and his handshake was tentative. Marv was taller than his son by an inch and heavier by at leasttwenty pounds. He grunted as he sat down in his leather-covered swivel chair.
“Emma, let’s be frank. I hate rumors. This town is always full of them.” He picked up a gold ballpoint pen and twirled it in his stubby fingers. “If I say anything for public print, everybody will interpret it six different ways. When—and if—I’ve got something to tell you, you’ll be the first to know.”
Briefly I considered baiting Marv by telling him that I was now forced to write “… that when asked if the Bank of Alpine was for sale, President and CEO Marvin Petersen had no comment.” But I wanted to keep Marv on my side.
“If you change your mind, will you call me before five o’clock today?” I asked. “We have to send the paper off to the printer in Monroe first thing tomorrow.”
Marv nodded his big, balding head. “You bet. But chances are I won’t call. Honestly, Emma. I don’t have a damned thing to tell you.”
I had to be satisfied with that statement. Frustrated, I left the bank. Christie Johnston was on my heels.
“Late coffee break,” the teller explained as we stopped to wait for a US West service van to pass. “I liked your editorial on litter last week.”
The piece hadn’t exactly been my proudest moment. Usually I limit antilitter editorials to once a year in early June, just before the summer visitors start arriving. But the Rotary and Kiwanis Clubs had each voted to adopt a mile of cleanup along Highway 187 when the resurfacing was finished. I had used them as an example of public-spirited organizations, and urged others to join in the cleanup crusade.
I smiled at Christie, who is in her mid-thirties and has worked at the bank for a couple of years. She is about my size, and pretty, if sharp-featured. Her massesof curly brown hair were now hidden by the hood of her navy ski parka. “Thanks, Christie. Are you encouraging your fellow employees to take on the project?”
Christie grimaced as we crossed the street. “I don’t think so. Mr. Petersen—Marv—is kind of sensitive about the bank’s image. I don’t think he’d go for it.”
I envisioned the Petersens and their employees rooting around the side of the road that led up to the campground and the ranger station. “It might do them good. The Petersens project a folksy family image.”
Christie was poised to turn left; no doubt she was headed down the block to the Upper Crust. “Compared to bigger banks, they do,” she acknowledged. “I’ve worked for some real stuffed shirts in Seattle and Everett. But Marv still likes to keep his dignity.”
Editorial or not, I wasn’t going to knock myself out to get recruits for the litter project. I knew that Christie’s husband, Troy, worked for UPS. He’d been transferred from an Everett route to Highway 2. I made one last stab at putting my words to work.
“What about Troy and his fellow drivers?” It was almost eleven-thirty; I was hungry. If I bought something at the Upper Crust, I could work through my lunch hour. I started along Front Street with Christie at my side.
Christie hunkered down against the wind that had blown the fog away. Her teeth seemed to be chattering, though the temperature had risen into the mid-thirties. “Troy doesn’t like to be bugged in his spare time.” Her voice was almost lost inside the high collar of her parka.
I gave up. We entered the bakery, where a half dozen customers were drinking from steaming paper cups and eating fresh goodies. Christie selected a cinnamon rolland hot coffee. She paid for her purchase, then said goodbye and left.
I had thought she’d linger. By the time I departed with my maple bar and hot chocolate, Christie was nowhere in sight. Or so I thought until I dropped my handbag while trying to juggle the hot cup and my white bakery sack. When I straightened up, I glimpsed Christie far down Front Street, crossing over by
“Emma, let’s be frank. I hate rumors. This town is always full of them.” He picked up a gold ballpoint pen and twirled it in his stubby fingers. “If I say anything for public print, everybody will interpret it six different ways. When—and if—I’ve got something to tell you, you’ll be the first to know.”
Briefly I considered baiting Marv by telling him that I was now forced to write “… that when asked if the Bank of Alpine was for sale, President and CEO Marvin Petersen had no comment.” But I wanted to keep Marv on my side.
“If you change your mind, will you call me before five o’clock today?” I asked. “We have to send the paper off to the printer in Monroe first thing tomorrow.”
Marv nodded his big, balding head. “You bet. But chances are I won’t call. Honestly, Emma. I don’t have a damned thing to tell you.”
I had to be satisfied with that statement. Frustrated, I left the bank. Christie Johnston was on my heels.
“Late coffee break,” the teller explained as we stopped to wait for a US West service van to pass. “I liked your editorial on litter last week.”
The piece hadn’t exactly been my proudest moment. Usually I limit antilitter editorials to once a year in early June, just before the summer visitors start arriving. But the Rotary and Kiwanis Clubs had each voted to adopt a mile of cleanup along Highway 187 when the resurfacing was finished. I had used them as an example of public-spirited organizations, and urged others to join in the cleanup crusade.
I smiled at Christie, who is in her mid-thirties and has worked at the bank for a couple of years. She is about my size, and pretty, if sharp-featured. Her massesof curly brown hair were now hidden by the hood of her navy ski parka. “Thanks, Christie. Are you encouraging your fellow employees to take on the project?”
Christie grimaced as we crossed the street. “I don’t think so. Mr. Petersen—Marv—is kind of sensitive about the bank’s image. I don’t think he’d go for it.”
I envisioned the Petersens and their employees rooting around the side of the road that led up to the campground and the ranger station. “It might do them good. The Petersens project a folksy family image.”
Christie was poised to turn left; no doubt she was headed down the block to the Upper Crust. “Compared to bigger banks, they do,” she acknowledged. “I’ve worked for some real stuffed shirts in Seattle and Everett. But Marv still likes to keep his dignity.”
Editorial or not, I wasn’t going to knock myself out to get recruits for the litter project. I knew that Christie’s husband, Troy, worked for UPS. He’d been transferred from an Everett route to Highway 2. I made one last stab at putting my words to work.
“What about Troy and his fellow drivers?” It was almost eleven-thirty; I was hungry. If I bought something at the Upper Crust, I could work through my lunch hour. I started along Front Street with Christie at my side.
Christie hunkered down against the wind that had blown the fog away. Her teeth seemed to be chattering, though the temperature had risen into the mid-thirties. “Troy doesn’t like to be bugged in his spare time.” Her voice was almost lost inside the high collar of her parka.
I gave up. We entered the bakery, where a half dozen customers were drinking from steaming paper cups and eating fresh goodies. Christie selected a cinnamon rolland hot coffee. She paid for her purchase, then said goodbye and left.
I had thought she’d linger. By the time I departed with my maple bar and hot chocolate, Christie was nowhere in sight. Or so I thought until I dropped my handbag while trying to juggle the hot cup and my white bakery sack. When I straightened up, I glimpsed Christie far down Front Street, crossing over by
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