Mountains Apart. Carol Ross
on over her clammy shoulders. “Yes,” she said, adjusting her lapels and straightening her shirt, “but it’s becoming increasingly clear that I need help of the kind that only a skilled mental-health professional can provide. But for now, could you please see if you can get something even remotely resembling a copy out of that...that...machine in the corner? I can’t get it to do anything but light up like a Christmas tree, and I didn’t make enough copies of the report, although how I was to know that every local yokel from the neighborhood barbershop, Laundromat, karaoke bar and pool hall was going to come straggling in and ask for a copy of it is beyond me. I swear I’ve never seen anything like this town in my entire life....”
She continued muttering as she turned toward the vintage-looking behemoth that was supposed to be acting as her computer and began banging on the keys. An error message, approximately the seventy-eighth one of the day, flashed across the screen. She exclaimed loudly.
Amanda threw a startled look her way. “You okay, Em?” She walked over and hit the escape key, then rapidly tapped several keyboard commands, causing the screen to dutifully display the document Emily had been seeking. Emily then watched, amazed, as Amanda turned toward the copy machine and effortlessly print out page after page of the requested proposal and then began to efficiently staple the crisp pages together. Emily had also tried to use that implement earlier and would have sworn it was out of staples.
Amanda, in direct opposition to Emily, was already in love with their “Alaskan adventure,” as she’d fondly dubbed their pseudo-exile to these ice-encrusted ends of the earth.
“Yes, I’m fine, Amanda.” Emily tentatively pressed a couple buttons on the keyboard and watched as the screen went black again—and then promptly remained that way. She thumped loudly on the side of the computer and this time added a colorful string of frustrated protestations.
“Moose what?” Amanda asked with a bark of laughter.
“Nuggets,” she repeated in a tired voice. “Moose nuggets.”
“Wow. Nice,” Amanda said.
“Thank you. At least I’ve managed to pick up some of the local vernacular. It’s charming, isn’t it? How long has he been waiting?” She gestured toward the door, where she knew yet another irate citizen was waiting to verbally abuse her.
“Only a few minutes, and he knows he’s early.”
“Good.” Emily looked down at the papers in front of her and could not for the life of her remember what she’d just been looking for. “What am I doing? It’s so hot in here. And this headache...” She began absently patting at her desk hoping to somehow solve the mystery.
“Emily?” Amanda said.
Emily looked up. “What? Oh. This Mr. Bearing is another business owner, right?” she asked.
“Um, yes, but actually, it’s Mr. James.”
Emily’s face twisted with confusion. “What?”
“James,” Amanda repeated. “Your appointment is with Mr. James.”
“What do you mean James?” Emily looked down at her planner and back up again. “I have Bearing written down here. He runs a guide and outfitter service?”
Amanda nodded. “Yes,” she said. “That’s right, but his last name is James. His first name is Bering—Bering James.”
“Oh, my—” Emily said with a groan as she reached over and whacked the intercom, which had started buzzing again. “You’re kidding me. Where do these people get these names for their children anyway? Already today we’ve had a Grizzly, a Rock, a Scooter and a Bean. And now Bearing? What in the world kind of a name is Bearing? Where does one come up with a name like Bearing, I wonder? Like, ooh, watch out, there’s an iceberg bearing down on us.” Emily gestured wildly and continued with her rant. “His mother is probably one of those iceberg-crusher boat captains, or whatever they call those barges that break through the ice. Ha! Yeah, and she probably wears an eye patch and curses like a sailor.”
Amanda arched her brows in surprise at Emily’s emotional, and very uncharacteristic, outburst. “Actually, Em, it’s B-e-r-i-n-g, Bering, like the sea.”
“Bering, like the seeaaa, he-he-he.” Emily repeated the words with a weird, mental-patient kind of cackle. She scowled at the now-fizzling intercom and then turned around and tugged the cord out of the wall.
“Um, Em, are you sure you’re okay? And you should know that Mr. James is a very influential figure here in Rankins.”
“Pfft...” Emily spit out the noise and took a swipe at her desk. “I’m not scared.”
Amanda chuckled. “I know you’re not scared, but you don’t seem to be completely on your game here, either.”
Emily shrugged and made a face.
“Seriously, why don’t you let me reschedule this one? You, uh, you don’t look very good.”
“Who cares? These people don’t exactly stand on ceremony, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“No, I mean you don’t look well. You look ill, actually. Like you could pass for Morticia’s little blonde sister. Your skin is as white as that snow falling out there.” She pointed out the window.
“Hmm. Well, pale is the new tan. Did you know that? I just read that the other day. People are embracing their natural skin tone these days.”
“Ok, but—”
“I’m serious, Amanda. That’s a quote. And personally, I think it’s great. This skin-cancer thing has nearly reached epidemic proportions. I’m in style without even trying.” She pointed at her face and smiled happily.
Amanda looked dubious but said, “Okay, sure, you’ve convinced me—pale is in vogue. But what I’m saying is that maybe you and your fabulous vampirelike complexion should go home and get some rest.”
“Home? Home,” she repeated. “Oh, I’d love to go home, Amanda. And I’m not talking about that igloo that we are currently camped out in. Nope, I’m talking about my brand-new town house back in San Diego that I’ve slept a total of, what, six nights in? But then again, there’s nothing really there for me, either, is there?”
“Emily, I...”
Emily inhaled a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “I don’t expect you to answer that. And no, I don’t want to re-skoodle,” she slurred. “I mean re-sched-ule,” she enunciated carefully. “Just send him in so I can get it over with.”
“O—kay, I’m going to tell him to come on in, and then I’m running down to the café to get some coffee. Do you want some?”
“Coffee? Gads, no, I’m burning up. How about an iced tea? No, no, make that a slushy—you know those kinds you can get from those machines in the mini-marts? I like blue raspberry.” She grinned goofily up at Amanda and then frowned down at the floor as she wiggled her sticky feet into her expensive beige pumps. She shuffled through the messy stack of papers on her desk, looking for the report that she’d had Amanda copy only moments before. The papers swam before her eyes and she blinked hard to clear her vision.
She pinched her fingers over the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes for what she thought was just a few seconds. But when she opened them there was a very large man standing very quietly in front of her desk. He was tall and so broad-shouldered that Emily took a second to wonder how he’d managed to fit through the doorway. His dark brown hair curled on his forehead and around his ears. He had a sprinkling of stubble on his strong square jaw, and Emily stared up into his brown eyes just long enough for an awkward moment to coalesce. He cleared his throat, which finally prompted her to rise clumsily to her feet and extend a sweaty hand. She tried inconspicuously to blot her palm on her skirt before offering it again.
She swallowed, or tried to anyway, because...
What in the world was wrong with her tongue?