The Alpine Journey Read Online Free

we'd ever seen it, some of these places were flooded. We'd already had our eye on them, so Ray and I figured the prices might come down. They didn't.”
    Ray's lean, homely face wore an ironic expression. “In some cases, the prices went up. But that was mostly the rentals. These units aren't all condos.”
    “But what a great setting,” I said enthusiastically, grateful that the conversation had veered away from Tom. “You're close to everything, and the view is terrific.”
    Mavis nodded, one hand gesturing toward the window, where we could see the lights of a small freighter moving against the backdrop of the new Rose Garden sports arena and the older Portland Coliseum, which had been dubbed the Glass Palace. “It constantly changes. We watch the ebb and flow of the city. And then there are the trains behind us and all the traffic that goes over the bridges.”
    “In Alpine, I see trees and an RV parked across the street,” I said in mock self-pity. It wasn't quite true. On a clear day, I could also see Mount Baldy and the surrounding foothills from my cozy log house.
    “Alpine must be pretty,” Ray put in.
    “It's a pretty setting,” I admitted. The town itself was another matter. There were too many storefronts boarded up in the small commercial district, too many ramshackle frame houses with tin roofs, too much junk left lying on overgrown lawns, too much rural blight, which shriveled the souls of local residents and made hope as elusive as the spotted owl that had helped bring about Alpine's hard times.
    Mavis was offering the brandy bottle, but Ray and I both refused. “I wanted to meet Veda—or is it Vida?” She paused for the correction before continuing. “You should have brought her in for a drink.”
    “Vida still had that long drive out to Cannon Beach,” I said, avoiding Mavis's cat's eyes gaze. “She was anxious to get going.” It wouldn't do to mention that Vida had practically thrown me out of the Buick in her haste to head for the coast.
    Ray was on his feet, stretching and yawning. “Golf tomorrow. I'm heading to bed. Good to see you again, Emma.” He gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder and kissed Mavis. “Don't talk all night.”
    After he had left the room, Mavis laughed in her throaty manner. “He's the world's worst golfer. In thirty-five years he hasn't broken ninety. But he likes to pretend.” The green-and-gold-and-brown cat's eyes glimmered at me. “So do you. What's up with Cavanaugh? I thought you'd gotten back together, if briefly.”
    “We did, but it's been a while.” Mavis knew all about how I'd excised Tom from my life when I discovered I was pregnant with Adam some twenty-four years ago. Tom had resurfaced a year or so after I bought
The Advocate
, and finally met our son. Despite Tom's avowals of unceasing love for me, he couldn't quite cut the deformed bonds that tied him to Sandra. He called it honor, I called it cowardice, and the truth was probably somewhere in between. I knew Tom and Adam kept in touch, which was a good thing. I'd been wrong to turn father and son into strangers. But after a quarter of a century I'd finally stopped loving Tom. I had, I really had. I'd said it so often that it must be true.
    I said it again to Mavis, who, typically, did not comment. My old friend is quick to speak her mind, unless the matter at hand is serious. Then she mulls and waits and eventually pounces. “So how's Adam?” she inquired. “Is he still thinking of becoming a priest?”
    “Yes, he is,” I answered, trying not to notice the skepticism on Mavis's face. “He's finally finishing his degree at Arizona State. After the first of the year he expects to enroll in a seminary somewhere in California. He and Ben are working on it.”
    “And you resent that,” Mavis said with her usual acuity. “Your brother has confiscated your son.”
    “I don't know squat about seminaries,” I retorted. “Ben does. He's a priest.”
    “It's too bad he's a Catholic