Bear of a Honeymoon Page 13

  Anyway, when breakfast was arranged to their satisfaction, I returned to the bedroom, collecting the TV remote on the way. Even though I understood, this lack of word from Matt was really getting under my skin. I knew only too well how demanding a story could be. It was reasonable to expect him to be buried. But forty-eight hours had shot by since he got on that plane. I'd received only that one text and, according to Brooke, there hadn't been any calls through the switchboard. The first she and Dan knew of his absence was my explanation at the hospital. They'd heard news about the train derailment, of course, but hadn't had reason to make a connection.

  And I'd been pretty much incommunicado. It was time for an update. I switched on the set and fiddled channels until I stumbled onto the story, which wasn't too tough. Despite world events, the derailment was major news. A grave-faced anchor I recognized as Pamela di Angelo read the lead.

  "Complications are piling up in the Montana train derailment," she announced, in a tone pitched to match her expression. "Since early Wednesday morning, work crews have been struggling to contain what experts are beginning to describe as an environmental disaster. Mountain terrain was already hampering efforts to stop the seepage of crude oil into the Middle Fork Flathead River that divides Glacier National Park from the Flathead National Forest. But the sudden onslaught of a late-season blizzard has made conditions close to impossible. Reporter Wesley Carver is standing by in Essex, Montana," she continued, as split-screen graphics brought up the image of a media-faced African American clad in Gortex all-weather gear, braced against wind and driving snow at the edge of what appeared to be a busy railway yard. "Wesley, what can you tell us?"

  "News is sketchy from the crash site, Pamela," Wesley said, his frame expanding to fill the screen. "As you can see, weather conditions here are horrible and the crash is located in an area that would be difficult to access anyway. Although US Hwy 2 runs very close to the site, it is located well above and across the Middle Fork Flathead River. It wouldn't have been practical to try to get crews to the scene that way, even if the highway were open—which it isn't. This storm has dropped—or, I should say—continues to drop record snowfall, and the highway is closed. The only way to reach the site is by rail, but the snow conditions are making it extremely difficult—at times, impossible—to keep the tracks passable.

  "When the blizzard struck, Angela, railway officials appear to have been caught completely off guard. For several hours, all communications with the derailment site were knocked out and there was strong concern for the safety of work crews and journalists who had been allowed in."

  "What?" I demanded, pushing myself upright, my heart suddenly trying to pound free of my chest. I jabbed at the volume control as though more noise would bring more news, but that was a gesture of pure impotence. There was no way to make Wesley Carver tell me what I needed to know, he just ploughed on with his generic report.

  "Communications remain sketchy and, as far as we know, the relief train has not yet made it through. Time is now a critical factor, both for those stranded at the site and for efforts to contain the spill."

  With growing impatience, I waited while pre-storm drone footage flashed on screen and the newsman presented an overview of the location. The footage revealed a scene of blatant contrasts, from pristine wilderness slopes to the path of human intervention where the railway line cut a razor-sharp scar roughly parallel to the green waters of what the voiceover identified as the Middle Fork Flathead River. The camera followed the tracks for a few frames before it stopped to hover over the crash site, then zoomed in from different angles to capture the tangle of tanker cars, some strewn like discarded toys, others still hanging by their couplings, suspended in mid-air from the trestle spanning a creek. A further close-up revealed the menacing black slick sliding along the surface of the water, then the camera drew back to a wider angle and followed the black trail to the point where the spilled oil merged with the flow of the main river.

  Evocative, yes.

  Informative, for sure.

  But I was still ready to throttle the TV before the disembodied voice finally reconnected with its owner. Wesley Carver looked out at me with a serious expression.

  "Angela, I've just received word that snowplough trains are now expected to break through within the next two hours and officials say they're optimistic that their crews are managing to weather the storm."

  I thought of Matt's flimsy jean-jacket and wondered. I felt certain my husband was trapped in that blizzard. It was infuriating, being stuck here without concrete news—and worse still—no way to do anything at all. Still, help was apparently on the way and I had no choice but to sit tight and wait.

  Pamela di Angelo had moved on to interview a representative of the Environmental Protection Agency. I tried to use their voices to drown out my fears. Predictably, her pointed questions produced roundabout answers and I felt a little sorry for both of them. Speculation on the public's right to know began to marshal in my brain. It was interrupted by a sturdy knock at the cabin door.

  On the threshold I found Brooke, bearing a tray and wearing a smile that did little to disguise the effects of worry and unhappiness on her once lovely face. My friend is older than me, having taken time before university for a painful first marriage.

  The guy was a fast-track stockbroker who ordered Champagne on the commuter flight from Boston to New York. Brooke quit her job and moved to Toronto. They married six weeks later. Unfortunately, her mate never quite got over his penchant for flight attendants. After three years, one of his serial flings took a serious turn and he moved out.

  Object lesson in hurry-up romances? I hoped not.

  Number One Hubby got the boat and the ski chalet. She kept the downtown condo and decided to change her life. Brooke ruled out another airline job—owing to a certain mental block she'd developed in that direction—and with no other long-term skills, she decided school was the answer. But my soon-to-be friend wasn't the type to play the role of starving student. Enter Taylor Kerrick, paying roommate.

  A couple of years later, Dan came on the scene and the following spring she changed roomies. By graduation, Brooke was pregnant and the couple decided to move west. Before my own move to the Coast, I'd seen them only once. It was a brief visit just after Claire's birth. Since then we'd connected a few times and remained the kind of friends who can easily pick up wherever they've left off, no matter how long.

  That was why Brooke's attitude this week had bothered me such a lot. I was grateful to have the old friendship rekindled. But it was tough to see her this way. Deep purple crescents hung beneath her eyes and worry lines notched her brow. She looked at least a decade older than me.

  "Come on in," I said, swinging the door wide. "Anyone bearing food is welcome here. Though I feel badly about all the trouble I'm causing. You were right yesterday. I should have stayed up at the house."

  Brooke shook her head as she deposited the tray on the table and began uncovering dishes. "No," she murmured. "You're better off here. You need quiet and rest. Our house is no place for that." She eyed me speculatively. "And you know it."

  I felt the colour rise in my cheeks and turned away, making busy by drawing a chair closer for her.

  "Don't be embarrassed, Taylor. We both know things are in a bad way. I'm only sorry I shut you out before." She paused and I waited as she poured out two coffees from a big thermal carafe. To someone who knows Brooke the way I do, it was obvious there was more. After buying time by slowly adding sugar and milk, she heaved a deep breath. "It took me awhile to figure out why I was that mad at you."

  "What did you decide?"

  "I was jealous," she said, lifting her gaze to mine. "It was torture seeing you and Matt together. Remembering when it was like that for Dan and me. You both seem so happy— we've both become so miserable." The mellow brown eyes filled.

  I rose from my chair and gathered her in a hug. For a long time, she wept quietly into my terry-clad shoulder. Finally, her back stiffened. Sh
e gave a determined sniff and pulled away.

  "Your breakfast is getting cold," she said, glancing at the tray as she fished a tissue from her pocket.

  Trying to lighten the mood, I said, "Doesn't matter, I'll eat anything."

  That produced a half-smile I was awfully glad to see. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and blew her nose. "Nothing like a good cry, is there?"

  I grinned. "Nothing at all." For a minute or two I applied myself to scrambled eggs well past their prime. It gave her time to fully recover.

  When I sensed she was ready to talk, I continued. "How bad do you think it really is?"

  Brooke stared into the depths of her cup as though it contained a tiny crystal ball. "I'm not sure," she conceded, thoughtfully. "You'd think I'd know if my marriage were breaking up. Lord knows I've had experience. But this isn't the same. Dan's never fooled around. It's not about another woman."

  "What is it about?"

  "Money. Pure and simple."

  We explored the classic theme for a time and I came to agree. Like many others, Brooke and Dan where trapped on a financial treadmill. The cycle of worry, stress, anger, and blame had them fighting each other instead of the problem.

  "Have you thought of getting outside help?" I asked.

  "You mean a marriage counsellor?"

  "Uh-huh."

  Brooke shook her head, looking bleak. "Dan wouldn't go."

  "Have you asked him?"

  "No way," she declared. "He'd blow a fuse. As far as he's concerned, people like that are only for gullible fools."

  Knowing Dan as I did, that line of reasoning surprised me. "He said that?"

  "Not outright. But I know that's what he thinks."

  I was just about to comment on the wisdom of presuming to read other people's minds when Brooke hurried on.

  "Anyway, the issue is money. So, unless you know of some counsellor who's giving away thousand dollar bills, it wouldn't make any difference." Her argument hadn't convinced me, but my friend seemed intent on closing the subject. "And that's my department," she said, planting her hands on the table and pushing herself decisively to her feet. "There's a government group coming in tomorrow for a planning retreat. And a big hunting party from back east."

  I must have flinched because Brooke shrugged and looked apologetic. "Beggars can't be choosers," she said, tossing the cliché over her shoulder on her way to the door. "And I've got work to do."

  Chapter Fifteen

  When she had gone, I poured myself another coffee and carried it, along with a plate of toast, into the bedroom. The effects of my soothing shower had long since worn off and the parts of my body that ached or twinged were legion. Burrowing back under the cosy quilt, I flipped on the TV hoping for more news.

  I found no shortage of derailment footage, but it soon became repetitious as the story cycled every quarter hour without any substantial change. I was working up the ambition to switch channels when a light tap sounded at the door. "Housekeeping," called a cheery voice, and the door opened a crack. "You awake, Ms. Anderson?"

  "Yes. It's all right, come on in," I called.

  The pleasant features and trim figure I recognised as belonging to Jasmine, our erstwhile waitress, stepped tentatively into the room.

  "Brooke told me to check on you and bring clean towels," she said. "I can come back later to tidy up if I'm disturbing you."

  "Not at all, Jasmine. You're much better company than the news channel, though I'm surprised to see you here. Are you trading jobs for the day?"

  "No. This is how things are set up this year. Brooke's got the schedule worked out so we all do housekeeping and two meal rushes a day. It's pretty clever, really. Means she can get away with less staff," the waitress/maid concluded in a confidential tone, "even with the new cabins."

  "And you don't mind?"

  Jasmine shrugged. "Summer jobs aren't that easy to come by and the Craddocks are really nice people to work for," she said, disappearing into the bathroom with an armload of towels and a tool caddie filled with cleaning supplies.

  "How many years have you worked at the lodge," I asked, knowing the answer, but not wanting it to seem as though she'd been the object of mealtime gossip.

  "This is my third year," answered the disembodied voice. "One more to go."

  "What are you studying?"

  "Business. I plan to work for a few years then go back for my masters."

  "Where?"

  "UBC for the undergrad. Then hopefully Stanford for the MBA." Fortunately, I speak acronym. "Any particular line of work?"

  "Retail," came the prompt reply. "My parents own a small shop in Vancouver's China Town. I've worked there since I was old enough to see over the counter."

  "You plan on taking over the family business?"

  "Maybe someday. But first I want to get on with a big chain. I already know what 'mom-and-pop' is all about." A derisive snort finished the thought.

  "Then why not choose a summer job along those lines?"

  "Money," Jasmine stated flatly, emerging from the bathroom with a bundle of used towels under one arm and carrying them to the front door. "Here, I get tips—and free room and board."

  "How do you like the Playpen?" I asked.

  Jasmine returned to the bedroom armed with a duster and a grin.

  "It's fun. Especially this year."

  "Ah-ha. Somebody special?"

  A telltale pink, unrelated to the exertions of cleaning, climbed her cheeks. "Adam," she admitted, shyly. "The bartender."

  "Oh, sure. We met him the other night. He and Matt got talking about photography." Matt talked to everybody about photography.

  "He's taken some wonderful pictures," the young student gushed. "And he's showing me all about it when he can."

  "Getting time off together is probably tough," I guessed.

  Jasmine pulled a face, rolling her eyes. "That's for sure. Our shifts are virtually opposite. But we manage." The shy smile returned.

  I grinned in reply.

  "Is there anything I can get you?" Jasmine asked, scanning the room to see that her work was complete. "I still have one more cabin to finish before lunch, but I'll be glad to bring you anything you need."

  "Not a thing, thanks. It's been nice talking to you."

  "Me too. I'll take your tray," she said. Dishes and cutlery rattled.

  "Hope you're feeling better," she added and bustled out the door.

  And I was feeling better. Despite the raw tenderness surrounding my constantly dripping nose, Jasmine's visit had given me a lift. As we talked, I'd longed to quiz her about the recent rash of mishaps at the lodge. But I sensed her loyalty to the Craddocks would make such a direct assault unproductive. It was better to build a relationship. When she felt surer of my intentions, I was sure Jasmine would prove an excellent source of information.

  "You decent?" sang out a familiar voice as I heard the cabin door swing open yet again. "Jasmine said you were awake."

  "Yes, on both counts," I laughed. "Come on in, Walt."

  Brooke's perennially jolly father-in-law appeared, doffing his white Stetson as he clomped into my room. Walt Craddock is the rancher's version of Santa Claus. Round, merry, and white-haired—though clean-shaven and, on that day, clad in short-sleeved blue plaid, jeans, and high-heeled ropers. His weathered face is open and friendly. His eyes, the same blue as Dan's, full of life—and sometimes mischief.

  "I found this at reception," he announced, holding up a red, white, and blue courier pack. "Rachel said you left it there the other night. Thought I'd bring it on down and see how you're doin'."

  "OMG! Ben's info pack. I can't believe it completely slipped my mind," I said, accepting the thick pouch. The night the package arrived—when I'd left it at reception to go boating with Matt, then completely forgotten it when we shifted gears to ride off into the sunset with Lyle and the girls—seemed a lifetime ago. I longed to rip the container open and dive into the sheaf of papers from my boss, but manners prevailed, and I restrain
ed myself. I flipped the pack aside on the bed and said, "Pull up a chair."

  Walt did just that, setting his broad, white hat carefully down on the dresser. "Don't deliver a lot of them to our honeymooners," he observed with a sly twinkle.

  "Probably don't get a lot of single honeymooners, either," I quipped.

  That produced a belly laugh, loud and hearty as its owner. "I can't argue with you there. Any word from that husband of yours? Brooke told me all about his little side trip."

  "Not a word," I replied, sobering. "Though, from what the TV reports are saying, there should be something pretty soon."

  Walt shook his head. "In my day, when a fella got a pretty little girl like you to tie the knot, we wouldn't 'a' seen 'em for days. Can't say as I understand you young folks anymore."

  "Believe me Walt, that's what we had in mind. We've just taken a couple of detours along the way."

  "Right," he scoffed. "One into a blizzard—the other off a cliff. Some detours."

  I grinned. "You've got to admit our life's not dull."

  "That's for sure, although it may be short if you keep on this way."

  His features rearranged themselves into a mask of kindly concern. "How are you feelin', anyway?"

  "Much better, thanks. Despite my current resemblance to Rudolph." His big grin broke free once more. "And a few dozen bruises in unlikely places."

  "Damned lucky that's all you've got to complain about."

  "Well, that and a missing husband. But I hope to get him back soon. Then we'll oblige with your kind of honeymoon."

  "And what about that?" he demanded, nodding toward the courier pack lying beside me on the quilt.

  The grin I allowed to cross my face was decidedly sheepish. "Just a little bedtime reading?" I suggested.

  Walt snorted and shook his head. "Uh-huh."

  "Occupational hazard," I admitted with a shrug. "Finding that bear carcass was enough to get me started. And what I saw from the ledge was like pouring gas on the fire."