The Alpine Betrayal by Mary Daheim Read Free Book Online

Milo looked at his watch.
    “Better not, Emma,” he said. “It’s after nine. I’ve got to be up at the crack of dawn to help with the parade route.”
    “What do you mean, parade route? They start at one end of Front Street and stop at the other. This isn’t Macy’s Thanksgiving extravaganza, you know.”
    Milo took three quick gulps of coffee and stood up. “All the same, I’d better run.” He avoided my gaze. “Did I have a jacket?”
    “In eighty-five degree weather?” I was following him into the living room. “Gosh, Milo, you’re jumpy tonight. You shouldn’t let Loggerama get to you. It’s supposed to be fun.” Casually, I placed a hand on his arm. Maybe it really was the upcoming election that was bothering him. But Milo was already finishing his second term. I hadn’t been in Alpine when he’d run for office before, but I knew he’d won handily. “Who is it?” I asked, looking up at him.Surely there had to be another, more credible candidate in the offing than Averill Fairbanks and his UFOs.
    Milo’s reply rocked me: “Honoria Whitman. She’s a potteress in Startup.” Milo was looking miserable as he put a big hand over mine. “I meant to tell you about her, Emma, but I didn’t have the nerve.”
    I was gaping at him. “A
potteress?
You mean you’re seeing someone?” My voice sounded shrill. I pulled my hand away and stepped back.
    Milo swallowed hard. “I met her last June when I was fishing down on the Skykomish River. She owns a place just off the back road that hooks up into the Sultan Basin. I guess she’s been there about a year, up from California.”
    “California!” It figured. Even though I knew all Californians didn’t have horns and forked tails, I wasn’t reassured. The Pacific Northwest had been invaded by Californians for the last two decades, jamming our cities, crowding our highways, polluting our air, and even daring to introduce a work ethic. Honoria Whitman, with her crude clay pots and organic compost heap, was no doubt lounging around in Startup wearing flowing ethnic garments and hoping to improve the lot of the pitiful natives.
    “Your private life is your own business,” I told Milo frostily. My brown eyes shot daggers. “Are you bringing Honoria to Loggerama, or would she find it too vulgar?”
    “I told you: I’m working the whole damned time,” Milo replied, his annoyance as plain as my own. “In fact, this might be the only night I’ll be able to see her until Loggerama is over.”
    “Then,” I demanded, as he edged toward the door and I stalked him with arms folded across my breast, “why the hell didn’t you have her feed you? Or don’t you like Tofu Helper?”
    Milo gazed at the beamed ceiling. “Wednesday nights Honoria teaches a class in pottery at Everett Junior College. She doesn’t get home until almost ten.” He seemed to be talking through gritted teeth.
    My rational self told me to calm down. There was noreason for me to be angry with Milo. His private life was indeed his own. We had never exchanged so much as a kiss. Why then did I feel betrayed? Was it only my ego and not my heart which was wounded?
    I threw up my hands. “It must be the lamp chops,” I confessed sheepishly. “They set me back fourteen bucks. If you’d asked for hot dogs, I’d have told you to bring Honoria along.”
    Milo appeared partially convinced. Or else he was just anxious to make his peace and be gone. “You’d like her, Emma. She’s very soothing company.”
    On drugs
was the evil thought that flickered through my mind. But I tried to smile. “Go on, have a good time. I’ll see you at the Loggerama kickoff banquet tomorrow night.”
    If Milo hadn’t already been wearing his cotton sports shirt open at the neck, I swear he would have run his finger inside his collar. Instead, he gave me a lopsided grin and an awkward wave, then loped out the front door. With a sigh, I went out on the porch, conscious as ever of the fresh scent of pine on