Past Lies. Bobby Hutchinson

into thinking that she and her mother were communicating.

      The hurt was nothing new. Except now Frances no longer retreated to the bedroom for days or sometimes weeks, while Ivy berated herself for making her mother sick.

      “I’m having lemon meringue pie and coffee, please, Sally. What would you like, Ivy?”

      “I have to take off. I have to do some stuff at the office and then I need to pick up my clients.” Ivy pulled her wallet out and tossed several bills on the table beside her plate. She avoided looking at her mother.

      “Please, Ivy, lunch is my treat.” Frances tried to hand the money back. “I invited you.”

      “Next time.” Which might be when the Columbia Glacier melted away to nothing. Ivy got up and shrugged on her jacket. “See you, Mom.”

      She hurried out the door without a backward glance, drawing in a shaky lungful of fresh, cool air as she headed to her truck.

      More often than not, being around her mother left her resentful, shut out and confused. There was a line by Kipling, “and never the twain shall meet.” It could have been written with her and Frances in mind.

      CHAPTER THREE

      If Alaska’s all they claim it is, maybe you and I and the sprout could homestead up there, make a claim on a piece of land. This guy on the boat who’s going up there to do that says land’s still cheap in Alaska. I’ll know better after I get there.

      From letters written by Roy Nolan,

       April, 1972

      BACK IN THE RESTAURANT Frances’s shoulders slumped in defeat. She’d thought that things were going well for once, that she and Ivy were actually connecting. And then, without warning, her daughter did that closing down thing she’d perfected as a young teen, eyes shuttered, mouth set, face like a thunderbolt.

      Frances hadn’t even had a chance to hint at what she really wanted to discuss with her daughter. She’d asked Tom if he’d break the news to Ivy, but she couldn’t fathom what had ever made her think he’d take the initiative. When it came to emotional issues, avoidance was Tom’s only coping technique. That, and projection. He found fault with other things to avoid looking at himself. She’d only realized that recently.

      It was always easier to see the mistakes someone else was making. Several years of good therapy had at least given her some insight into herself, but it was still difficult not to blame Tom for the gaping holes in their marriage.

      Sally appeared, setting down the lemon meringue pie and pouring coffee.

      “Thanks.” Frances forced a smile to her lips. “Your hair looks wonderful, by the way.”

      The girl had attended one of Frances’s night-school classes, and her plain face lit up at the compliment. “Oh, thank you, Ms. Pierce. I had it cut in Anchorage. There’s a new salon there, it’s called Suki’s.” Sally’s smile made her beautiful. “Enjoy your pie.”

      Frances had no appetite for the dessert now, or coffee, either. When Sally moved away, she messed up the pie with her fork, stirred cream into the coffee, and gazed blindly out the window, not seeing the Norman Rockwell harbor.

      After years of depression, which at times left her inert, she was finally taking control of her life. She had a chance at a job in New York, teaching aspiring models. She was leaving Valdez. Leaving Tom, leaving her marriage. The decision had been a long time coming, but once she’d made up her mind, she couldn’t believe she’d stayed here so long.

      But she knew why she had. Fear. Depression. The conviction that all she’d ever had to offer was youth and beauty. And for years, she’d thought that she and Tom might still resolve their differences, recapture the connection they’d once shared. It had been powerful in the beginning.

      Outside the window, a couple walked past with a small blond girl holding their hands. Every couple of steps, she drew her legs up, and the man and woman laughed and swung her between them like a pendulum.

      Had she and Tom ever swung Ivy that way? She doubted it.

      She’d been ill when Ivy was that age—it was only now, years after the worst of it, that she recognized depression as an illness. Before, she’d seen it as shameful weakness. Tom had taken over Ivy’s care. And she’d become her father’s girl, devoted to him, fierce in his defense.

      Ivy would blame Frances for the marriage ending. She wouldn’t understand why Frances had to leave, any more than Tom did.

      She’d already lost a son. Jacob had died twenty-five years ago this month, on a rainy, cold Tuesday night. But the dimpled little boy was as fresh in her mind as ever. The pain of his loss had dulled with time, but it was still there. Was the price of freedom, of leaving Tom, to be the loss of her daughter as well?

      “Ms. Pierce?”

      Frances jumped. Sally was standing beside her.

      “Sorry, I was daydreaming.”

      “Ms. Pierce, that man over there…” Sally tipped her head and rolled her eyes toward a balding man wearing a Western-style shirt, sitting alone at a nearby table. When Frances looked over, he smiled, gave a little bow and a wave.

      “…He says he’s buying your lunch, Ms. Pierce. I told him you were married, but he’s real determined. Said you were the prettiest thing he’s seen since he came up here.” She bent over and hissed, “He’s had a snootful, you want me to get Mike?”

      “No need, I’m going now. Ivy left that.” Frances pointed over at the money, more than adequate for their bill and a generous tip. She gathered up her coat and bag and got to her feet, conscious that the man was watching her every move. “Thanks, Sally. See you again soon.”

      Attracting men wasn’t unusual. Ordinarily, Frances would walk away, careful not to look at the man, hideously self-conscious.

      Today, however, some impulse made her stop at his table. Flustered now, he shoved his chair back and started to get to his feet. Frances said in a pleasant tone, “Please don’t get up. I just wanted you to know that my husband is large, insanely jealous and violent. You really don’t want to make him angry, do you?”

      She walked out, aware that his bloodshot eyes weren’t the only ones following her progress. She was trembling by the time she climbed in her SUV. She closed the door and rested her head on the steering wheel, and then she started to giggle.

      She’d been afraid of going to New York, living on her own. She’d relied on Tom for so many years, she had no confidence in her ability to fend for herself. She knew the way she looked attracted unwanted attention. How would she deal with that?

      Now she knew exactly how. She’d remembered some of her New York chutzpah, and she was going to do just fine. She’d made the right decision after all. She found her sunglasses and started the engine.

      THROUGH WATER-STAINED glasses, Alex Ladrovik watched the green wake foam past the bow of the small aluminum boat, anxiously wondering if he’d made a huge mistake. He’d agreed on the spur of the moment to go to some remote fishing lodge to build two cabins before finding out the place was only accessible by floatplane or by boat. He’d had to entrust his beloved Jeep to a questionable parking garage in Valdez, and he was having second thoughts about the whole undertaking.

      The boat ride was a rough one, waves slapping against the hull, salt spray half blinding him, but he was fine in boats, even those loaded to the gunwales like this one. It was only airplanes he had a phobia about.

      “Raven Lodge is just around that next bend,” Oliver Brady called out. The young fishing guide had met Alex on the dock promptly at noon, just as Theo Galloway had promised. They’d loaded Alex’s gear, stacking it on top of lumber, cases of canned goods and boxes of fresh produce. They’d been chugging through the waves for a good half hour. It was a relief to know they would soon reach their destination.

      Almost there, Anne Marie.