The M.D. Meets His Match. Marie Ferrarella

they were agreed, April thought. “Neither do I.”

      But Ursula shook her head. “I meant about not living life.”

      Gently, April disengaged her hand from her grandmother’s. The next moment she was straightening things again, unable to remain still. Unwilling to allow her choices to be examined this way. “I am living life, Gran. I’m out there every day, living.”

      But Ursula knew better. For all her sophistication, all her potential and promise, April was fleeing life. “You’re out there every day, snapping pictures, capturing other people living. You can’t do it by proxy. You’ve got to do it yourself. Sometimes you’ve got to put up with pinched toes to break in the best pair of shoes you’ll ever own.”

      She might have jumped from a plane to photograph a sky-diving couple getting married, but there were some risks April refused to take. The one her grandmother was talking about was one of them.

      “What if those shoes never break in right?”

      Ursula could only smile, remembering her own short-lived first marriage. Jake hadn’t left by choice. A fishing accident had taken him from her. But the heartache had been the same. “Wearing them for a little while’s still better than never wearing them at all and going barefoot.”

      April put down the tiny glass figurines she’d started to line up in a row and turned to look at her grandmother. It was not in her to say no to the woman for long. “You’re not going to give up until I go, are you?”

      Knowing the victory was hers, Ursula smiled. “When have I ever given up?”

      April laughed, sitting on the edge of the sofa, beside Ursula’s throw-covered feet. “You have a point.”

      “I always do.” Ursula threw off the cover and swung her legs to the floor.

      April rose to her feet, staring. “What are you doing?”

      “Well, I’m going, too,” Ursula declared. “I’ve always enjoyed having a good time—and I always have a good time at the Salty.”

      April thought of the saloon. The men there could get pretty rowdy. And there’d be dancing, she would be willing to bet. She looked at her grandmother suspiciously. Could this whole thing have been a ruse? “What about that heart of yours not being able to take it?”

      “That’s only when it comes to arguing and dissent. It can take a good time just fine.” Ursula winked. “I hear Yuri Bostovik’s going to be there.” April could have sworn she saw stars in her grandmother’s eyes. “He’s always been partial to me.”

      April’s mouth dropped open. She’d never thought of her grandmother as having a life outside the post office. “Gran, you’re sixty-nine—”

      Ursula nodded as she shuffled off toward her bedroom. “And not getting any younger. My point exactly.”

      April paused, debating. Her immediate reaction was to bully her grandmother into staying in bed, but happiness counted for something in the scheme of things, especially when it came to well-being.

      Wavering, she gave in. She supposed it wouldn’t do all that much harm. “All right, we’ll go for a little while and then I’ll bring you home.”

      That wasn’t the way it was going to be if she had anything to say about it, Ursula thought. She fixed her oldest grandchild with a look meant to establish the order of things between them. She still made the rules.

      “I’ll go for a little while and then Max’ll bring me home. You’re going to stay at the Salty.”

      “And do what?” April wanted to know. “I don’t really like beer.”

      “So?” Ursula’s small shoulders rose and fell. “Don’t have beer. There’re other things to drink at the Salty besides beer. And I’m sure you’ll find something to occupy yourself with.” Her knowing smile widened. “If you’re lucky.”

      Because it was Gran, April surrendered. For the time being. “You’re positively wicked, Gran.”

      “Only if Yuri gets lucky tonight, dear, only if Yuri gets lucky. Now go,” she coaxed. “Get prettier.”

      April shook her head, watching her grandmother hurry off to do the same.

      Chapter Three

      Unlike the near-stagnant air, the ocean of noise within the Salty Dog Saloon that evening ebbed and flowed around April, allowing her to pick out a word here and there as she slowly made her way through the teeming crowd of eighty percent wall-to-wall men. She’d elected to come essentially wearing what she’d had on earlier: changing to a blouse, but staying in her worn jeans. She saw no reason to dress up. It wasn’t that kind of a party. People in Hades held comfort in high regard.

      April looked around. It wouldn’t have really mattered what she’d worn. The odds were definitely in her favor, had she been inclined to play that sort of a game. But she wasn’t. Looking over the crop of available men was the furthest thing from her mind, except in a remote, analytical sort of way.

      She took stock of the scene, seeing it through the eyes of a photographer rather than as a former native who’d made good her escape.

      It had been a long time since she’d actually seen so many men in one place at one time. A fragment of a memory nudged at her, blooming in her mind until she’d captured all of it. The last time she’d seen a gathering the likes of this had been here, right after her graduation from high school. She was the first in her family to finish the twelfth grade. Gran had insisted on throwing a party to celebrate the occasion and since the small living area above the post office barely housed the four of them, much less anyone else, Gran had prevailed on the owner of the Salty to hold it here. It hadn’t belonged to Ike and Jean-Luc at the time, though they had worked here.

      All April really remembered about the party was that she’d been consumed with the thought of finally being able to leave. Not the Salty or Hades, but the area. Alaska. All of it. It had been the only thing on her mind for years. Ever since that morning she’d woken up to find her father gone, she’d wanted to leave herself, to spread her wings and soar.

      And she had soared. For six years. Flown to all the major cities in the country, to all the places she’d once dreamed of, sitting up late at night in her tiny alcove of a room, poring over the atlas her father had left behind. The out-of-date atlas with its worn, earmarked pages and its places that continued to exist even though they were no longer referred to by the names that were written down between the covers.

      Looking at the people around her now, almost all of whom she recognized, April expected to feel like an outsider, like someone who had outgrown the place she was visiting. If nothing else, she’d seen more of the world and of life than most of the people here.

      Even so, the feeling wasn’t quite there. These people she’d been so quick to erase from her life didn’t treat her as if she didn’t belong. Instead, they behaved as if she had only momentarily stepped out, but was back now. It was an absurd thought because she wasn’t back. She was just here temporarily and would be gone again very soon. The sooner, the better.

      She saw Yuri Bostovik over in the corner, his gray hair comically parted in the middle and slicked back. The moment he saw her grandmother, he made a beeline for her. Even in this light, she could see Gran blushing—as if she hadn’t spent the past hour planning on just how to greet the man. Gran had buried three husbands and still acted as if love was just around the corner for her. The woman was incredible.

      April continued sidestepping people and nodding greetings, trying to reach the bar. What surprised her was that along with her detached, analytical feeling was a tiny prick of something she had trouble identifying.

      Or maybe it was that she didn’t want to identify it. Nostalgia had no place here, in Hades. Not for her. The very idea was ridiculous. Nostalgia came when you remembered something fondly. There was nothing to feel nostalgic about when