a rubber duck. "Alpine's no longer just a stagnant mill town. You ought to know. You've had a big hand in helping build the new community college." The flattery wasn't intentional, which was just as well, because Einar Jr. scoffed. "Bull. A few underpaid faculty members and a bunch of hard-up students can't support new restaurants." Einar Jr. scowled, the hard blue gaze raking my little cubbyhole of an office. "What's that noise? It sounds like a pig's loose in here." I reached under the desk and tried to budge one-year-old Brad. "It's Ginny Burmeister's boy," I explained, gritting my teeth as Brad offered resistance. "Ginny Burmeister Erlandson, that is. Our office manager." "So I wouldn't think an office would be the place for little kids." Einar Jr. smacked one fist into the other. "What are you running here? A newspaper or a baby-sitting service?" Einar Jr. had pushed too far. "Look," I said, finally getting little Brad to remove himself from my feet, "I don't need advice on how to run The Alpine Advocate. Would I try to tell you how to run your trucking business? If you don't want your picture taken in front of the Rasmussen Union Building at the college, just say so. When I need an outside consultant, I'll take out an ad in The Advocate's classifieds." At last Einar Jr. blinked. "Okay, okay, Mrs. Lord--you don't have to get ornery with me. So I'm leaving. If your inconsiderate reporter ever shows up, let me know." "I will. She will. Have a nice day. And," I added in an uncharacteristic display of waspishness, "it's Ms. Lord. I've never been married." "I don't doubt it," Einar Jr. shot back. "Who'd have you?" In my youth, there would have been a dictionary at hand to throw at Einar Jr.'s infuriating head. But in the computer age, there was only software. As with so many other aspects of life, high tech had sucked the drama out of human emotions. It was probably a good thing. As the editor and publisher of The Alpine Advocate, I had no reputation as a prima donna. But Einar Rasmussen Jr. had pushed the wrong buttons; Carla might be a flake, but she was my flake. Einar Jr. ought to stick to supervising his fleet of eighteen-wheelers. Getting little Brad out from under the desk proved hopeless. I had just unwrapped the tuna-salad saDaheim, Mary is the author of 'Alpine Kindred' with ISBN 9780375432538 and ISBN 0375432531.