Past Lies
“His younger sister, Becky, is taking my class. She wants to be a model.”
Ivy’s instinctive reaction was to shake her head. She fought to control her reaction, saying in a neutral tone, “You think she’s got what it takes?”
Frances tipped her head to one side, considering. “She’ll have to lose a lot of weight. She does have the height, and that unusual ethnic look is hot right now.”
“So what look was hot when you were in the business?” Ivy didn’t really care, but it seemed a pretty safe thing to ask. Touchy areas with her mother were any discussions involving Tom, the need for makeup, a decent wardrobe or dicey situations encountered during flights. And Frances’s childhood—now there was a real no-go zone.
“Exotic All-American farm girl?” Frances gave her characteristic little Gaelic shrug. “I really don’t know. I was lucky, because whatever it was, I seemed to have it.”
“You sure did.” Ivy thought of the stacks of fashion magazines carefully filed away in protective plastic, each featuring her mother on the cover. The incomparable Francesca, one photographer had labeled her. She’d been one of the first fashion models to become so famous they were recognized by just one name—and their beauty, of course. Francesca was one of the first supermodels.
Sally served their lasagna, and they ate hungrily for a few moments.
“You ever miss it, Mom? The…the glamour, the excitement?” It was something Ivy had often wondered but never dared ask, which was ridiculous. Her mother had made it clear early on that she didn’t want to discuss certain aspects of her life, and Ivy was never sure what they were.
And when she was younger, Ivy had been scared that questions like this one would send Frances spiraling back into the depression that had ruled their household during Ivy’s childhood. Frances was better now, but the painful memories were still there for Ivy.
Why her mother had chosen to leave her modeling life to marry Tom and live in Alaska had always been a mystery to Ivy, and probably to most of the inhabitants of Valdez as well. It was a small town, and nobody’s private issues were usually sacred. That one, however, seemed to be.
Frances didn’t respond right away, and Ivy figured she probably wasn’t going to. Her mother had turned her head and was staring out the window. Her wide eyes were unfocussed, so she probably wasn’t seeing the dozens of fishing boats in the harbor or the spectacular peaks of the icy glaciers that cradled the town.
Ivy buttered a chunk of sourdough bread and chewed stoically. One small misstep on my part, one giant silence on hers.
And then Frances actually answered. “It’s not the glamour or excitement I miss—they’re highly over-rated in the world of high fashion,” she said slowly. “A lot of it’s grueling hard work, freezing your butt off modeling swimsuits in January, roasting to death wearing layers of winter clothes in July.”
Ivy had always suspected as much, but Frances had never explained it before.
Frances’s voice was thoughtful. “I think what I miss sometimes is the sense of being at the epicenter of everything—fashion, publishing, knowing ahead of time what a certain designer is going to feature in his next show, who the current darling of the art world is, what’s happening to hemlines, shoulders, what era is in vogue. I get lonely for things like that, for haute couture.” Frances glanced around the crowded room before leaning in. “And also for a suitable place to wear it.”
Even Ivy, style challenged as she was, knew that Valdez wasn’t the fashion capital of the western world. She didn’t know one designer from another, and she certainly didn’t care about hemlines or shoulders. In her opinion, the Alaskan environment provided art for free—glaciers, northern lights, mountain lakes in the summer dawn. As for clothing, well, she did have more clothes than the average woman, only because Frances had always insisted on Ivy having what she called a basic wardrobe.
That always included a black dress, a classic wool coat, well-cut pants and matching jacket, several lined wool skirts, a stack of cashmere sweaters and various silk, cotton and linen pieces for summer.
For years, Frances had consistently given Ivy one or two such useless items every birthday and Christmas, even when what Ivy really wanted were leather jackets, heavy boots and billed caps.
The clothing, expensive and timeless, took up space in the back of Ivy’s closet and filled several dresser drawers, ignored for the most part. She only yanked them out when she needed something to wear to a wedding, a funeral or a christening—one of those rare events in Valdez when jeans and a T-shirt or flannel shirt just wouldn’t cut it.
Frances must have recognized the bemused expression on Ivy’s face, because she laughed, a low, rich sound that made several people turn their way and smile in appreciation.
“Sure, I miss New York,” Frances confessed. “The sophistication, the mistaken but pervasive belief that it’s the hub of the world. Attitude, I guess you’d call it. I miss New York attitude.”
Ivy drawled, “So, you figure we ain’t got attitude up here in the 49th?”
“Plenty of it. Just not the same type.” They ate for several moments and then Frances said, “What would you miss if you moved away from Valdez, Ivy?”
Ivy thought about it for a moment. She also thought what a strange conversation this was turning out to be. Normally she and Frances talked about the weather, food, recipes, the latest news item. Which was pretty limited and meant that they quickly ran out of things to say.
“I can’t even imagine moving away. Oh, from Valdez, maybe, but not ever from Alaska. It’s where I belong, it’s in my blood.” Curiosity got the better of Ivy. “Is that how you felt about New York, Mom? That it was in your blood?”
“No.” This time Frances didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never had that feeling about anywhere I’ve lived.”
“Not…not even your hometown?” Frances had grown up in a small town in southern Ohio, but that was about all Ivy knew. Frances never spoke of her childhood, except to say that her parents were dead and she had no relatives she wished to contact. “Didn’t you miss Brigham Falls when you left?” As soon as the words were out, Ivy realized she’d gone too far.
“Never.” Frances bit off the word as if it burned her lips. She pushed her plate away even though she wasn’t finished. “Now, are we going to have dessert?” Without waiting for a reply, she motioned Sally over.
Ivy felt heat rise in her face at the rebuff. She felt like a child being reprimanded. Smack. End of discussion.
You’d think by now she’d know better than to ask Frances anything really personal. But for a few minutes there she’d been seduced 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. Not that I have the vaguest idea where there is. Alex touched the breast pocket of his waterproof jacket, checking to make sure his daughter’s photo was dry and tucked well down. He’d fallen into the habit of talking to her picture, which he’d clipped to the visor of the Jeep two weeks ago when he left San Diego.
The trip north had been long, and commenting out loud to Annie about the landscape and the day’s events made it somehow less lonely. If it also made him a total whack job, well, there was no one to judge him except himself.
“There’s the lodge,” Oliver yelled as the boat rounded the point.
Alex caught his breath at the spectacular view, and he whistled long and low. “Now that’s impressive.” He squinted through salt-spattered lenses, and then took his glasses off and wiped them on a bandana he kept in his pocket for exactly that purpose. He shoved them back on his nose and sat forward, studying the place where he’d be spending the next few weeks.
Raven Lodge was on a spit of land that extended out into a narrow bay. The majestic, snow-covered Chugach Mountains rising from Prince William Sound formed a dramatic and formidable backdrop for the rustic two-story, rambling log structure and its impressive assortment of outbuildings. The whole place looked tidy and well cared for.
A long dock extended into the water, and several large boathouses undoubtedly sheltered numerous fishing boats, like the one they were riding in, which were needed to carry guests out into the Sound to catch the fabled king salmon, halibut and Chinook native to these waters.
Some distance from the buildings was a large cement pad.
“That’s where the copter lands,” Oliver explained. “Lots of skiers staying at the lodge, they get shuttled up the mountain in the morning and brought back at night.”
Cabins were scattered among thick stands of Sitka spruce and western hemlock, and Alex caught sight of another, smaller log house, also two stories, some distance from the main building.
“That’s where Ben Galloway and his wife live. Ben’s one of Theo’s boys,” Oliver explained as they drew closer to the dock. “He’s got a twin brother in Seattle, a lawyer. They’re both nice guys.”
Alex appreciated the input. “That’s where Grace and I stay.” Oliver pointed out two long, white clapboard bunkhouses nestled in a grove of pine trees. “You can bunk in with us or use one of the small cabins. Most of the guests stay right in the lodge this early in the season.”
Oliver had told Alex how he and his longtime girlfriend had come north hoping to homestead. “We need a grubstake, so we’re both working as fishing guides for the summer. Grace is a real smart woman. Can turn her hand to almost anything. I’m real lucky, finding her,” he’d boasted with a grin that made Alex lonely for an instant.
“So, Alex, you think maybe you’ll stick around?”
“I think I lucked out,” Alex said. “Looks like a great place to work for a couple weeks.”
“It is. And you couldn’t have a better boss than Theo,” Oliver declared. “Fair as they come. His wife Caitlin is a fantastic cook. Best grub I’ve ever had at a fishing camp. And they pay well and on time. A lot of places up here only offer minimum wage. The Galloways are good to work for.”
Alex was relieved to hear it, although his reasons for taking the job hadn’t been financial. Money was the least of his concerns. Idleness was his worst nightmare. He needed something to do, something physically exhausting and challenging enough to dull the sense of failure and loss that plagued him when he tried to sleep. Hard work was the only cure he’d found for insomnia.
Oliver pulled smoothly up to the dock and tossed a rope to Theo, who’d come hurrying down the walkway. Theo was a stocky, middle-aged man. Clean-shaven and ruddy-faced, he had a shock of snowy hair. The pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth looked as if it grew there.
He secured the rope and called out, “Welcome to Raven Lodge, Alex.”
Alex clambered up to the dock and shook Theo’s work-hardened hand. “It’s a pleasure to be here, sir.”
The other man laughed. “Theo is fine. We don’t stand much on ceremony in these parts.”
Alex helped the two unload the boat, and when all the supplies were stacked on the dock, Theo said, “Come on up to the lodge and meet Caity, then later we’ll bring your gear up and get you settled.”
Alex walked beside the older man, breathing in the sharp odor of salt water mingled with the smell of pine tree resin and wood smoke. Halfway up the long flight of stairs he tapped his breast pocket.
We’re a long way from San Diego, Annie. He looked past the buildings at the dark, thick forest that surrounded this small patch of civilization. That’s where he’d be heading soon. Into the wilderness. He shivered with a sense of foreboding.
So this is where it begins, where I find out once and for all what I’m really made of. He followed Theo up the wide wooden steps, noting with a carpenter’s eye that they were each hewn out of one huge log.
Or maybe this is where it ends. Had he come up here to die? The thought wasn’t frightening. Rather, it held the promise of peace.
Whichever it was, Alex knew that his life was once again abruptly changing direction.
CHAPTER FOUR
It’s never bothered me much, not having family I could count on. You and I have that in common, eh, Linda?
From letters written by Roy Nolan,
April, 1972
“ALEX LADROVIK, meet my brother-in-law, Tom Pierce. Tom is Caity’s older brother.”
Tom had just arrived at the dock, and the men were standing beside a long wooden boat loaded with building supplies neatly covered by a blue tarp.
“Alex’s up from San Diego,” Theo added for Tom’s sake. “He just got to the lodge a couple hours ago, caught a ride with Oliver and the groceries.”
“How d’ya do.” Tom didn’t offer his hand and Alex decided against holding out his. He was aware that the mustached man was assessing him with cool gray eyes set in a weathered, still handsome face.
“Guess that’s your green Jeep with the California plates, parked back in town in Olaf’s garage?”
“She’s mine, all right.” Alex hoped his mud splattered, battered vehicle, would still be there when he went back to claim it. It had performed valiantly, never once breaking down on the long and often isolated journey.
“California,” Tom said, making it sound like a third world war zone. “So what brings you to Alaska?”
“Adventure,” Alex replied, giving the same explanation he’d used all along the way. “The job I had in San Diego ended, and I decided it was time to travel. When the weather warms up I want to hike into the bush, live off the land a while. Till then, I need a job.”
That was true enough, although it didn’t begin to really explain why he was here. Best to keep that to himself for the time being. No point in revealing your underbelly right away, especially since Tom didn’t seem nearly as friendly as his brother-in-law. Maybe it just took him longer to warm up to strangers.
Tom’s gaze flicked up and down Alex’s long, rangy frame. “The bush, huh? You done much back-country hiking on your own?”
“Some. Well, truthfully, not much. But I plan to do some extensive research before I head off.”
“Research, now that’ll impress the grizzlies.” The derogatory snort and look Tom shot his way made Alex doubly glad he’d held back some of his personal info.
“Going off into the bush on your lonesome is one fine way to end up dead,” Tom said emphatically. “Every year we spend valuable time searching for damn fool adventurers gone missing. More people go missing up here than anywhere else in the U.S. Dumb thing to do, in my opinion. “
Out of politeness, Alex didn’t mention that he hadn’t asked for Tom’s opinion. The older man was making his hackles rise.
Theo ignored Tom’s outburst. Instead, he pointed at one of the outbuildings. “Let’s stack the lumber in that shed over there, don’t want it getting wet. If you move the boat down the dock a ways, Tom, we can get it unloaded.”
Alex noticed that Tom had a pronounced limp, but otherwise his wide body was muscular and fit. He handled the two-by-fours and bags of cement almost as easily as Alex. The injury to his leg sure didn’t slow him down at all.
Theo, however, was soon red-faced and winded. Without being obvious about it, Alex made sure he shouldered the heaviest of the materials. In a short while, they had the lumber, nails and bags of cement mix stowed inside the shed.
Theo wiped the sweat from his forehead with the arm of his blue flannel shirt. “I hate to admit it, but I’m out of shape. Way too much sitting around in the wintertime. Come on inside, you two. Caity’s making supper and we deserve a drink.”
Theo led the way. Inside the wide front doors of the sprawling log building, Alex glanced at the framed photos lining both walls he’d noticed earlier. There were color snapshots of smiling guests holding trophy fish, but there were also older black-and-white shots of men and women wearing clothing from the turn of the century. But he was quickly distracted by the wonderful smells that wafted down the long hallway from the direction of the kitchen, and he sniffed in hungry anticipation.
“Caity, love, Tom’s here,” Theo bellowed and within moments Caitlin Galloway came hurrying along the long hall to meet them, her handsome face wreathed in smiles. Her white hair piled on top of her head, she wore a white bibbed apron to protect her snug blue jeans.