Weathering the Storm. Morgan Q O'Reilly

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      “Point out other folks to me, would you? I see very few familiar faces.” The few I thought I recognized looked at me curiously, but didn’t rush over to say hello. A shout went up from the dancers and I cringed into Karl’s side. Not a response I wanted to cultivate.

      “Easy, babe. Cousin Karl is here to watch out for you. We’ll get you reconnected with Uncle Bill over there and won’t nobody be smacking into you.”

      “Good heavens, where did you learn English? Rapper U? Gangsta Online? Ghetto-Speak for White Boys 101?”

      “Thought you’d like that.” Unrepentant, he grinned a mile wide and stopped near the grills. “Bill, lookee who came back to visit.”

      I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face when the older man turned from the grill and opened his arms wide.

      As far as I’d ever heard, no one knew where he’d come from, or why he’d chosen Talkeetna, but one day he’d wandered into town. Spent a week at the Roadhouse, talked to anyone who had something to say. Not long after, he bought a four bedroom log house just south of the main drag, and the next year opened it up in time for the summer tourist season. He had a calm, mountain-man type of demeanor, offered up rational advice when asked, never talked about his past, never passed judgment, lent a helping hand where it was needed, and had a way with sourdough that had grown to legendary status locally. As far back as I could remember, he’d always worn his long hair in a braid and kept his beard trimmed and combed. He was the uncle to my generation, the link between us and our parents, and on occasion, served as mediator between the two warring factions.

      Without a moment’s hesitation I flung myself into his embrace, instinctively keeping the injured side of my head to the outside.

      “Look at you, missy.” He folded me into strong arms and carefully rocked me.

      As hugs went, it fell far short of the way he’d once lifted my feet from the ground and spun me in circles. Damn. Word was out. I’d so wanted to come back and be treated as normal. A sense of disappointment sank from my heart to my toes.

      “How’s my dream man?” I asked as he set me back on my feet. Maybe if I treated him the same as always, he’d relax.

      “Now that you’re all grown, I’m ready for a soft, peaceful sort of woman. You stayed away too long, squirt.”

      Stepping back, I took a good, long look at him. His braided hair seemed a little longer, but had new touches of gray that also frosted the grizzled beard. New, deeper lines fanned out from his eyes and mouth. All in all, he looked like Bill, just a decade older. “You’re not that old.”

      He grinned, but changed the subject. “Hey, I want to introduce you. This is the guy building my addition. Azzette, this is Aiden Shaughnessy, recently up from Michigan. Aiden, this is Azzette Bettencourt. Sort of a local girl done good. Did you come to slum for the summer?”

      I nodded as my gaze collided with the laser blue of the giant reaching out a hand to me. He was much bigger, this close. At least six-two, by my reckoning. Automatically I returned the gesture and found my hand engulfed in a cool, dry embrace. The coolness of his hand was at odds with the blue flame in his eyes. Probably from the beer he held.

      “Pleased to meet you, Aiden Shaughnessy of Michigan. What brought you to Alaska?” Aiden. Shaughnessy. Michigan. Carpenter. Builder. Tall. Auburn hair a little on the shaggy side. By summer’s end he’d probably have a ponytail. Only a barely-there beard as of yet, but that was only a matter of time. Many men in Talkeetna didn’t worry themselves overmuch about things like big city grooming. Most women in town considered themselves lucky if their man showered every other day.

      Aiden. The name was a good place to start. And his scent. Clean. No sticky soap smell. Just fresh. A hint of musk, like a man who’d been working in the sun, not overly sweaty, just…honest. Maybe with a hint of sawdust and yeast and hops from the beer in his hand.

      “Two of my brothers brought me up here, after the sister-in-law talked me into it.” His lips quirked up on the side and humor twinkled back at me.

      “Here, Zettie.” Karl appeared at my side with a plastic cup only half-filled with a golden liquid supporting a thin layer of foam.

      My heart sank a little. “Only half?” Treating me like a toddler.

      “Prove to me you can handle it, and next time you’ll get more. Don’t guzzle it.” He reached past me and introduced himself and Maddie to Aiden.

      I tried to listen, but Bill turned back from the grill and handed me a plate with a sizzling burger on a bun.

      “Moose, squirt. Totally organic.” He winked in his teasing way and I laughed. “See me after you fix your bun. I have a few tomatoes hidden over here from my greenhouse. Once your folks told me they were going organic, I decided to experiment and set me up a special addition to grow vegetables through the winter. Got some good stuff in the greenhouse you should look at some time.”

      “Hey, great.” Not wanting to miss the fresh veggies, I hurried to the table and checked out the selections. I definitely wanted the tomatoes, which were welcome so early in the season. On the table I found lettuce and pickles, but the onion looked like it’d been sitting out too long. As I built my burger and looked over the remains of the sides, I said hello to a few other grazers. Some looked vaguely familiar. Probably people I’d known long ago. Many of those milling about were a good six to ten years younger than me and were probably summer imports, there to work the season, then drift on to the next adventure.

      Never gregarious to begin with, I smiled, said hello, but kept my nose to the selection of food. Eventually I selected some kettle chips and a handful of cucumber slices. When it came to condiments, I debated for a long minute, reading the labels of each bottle. Not one of them said organic, therefore were suspect.

      “Just squeeze it out the top.”

      The deep voice at my side broke my concentration as I tried to decide if one teaspoon of processed tomatoes would cause injury if ingested just this once. Tomatoes were notorious for being overly treated with pesticides. Did this national brand take care to thoroughly wash it all off? Could they really get it all? How much ended up in the finished product? Hadn’t anyone in this town heard of organic condiments? I was tired of only eating mustard on my burgers when organic ketchup and mayonnaise weren’t available. It seemed like I hadn’t had a decent meat burger in years, although I had grown to like veggie burgers and the little buffalo I’d had was okay. The elk burger someone had given my folks hadn’t been my thing.

      I looked up at the man I’d just met. “Chemicals. I’m trying to figure out how bad the bad ones are in these small doses.”

      With a lifted brow, he took the ketchup bottle from my hand and squeezed a large amount on his own bun. “I doubt there’s enough there to poison a mosquito, much less a healthy human. Granted, if you drank the entire bottle you might get an upset stomach, but probably from the acid in the tomato rather than the maltodextrin. That, or the high salt content.” He shrugged and held the bottle out to me.

      “You’re right. A tablespoon won’t hurt.” There was such a thing as being fanatical. I squeezed a dollop onto my bun.

      Karl and Maddie appeared at the condiments table and I found myself herded over to a picnic table where some old timers made room for us. I wanted to talk with Aiden–good strong Irish name–some more, but Karl and Bill flanked me and edged him СКАЧАТЬ