street past a number of storefronts, some decorated with colorful rosemaled patterns that she recognized as typically Scandinavian. Baskets of still-blooming flowers hung from the streetlamps that cast pools of light on the sidewalk, and she noticed that in several places circles of intricate brass designs had been set into the pavement. One was a fishing trawler, the water depicted under it filled with salmon. Two others were done in the familiar patterns of local Haida or Tlingit people. She was pleased to find that a raven, her favorite Alaskan bird, was one of these. The other portrayed an eagle.
All the gift shops and art galleries were closed for the night, but their windows were full of interesting things that she mentally filed away to examine in the morning, knowing her transportation to Five Finger Lighthouse would not arrive until the middle of the day. At the end of two blocks she crossed the street and found the small garden mentioned by the bartender, with its statue of a bear and its fish.
Following directions, she almost immediately found herself in Sing Lee Alley. It curved to the left and was so narrow that she thought it might have been one of the original Petersburg streets that began its life as a wagon road. Away from the lamps that lined the main street the lane was dark and full of the shadows cast by old houses and buildings that clung so close that their doors opened directly onto the street. As she strolled along she could hear the slow drip of rainwater falling from eaves into puddles, and her footfalls created echoes that came back to her in the confined space almost as if two people were walking.
Noticing a raven cleverly painted over a doorway as if it were perched on the frame, Jessie stepped closer and saw two others painted near it, their wings spread in flight. As she smiled in appreciation of the unknown artist’s sense of humor, she was startled to hear the echoes of footsteps continue for a step or two after she stopped. Swinging sharply around, she peered into the dark in the direction from which she had come, but the narrow lane was empty of anyone but herself and some inky shadows. Almost she retraced her steps to take a look, but deciding that her imagination was taking over, continued toward the restaurant she knew must be close ahead. Purposely, she made her footsteps loud, listening carefully, but did not hear the double echo again. Must have been a trick of that particular building or doorway, she decided—unfamiliar town, street, and sounds. But as she went on, she increased her speed slightly.
Just past a large white house with a sign reading SING LEE ALLEY BOOKS—another goal for tomorrow morning—the pavement turned to timbers and she identified the barn-shaped Sons of Norway Hall, built on pilings like the bridge beyond it. Along the bridge were lampposts with a Norwegian flag, bright red with a white-framed blue cross, hanging from each, and on the other side the Northern Lights Restaurant proclaimed itself with fairy lights below its sign. Jessie abandoned all thought of imaginary echoes behind her and hurried across into the warmth of a pleasant dining room that wafted a delectable aroma of food into her nose—dinner at last.
The front section of the restaurant was a pickup area for orders to take out. As she hesitated, a waitress hurried forward with a greeting and led her to one of the tables in the back, where she could look out the window onto a marina and a long causeway on tall, thin pilings that led out to a large commercial-looking building. Jessie shed her slicker, deposited it and her daypack on the bench of the booth, and settled in satisfaction to open the menu she was handed, in which she was pleased to find an appealing assortment of options including, as anticipated, plenty of seafood. After a short equivocation, she chose a dinner salad, shrimp Alfredo, and another Killian’s to keep it company.
While she waited, she glanced around the room,
All the gift shops and art galleries were closed for the night, but their windows were full of interesting things that she mentally filed away to examine in the morning, knowing her transportation to Five Finger Lighthouse would not arrive until the middle of the day. At the end of two blocks she crossed the street and found the small garden mentioned by the bartender, with its statue of a bear and its fish.
Following directions, she almost immediately found herself in Sing Lee Alley. It curved to the left and was so narrow that she thought it might have been one of the original Petersburg streets that began its life as a wagon road. Away from the lamps that lined the main street the lane was dark and full of the shadows cast by old houses and buildings that clung so close that their doors opened directly onto the street. As she strolled along she could hear the slow drip of rainwater falling from eaves into puddles, and her footfalls created echoes that came back to her in the confined space almost as if two people were walking.
Noticing a raven cleverly painted over a doorway as if it were perched on the frame, Jessie stepped closer and saw two others painted near it, their wings spread in flight. As she smiled in appreciation of the unknown artist’s sense of humor, she was startled to hear the echoes of footsteps continue for a step or two after she stopped. Swinging sharply around, she peered into the dark in the direction from which she had come, but the narrow lane was empty of anyone but herself and some inky shadows. Almost she retraced her steps to take a look, but deciding that her imagination was taking over, continued toward the restaurant she knew must be close ahead. Purposely, she made her footsteps loud, listening carefully, but did not hear the double echo again. Must have been a trick of that particular building or doorway, she decided—unfamiliar town, street, and sounds. But as she went on, she increased her speed slightly.
Just past a large white house with a sign reading SING LEE ALLEY BOOKS—another goal for tomorrow morning—the pavement turned to timbers and she identified the barn-shaped Sons of Norway Hall, built on pilings like the bridge beyond it. Along the bridge were lampposts with a Norwegian flag, bright red with a white-framed blue cross, hanging from each, and on the other side the Northern Lights Restaurant proclaimed itself with fairy lights below its sign. Jessie abandoned all thought of imaginary echoes behind her and hurried across into the warmth of a pleasant dining room that wafted a delectable aroma of food into her nose—dinner at last.
The front section of the restaurant was a pickup area for orders to take out. As she hesitated, a waitress hurried forward with a greeting and led her to one of the tables in the back, where she could look out the window onto a marina and a long causeway on tall, thin pilings that led out to a large commercial-looking building. Jessie shed her slicker, deposited it and her daypack on the bench of the booth, and settled in satisfaction to open the menu she was handed, in which she was pleased to find an appealing assortment of options including, as anticipated, plenty of seafood. After a short equivocation, she chose a dinner salad, shrimp Alfredo, and another Killian’s to keep it company.
While she waited, she glanced around the room,
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