A Family Under The Stars. Christy Jeffries

he’d figured.

      But when Alex’s father called him this morning, hacking up a lung and complaining about a sore throat, Alex had immediately offered to take over as the guide for today’s whitewater excursion. While his dad could probably steer through these rapids blindfolded, let alone with a fever of 103, it wouldn’t be good for business to get the paying customers sick. It was bad enough that they had to expose the public to Commodore’s ever-present crotchetiness, but they really needed someone to run the shuttle between the put-in and pickup locations.

      “I thought Dad said there were supposed to be five in the group today,” Alex said when his grandfather approached.

      “S’posed to be.” Commodore had never been described as a people person and always kept a toothpick clamped tightly between his teeth, probably as an excuse to avoid talking. It gave his weathered face a permanent grimace, like Popeye smoking his pipe, and it gave Alex a permanent headache trying to communicate with the seventy-five-year-old man.

      “So, what happened to everyone else?”

      “Don’t know.” Commodore limped over to the raft, checked the carabineers and tested out the tautness on the slings harnessed near the stern. “Some of us mind our own business.”

      Alex took off his polarized sunglasses, letting them dangle from the strap around his neck, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tempted to remind his grandfather that this was their business, their family’s bread and butter. But that would only serve as an invitation to launch into another round of the ongoing argument about why Commodore was no longer allowed to do the bookkeeping for Russell’s Sports. “You gotta give me more info than that, Com.”

      Com jerked the remaining half of his right thumb at the Jeep. “Gal’s name is Charlotte Folsom. Bankroller, far as I can tell. You want more than that, you can ask her yourself when she gets off the phone.”

      Bankroller was the term some people in their small town of Sugar Falls, Idaho, used to refer to the tourists who vacationed on the mountain and, in the course of a weekend, injected plenty of their big-city dollars into the local economy. It probably wasn’t the politest thing to call the patrons that kept their small family company afloat, but Commodore wasn’t exactly known for his civility or his business acumen.

      Alex looked at his watch. How long was her call going to take? He was surprised the woman even had reception this far upriver. “Is she allergic to the fresh air or something?”

      “Not that she mentioned when she signed the release form.” His grandfather snorted before the last part, confirming that the old man was still miffed that his son and grandson had taken over the legal side of the business.

      “Then why isn’t she getting out of the car?”

      Yet, as soon as Alex asked the question, the woman opened the Jeep door. He noticed her hair first because it was the exact shade of his favorite dark chocolate– covered granola bar. It was styled as plainly and conservatively as possible, stick straight and cut in a uniform line just below her shoulders, with a headband holding everything but the thick sweeping bangs away from her face.

      And what a face it was. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, her nose elegant and straight, and her lips reminded him of the cotton candy his dad bought him the first time they’d attended a minor league baseball game. They were pink and full and caused a spike in his bloodstream, like an instant sugar rush.

      Man, something about this lady kept making him think of food.

      “Hello,” she said, reaching out her hand. “I’m Charlotte Folsom. I’m terribly sorry for being on the phone when we arrived, but my editor had an update on my crew’s flight.”

      “Your crew?” Alex asked, shifting his attention to the long, pale fingers clasped inside his. The ones that looked much too delicate to handle an oar.

      “Yes. The producer, her assistant and the two photographers. They were supposed to fly into Spokane, but were diverted to Seattle because of a lightning storm. I don’t think they’re going to make it.” She looked up at the gray sky. “It’s not a problem, is it?”

      “The weather or the lack of people?”

      “Either.”

      “Nah. Weather’s fine.” Commodore shifted his toothpick to the right side of his mouth. “And Miss Folsom’s rowed before, so you should be good to go.”

      Alex’s untraditional upbringing meant that he’d learned to steer a raft before he’d learned to a drive a car. So he wasn’t concerned about his own ability to handle the river singlehandedly, but he would prefer having someone aboard who knew what they were doing. Unfortunately, every visiting tourist had a different definition of what constituted experience, and paddling through Class IV rapids required a lot more skill than most novices realized.

      Not that he wanted to jump to any unfair conclusions about Charlotte Folsom, but Alex had been in business with his family long enough to recognize a greenhorn trying too hard to look the part. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d just cut the price tags off her athletic clothes this morning.

      “How many times have you been whitewater rafting?” he asked, setting his sunglasses back over his eyes so he didn’t offend the woman with an inadvertent look of doubt.

      “Oh, this is my first time rafting. But when I was in middle school, my bunk won the canoeing finals two years in a row at Camp Butterhorn.”

      Commodore whistled around his toothpick as if this was some sort of accomplishment. Were they serious? Com knew better than anyone else that rowing a canoe at some fancy sleepaway camp in seventh grade was not the same thing as navigating a six-man raft down the roaring Sugar River. Actually, Alex was just assuming the camp had been a fancy one judging by the rock-sized diamond studs in Miss Folsom’s ears and the way she stood tall and poised in her overpriced, brand-new skin-tight paddling pants and bright pink, waterproof North Face jacket.

      His eyes shot down to her left hand, noting the absence of a wedding ring on her finger. Not that he was interested in her marital status. Alex preferred his women a lot less frilly and way more down-to-earth. And the one standing before him, who’d given off that supermodel vibe even before she’d mentioned having a camera crew, looked more suitable to being on the cover of the Neiman Marcus holiday book than an REI catalog. He simply didn’t want anyone losing any valuable jewelry on his watch.

      “Here’s that lip cream I was telling you about in the car, Mr.... I mean Commodore.” Her quick correction indicated that Com had already warned her that he only answered to the nickname. Then she reached into a small pack slung over her shoulder and pulled out a jar of something. “This will really help with the dryness and the cracks. I told you I never leave home without it. Just put it on like this...”

      She dipped a finger inside the tiny glass container and then proceeded to spread some sort of balm all over her own lips. Alex sucked in his breath when she held out the open container to his grandfather. He waited for the old guy—who’d once walked out in the middle of a haircut when the new barber offered to apply a deep conditioning treatment—to let out a string of curses about beauty product nonsense. But Com scrunched his eyes into slits as he swiped his stubby fingers across his tightly clamped frown, reminding Alex of one of the kids he coached in Pop Warner who’d accepted his teammates’ dare to eat a spoonful of spicy red peppers at the after-game pizza party.

      “Actually, maybe we should just reschedule this whole thing,” Alex offered and saw his grandfather’s squint deepen and the barely perceptible shake of the elder Russell’s silver crew-cut head. He wasn’t sure if Com’s reaction was to Alex’s suggestion or to the novelty of having a foreign—and probably highly expensive—substance applied to any part of his anatomy.

      “We can’t reschedule,” she said a bit forcefully, and Alex had the sense that not many people said “no” to Charlotte Folsom. “My magazine is on a deadline. We were already rushing to get the article done last week, but then I had child care issues and one of our columnists came down with a horrendous case of food poisoning