Nordic Nights (The Alix Thorssen Mysteries) by Lise McClendon

Author:Lise McClendon [McClendon, Lise]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thalia Press
Published: 2010-08-03T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Long is a night, longer are two—

how shall I thole three?

Shorter to me a month oft seemed,

than part of this night of pining.

Two hours later we fell out the door into the bitter cold. Our lungs starved for air, our heads stuffed with beer, music ringing in our ears, we tumbled into the Saab Sister. The headlights were two bright spots on the faded red paint of the Stagecoach's siding. I looked at Maggie, burst out laughing, still hearing her stomp her feet on the dance floor after the cowboy had dipped her backward. She had thrown back her hair and shouted, with apologies to Sheryl Crow: "This ain't no disco! This ain't no cowboy country club! This here's Jackson Hole!"

She chuckled now, put her head against the low seat, and closed her eyes.

"What the hell were you thinking, girl?" I said, not unkindly, for we had already hashed this out over ale and cowboy jitterbug.

Maggie threw her hands up in the air, held them there, and splayed her fingers outward before dropping them. She never opened her eyes. She had told me inside that she didn't want them finding out she was in insurance because everybody knows that insurance agents carry big umbrella policies for liability and that makes them lawsuit magnets. Well, sure, I thought. Make me a lawsuit magnet instead.

"They're not going to sue you, Alix. Didn't you see her out there trying to dance? She's just a crybaby. A hundred people saw her dancing after the so-called incident."

Maggie's voice fell to a husky whisper. She muttered on for a little bit about Harrison Ford, trying to decide which of his movies was her favorite, confessing she was so glad he finally found the one-armed man. Then I drove her home, found my alley parking spot untouched and unoccupied, and stomped up the back stairs to my empty apartment.

The moon had come up while we danced in the Stagecoach, rising over the valley, lighting up white-spangled fir trees with moonglow. Out the north window of my apartment I could see the edge of the bluff that separated the town from the peaks of the Tetons, sheltering us from the view of grandeur. Why was it that an ugly, hardscrabble mesa covered with sagebrush seemed so beautiful tonight? Snow clung to it in artistic swirls lit by lunar shine. Black dots of sage speckled across it. If I had a view of the Grand Teton out my north window, I would feel truly blessed, maybe the way a movie star feels when everything he ever dreamed of is his for the asking, when money and power bring more privilege than any man needs. But I have an extraordinary view nonetheless. A view it takes special eyes to appreciate. Anyone can appreciate the Grand Teton.

Last year I was dying for a new view. Maybe a little cabin at the base of the mountains, a garden, a dog. Especially a fabulous view, as if having a view made a difference in your life.

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