For His Daughter. Ann Evans
if his father tried at all to meet him halfway, it was strictly for the sake of Rafe’s mother. Pop would do anything to please Rose. Even make nice occasionally with a son he probably considered a first-class bastard.
But Rafe had also anticipated a cool reception from his brother Nick. He’d never had a problem with his brother Matt and younger sister Addy, but Nick—the two of them had seldom gotten along as kids. Nick was a stickler for order and obeying the rules, and Rafe, well…Rafe had always figured rules were for other people.
So he was surprised that Nick didn’t seem to hold much of a grudge against him. Time seemed to have mellowed his big brother. It could be because he was a married man with kids of his own now. A brand-new baby son, in fact, in addition to a teenage daughter who had discovered boys big time.
Did Nick finally understand what it was like to find yourself on the opposite side of a chasm from someone you loved, with no clear way to make the leap that would bring you back together?
Rafe felt a nudge against his arm. Nick was drawing his attention back to the front of the room, where his father seemed to have won the floor.
“…can argue this from now until Christmas,” Sam D’Angelo was telling them all.
In spite of the wheelchair, his father still had a commanding way about him. He’d turned sixty just a few months ago, but he was as powerful a presence in the room as he’d been years ago, when he’d stood by Rafe’s hospital bed and told him that he was no longer welcome in his house.
“So what do you suggest, Sam?” Sheriff Bendix asked.
“I suggest we form a committee to investigate the best theme ideas we’ve been able to come up with here. Explore all possibilities. Eliminate the most problematic of them, then bring the two most viable ones back to the group for a vote.”
“There have been an awful lot of ideas pitched tonight,” someone behind Rafe pointed out.
“Very few that have actually been thought out,” Sam said, waving away the comment. With his chin he indicated the man seated across the aisle from him. “We could start with the Founder’s Day Celebration Bill suggested. He’s done his homework about the beginnings of Broken Yoke. Let’s find out if any of it would be interesting to anyone outside of the people in this room.”
Phil Pasternak, a fifty-something guy with a great tan who owned Alpine All Weather, the only sports store in town, stood up. “I think my idea of a Christmas in July celebration bears serious consideration. It’s quirky enough to draw outsiders, and over the past few months I’ve spent quite a bit of time and money planning out sample venues of the games and entertainment we could offer.”
Everyone knew Phil wanted to unload a surplus of winter sports equipment he’d been saddled with after several winters of modest snowfall, but no one had hooted down his idea for the festival. Most were intrigued by the idea of how he intended to pull off snowball fights and sleigh rides in the middle of summer.
Sam nodded. “Fine. Let the committee decide if it’s workable.”
“And profitable,” Phil couldn’t resist adding.
“I’ll volunteer to be on the committee,” Mort Calloway said from around his oxygen mask.
“Me, too,” Howard Hackett piped up.
Polly Swinburne sniffed loudly. “I certainly think I should be part of any committee that makes those decisions.”
Sam wasn’t a good enough actor to keep his disappointment from showing. These three were obviously not who he’d had in mind when he’d made the suggestion.
He tossed a glance around the room, finally settling on a mild-looking fellow whose face would live in no one’s memory. “What about you, Burt? You’re calm and logical. You’d make a good candidate for the committee.”
The old guy blinked a couple of times, then creaked upward from his seat as though he’d just been asked to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. “I’ll do it if everyone insists,” he said politely. “But I’d prefer to stay out of it.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not even sure Broken Yoke should have a summer festival. What’s wrong with just keeping things the way they are?” The elderly man frowned. “No. I’m not your man.”
Nick expelled a sigh. “Good call, Burt,” he said under his breath. To Rafe he added, “Working with Howard and Polly and Mort would send him to the loony bin. Poor Aunt Sof would go nuts worrying.”
Rafe gave his brother a puzzled look. “Aunt Sof” was one of their mother’s Italian sisters. Sofia and Renata were both widowed. After his father’s stroke a few years ago, the two women had arrived to help out. They’d never returned to Italy and now seemed firmly entrenched in helping to run the family lodge. Rafe had never met either one of them until he’d come home. They seemed nice enough, but he still didn’t really know them.
“Why poor Aunt Sof?” he asked his brother.
“She’s sweet on Burt,” Nick said. “But don’t ask either one of them, because they’ll just deny it.”
Rafe looked back at Burt with renewed interest. Still some life left in the old boy, it seemed. Nice to think of two older people finding love, even at this late date. He wished them well, because as near as Rafe could figure, love was a pretty slippery slope to try to climb. One reason why he’d stayed firmly away from it.
Another half hour was spent determining just how the newly formed committee should proceed and when the deciding vote for a festival theme would be taken. Just when Rafe thought they had a hope of getting out of the Silver Saddle before his backside went completely numb, his father spoke up again.
“Independent of the festival committee, I think we should elect a Publicity chair. Once a decision is made, we can’t afford to waste time trying to decide how to get the word out. We need someone to start exploring what kind of publicity we can get for this thing. How much it’s going to cost, and just what we need to say. Anyone want to volunteer?”
No one spoke up.
“Then I’d like to suggest my son,” Sam said, looking toward the back of the room. “Nicholas.”
Beside Rafe, Nick went upright in his seat. Poor bastard. Rafe was barely able to hide an amused smile. Roped into service and stuck with trying to please all these people.
Nick stood up. “Pop, I don’t think I’m the right person for the job. This really calls for someone with PR skills, and everyone knows that isn’t something I’m good at.”
Sam looked annoyed when there was mumbled agreement from a few others.
“Besides,” Nick went on, “it shouldn’t be someone who has a particular personal agenda. You know I’d like to pick up some business for the lodge and our helicopter tours. We need a person who can be fairly unbiased.”
“Like who?” Polly Swinburne asked skeptically.
Nick tossed a desperate look around the room, and in the same moment when Rafe could hear his own inner voice saying No, no, no, his brother’s gaze landed on him like a load of concrete. “Like Rafe, for instance,” Nick said.
There were several moments of silence. Rafe knew that most of the people here, while perhaps not having an actual ax to grind with him, might find him an interloper in their midst. No, maybe more than that. He let his eyes do a quick circuit around the room. How many of these people had he had run-ins with as a teenager?
Short of killing his brother very slowly, Rafe couldn’t think of a suitable revenge. He shook his head. “Nick,” he said at last, clearing his throat. “I don’t think—”
“Not Rafe,” Sam said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
For