His eyes grew wide. “I can eat this?”
“You sure can. But be quick about it, you’ll be needed to help clear the tables.” Mrs. Johnson pulled the last tray from the oven. “And the rest of you may have one as well. You’ve all earned it.”
The kitchen staff all flocked to the table where Mrs. Johnson handed out dessert. It didn’t take long for everyone to have a mouthful of the creamy dish.
Cassidy gave Thomas a nudge. “What do you think?”
“It’s . . . amazing. You’re amazing . . . I mean . . . well, you made this, right?”
She laughed. “I did.”
He nodded. “You did a real good job.” He continued to look at her as if he might say something else.
Mr. Bradley rushed in, and plates and spoons clattered to the table as everyone stood at attention. “Mrs. Johnson, I’d like you and Miss Ivanoff to accompany me into the dining room.”
“Yes, sir.” At least the older woman had the clarity of mind to respond. “Is something wrong?”
Cassidy blinked and looked around the room. All eyes were on her.
Mr. Bradley just motioned to them. “Come on, hurry.”
“Let’s go, dear.” Mrs. Johnson grabbed her arm and Cassidy forced herself to swallow the ice cream in her mouth. She looked down at her apron and quickly swiped her mouth with her hand. It wouldn’t do to meet the President with food on her lips.
Quiet conversation filled the room as all the dinner guests smiled and ate and drank from little coffee cups. In the center of it all sat a distinguished man and smiling lady.
Mr. Bradley held out an arm. “Mr. President, might I introduce to you our head chef, Margaret Johnson, and her assistant, Cassidy Ivanoff.”
The gentleman stood and bowed to them. Goodness, no one had ever bowed to Cassidy before. Was this how the well-to-do greeted one another?
“I can’t tell you what a privilege it is to meet you ladies. This meal has been one of the finest I’ve ever had, and I asked your manager here to allow me to say it to you in person.”
“Why . . . thank you, Mr. President.” Mrs. Johnson curtsied.
Cassidy just stood there. She didn’t even know how to curtsy. Was she supposed to? She bent her knees a little and nodded.
The President came closer and smiled at her. “I take it your father is the knowledgeable guide who is to take us all on a hike later this evening.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It should be a beautiful night for it. There are still hours of daylight left.”
“Is there anything in particular that the delegation and I shouldn’t miss?”
“The fireweed, sir.” Cassidy cleared her throat. “It’s my favorite and is spectacular up the ridge.”
Several of the women murmured to one another.
Mrs. Harding came a little closer and put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Did I hear that we would have fireweed honey in the morning at breakfast?”
“Yes, ma’am. You did.” Mrs. Johnson patted Cassidy’s shoulder. “In fact, it’s harvested right here by our own Miss Ivanoff.”
“How lovely. I can’t wait to try it.” The First Lady put a hand to her waist. “But I’m in need of a strenuous walk after that feast. Or I won’t be able to eat for days.”
The President moved forward again. “Thank you, ladies, for your time. The meal was delicious.”
As the prestigious couple turned and walked toward other guests, Cassidy and Mrs. Johnson both exhaled at the same time. It elicited an “almost” chuckle out of Mrs. Johnson. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”
Cassidy shook her head. But she didn’t think she’d ever forget how nervous she felt. Mrs. Johnson didn’t look completely unmoved by the experience. The woman had a way about her that always seemed indifferent and reserved, but Cassidy could see by the gleam in the older woman’s eyes that she was pleased.
Crash!
The sound of broken crystal and china hitting the floor filled the room. Cassidy closed her eyes, afraid to look, but knew she must. Peeking through one open eyelid, she looked toward the noise. Sure enough. Thomas was sprawled on the floor, an empty tray beside him. An unbroken china cup still rattled as it rocked on the floor. Looking back to Mrs. Johnson, Cassidy could see the expression of mortification on the older woman’s face. Thomas was sure to be fired.
Cassidy raced over to his side, hoping to diffuse the situation before Mr. Bradley or Mrs. Johnson had a chance to blow up at the poor kid. Photographers readied their flash lamps.
But Mrs. Florence Harding beat her to him. The First Lady reached down a hand and helped Thomas up. “I’m so sorry, young man. I stepped directly into your path, didn’t I?”
“No . . . no . . . no . . . ma’am. Not at all.” His head shook back and forth at a rapid pace and cast a glance in the direction of the manager. He straightened his shoulders. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was at fault.”
“Nonsense. And don’t try to coddle me just because I’m the First Lady. I take full responsibility.” The woman was a genius. She had the whole room hanging on every word. Even Mr. Bradley was smiling, and no one would dare contradict her, even though they all knew it hadn’t been her fault.
She reached a hand up and laid it on Thomas’s shoulder. “You know, it reminds me of when I ran the Marion Star years ago. I had all those newsboys trained to move so quick”—she snapped her fingers—“that I often got in the way and tripped them up when they’d pick up their papers because I wasn’t moving fast enough. Again, please accept my apology.” The woman beamed a smile at Thomas while a photographer took another shot.
“You’re . . . you’re . . .” Thomas couldn’t seem to stop stuttering, but Mrs. Harding only smiled and gave him another pat on the shoulder.
“You are a very capable young man, and if I had a son, I would want him to be just like you.” After one more pat she elegantly walked away.
If Cassidy had been on regular speaking terms with Mrs. Harding, she would’ve thanked her profusely later and then asked to learn her skills. The woman could smooth over a disturbance like no one Cassidy had ever seen.
It must take a lot of practice being a politician’s wife.
The thing that mattered right now? Thomas was out of trouble. At least for the next few minutes.
9
Allan walked through the crowd checking to make sure everyone who needed a walking stick had one. Some of the women’s footwear was questionable, but he’d already discovered with one woman’s scathing glance that it wasn’t a topic up for discussion if he wanted to live to see another day.
Biting his tongue, he handed out walking sticks instead.
John was up at the front being quizzed by the President. Hopefully he was having more luck than Allan had with the women. While it was wonderful their country’s leader showed such an interest in this territory, Allan almost wished that this land could remain more of a secret. He’d only been here a week and he wanted to stay forever. No wonder his father loved this place.
Thoughts of his father brought his gaze back to John. For years, he’d blamed the man for his father’s death. But the truth wasn’t so easily found. Their conversations from the train—before they knew who the other was—haunted him day and night. His boss was consistent. Understanding. Even trustworthy. And the more he learned from John, the more he questioned the details from Frank. And the more he thought about the stories Frank told, the more he realized they didn’t pan out. There were discrepancies. All over the place. Not just in the McKinley expedition.
His father once told him that gut instincts were good to heed. He thought of it as divine guidance—the Holy Ghost. Allan never gave it much credence. In fact, he thought his own gut instincts weren’t all that accurate. It often seemed his feelings about people were complicated by the events that surrounded them. Father would have said to judge the fruit of the individual—the overall outcome of the person’s life and treatment of others. Allan, however, tended to jump to conclusions. Momentary lapses of
judgment became reasons to distrust and a single poor choice marked a man as incompetent.
One thing had always been clear—Frank never loved the outdoors like the Brennan men. Granted, he was very business-minded and successful, but he’d rather stay in his office and have meetings than go exploring himself. That in and of itself didn’t make the man unworthy of trust, but Allan had to admit there were times when Frank grated on him. Frank was quick with a harsh admonishment for underlings. Allan had seen him fire a man for nothing more than misplacing an invoice. And if he were honest with himself, Allan knew he’d just as soon not work with Frank at all.
But how could Allan turn his back on his father’s lifelong friend? Didn’t he owe him . . . something?
With Frank and the rest of his family back in Seattle, Allan found it easy to focus on Alaska. He’d written to let them know that he’d arrived safely and what he was doing. His mother would be more than proud that he was following his father’s footsteps. What he left unmentioned was his growing confusion over John Ivanoff and the accident that had claimed his father’s life. He’d come here hoping for answers, but it seemed he’d only managed to unearth more questions.
“Allan” —John’s voice broke through his reverie—“I believe we are ready.”
He glanced up at the salt-and-pepper-haired man. “Yes, sir, we are.”
John led the way down a path that he and Allan had trampled down in the days prior. At this time of year the tundra grass was thigh-high, so to make it easier for the guests, they’d widened the path from a one-person walkway to about a four-person width. John had also been quite observant to remove any obstacles from the path. Could a man so conscientious as that have been less so when dealing with a climbing expedition? One that pivoted on life and death in the best of circumstances? Of course that had been years ago. Allan had heard that John was forty-five years old, so that would have made him just thirty-nine when he’d led the expedition in 1917. A man’s character was surely set into place by that age, so it seemed unlikely he would have changed all that much. Not only that, but Allan had heard others talk about John. People who’d known him for many years. They all thought highly of him.
“Oh my. Just look at the flowers!” Mrs. Harding exclaimed.
Her statement started the ladies’ comments on the brilliant colors, while the men asked about the area’s wild animals. Their first planned stopping point was about a third of a mile down the path, but they’d gained about five hundred feet in elevation and already some of the ladies were struggling.
Looking down on a brilliant field of wild flowers, John stopped to explain which ones were which. Allan couldn’t help smiling. John understood the abilities and inabilities of his clients. He was accommodating them without bringing it to their attention.
One of the ladies came forward with a flower. “What is this lovely blue one?”
“This is arctic lupine, one of my favorites to look at, but be careful, lupine is extremely poisonous.” He took a small sketchbook out of his pocket. “Now, if you compare it to this one”—he pointed to a page—“this is the Nootka lupine, and it is my favorite of the lupine. I’ve seen them in the Chugach Mountains south of here and in the Aleutian Islands. Fields and fields of them. Their shape is fuller and almost like a Christmas tree, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, yes. Beautiful.” The lady set the flower in a basket she carried over her arm and went to inspect others.
John pointed to another group of flowers. “See the yellow ones in this grouping? Those are Alaska poppies. And those purple ones are purple mountain saxifrage.”
Mrs. Harding carried two similar dark pink flowers. “Mr. Ivanoff, what can you tell me about these two? I thought they were the same, but now I don’t believe so.”
He smiled at the First Lady.
Allan studied the flowers. They indeed looked awfully similar, so he moved closer to listen.
His boss lifted the first one. “This one is called Eskimo potato.”
The group around him laughed. One of the men hollered out, “Now, why would they call a pink flower a potato?”
“That’s a good question. The natives have been known to eat the root of this plant for centuries—thus the potato name.” John picked up the other flower. “While this one is called a wild sweet pea. If you look at the leaves of both, see how much they look alike? But the sweet pea has larger flowers and the roots are thought to be poisonous on this one.” John handed them both back to the President’s wife. “Legend says that many lives have been lost confusing the two. That was very astute of you to see the difference, Mrs. Harding.”
“Are you an Eskimo?” One of the men interjected. He fixed John with an intense gaze.
“I’m part Athabaskan. That’s one of the native peoples in this part of Alaska. There are many groups—tribes, if you would. Those normally thought of as Eskimo are actually Inuit, Inupiat, and Yuit.”
One woman stepped closer. “Do they really live in igloos—those houses made of ice?”
John smiled. “An igloo isn’t just a house of ice. It can reference any house. But yes, there are those who out of necessity build houses of ice blocks. I’ve made similar shelters myself.”
This created a sensation of murmurs amongst the tourists, while also stirring additional questions.
“Is it true that Eskimos don’t feel the cold?” This question came from the same man who’d asked if John was an Eskimo. He eyed John as if he were some kind of strange specimen just discovered.
“People are people no matter the color of their skin or origin of their birth, and they acclimate the same,” John replied. His expression was congenial and his tone suggested endless patience. “We who are native to Alaska get cold just like everyone else. It might be just at a considerably different temperature than you because of the climate we live in.”
Mrs. Harding seemed to take pity on their guide. “I’d really like to see some fireweed now—if we may.”
“Hear, hear,” voiced the President.
“Then let’s continue on.” John smiled. “There’s a beautiful view of it ahead.”
Allan brought up the rear and watched a few of the women bobble in their crazy shoes, but said nothing. He knew the next stop would be a grand place to view the fireweed, and that is where they planned to turn around and head back. The President looked weary.
Hadn’t he heard in the news that they’d been on a countrywide trip by train before they headed to Alaska? No wonder the man was tired.
As they reached the next point, oohs and aahs were heard throughout the group. Not only were the mountains of the Alaska Range visible over the ridgeline across the river, but an unending field of vibrant pink fireweed could be seen on the other side of the ridge where they stood.
John spoke in a loud voice. “As you can see, the flowers open from the bottom of the plant and over time will bloom all the way to the top. The legend of the fireweed is that when all of the blooms reach the top, winter will be on its way in six weeks. And I can tell you that for all of my life, the fireweed has been correct in its prediction.” The group laughed.
The President gathered his entourage closer with a wave of his arms. “I’ve asked John to tell us a little more about Curry and his Athabaskan heritage while we take a rest.”
The ladies sat on many low-lying rocks, while the men situated themselves on the ground.
Allan passed around the water canteens and then set his walking stick in front of him and rested both arms on it.
The history of the native people in this vast land was fascinating, but John only shared about them for a couple of minutes. He moved quickly into talk of Denali—now Mount McKinley—and how the new national park could change the face of Alaska and its tourism. From there, he praised the Alaska Railroad. “As you will see tomorrow, the railroad is finished. From Seward to Fairbanks, this land is now opened up for the world to see God’s handiwork. It’s a land rich in wild game, fish, and even gold.” He pointed to the Curry Hot
el below them. “And our government had the ingenuity to build at this incredible location, right here on the river and on the railroad, in the middle of the rail line, so that we could share this with the world. Although, I don’t know about you, but I’m glad they changed the name from Deadhorse to Curry.”
Chuckles resounded from the group.
“And I’m sure it doesn’t take much of an imagination to know where the first name came from.”
After some more chatter and questions, a man next to the President raised his hand. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d like to climb a little higher to get a better view of that twenty-thousand-footer.”
Others nodded and murmured agreement.
“Mr. President, wouldn’t it be a good idea to build a shelter people could hike to so they could see this spectacular view?”
“Indeed it would.” He sat on a boulder.
John moved forward. “Whoever would like to climb a little higher is welcome to join us, but make sure you have sturdy shoes. There’s not a direct path.”
A few men stayed with a number of the ladies while the President and the rest of the group followed John up the side of the steep hill. Allan brought up the rear, assisting where he could.
“Aahhhh!” One of the younger men cried out and fell to the ground. He rolled to a sitting position and took hold of his ankle. “I stepped in a hole. I think I might have broken my ankle.”
John was at his side almost immediately and assessed the injury. He ran his hands along the man’s ankle. Allan noted the man was wearing shoes rather than the recommended boots. Had he the proper footgear, he probably wouldn’t be in this kind of trouble now.
“I’m no doctor, but I’d say it’s a sprain.” John sighed. “However, we need to get you down the path quickly before the swelling gets too bad and we can’t get that shoe off.” He looked to Allan and waved him closer, speaking in a quieter tone. “I need you to finish the walk and get everyone back safely.”
Allan nodded.
“I’ll need another man to help me get Mr. . . .”
In the Shadow of Denali Page 10
