Crystal Caress

by Zuri Day

  Atka walked into the kitchen area and began opening cabinets.

  Frank followed close behind. “The place is well stocked, Atka. I didn’t know when you’d be back, and with the snow arriving... I thought it best to take care of that.”

  Atka nodded. “You were right. I appreciate it.” He looked out the window, watched Xander performing a check on the helicopter. “How’s he doing?”

  Frank shrugged. “Hard to tell. He was always quiet, but has become more so since his mother died. Much like you.” Atka said nothing. “I know you loved her, friend, but it is time for both of you to start living again. It is what she would want.”

  Atka released a sigh. “I know. What about money? Is the account—”

  “Atka, there’s enough money in that account to last until he’s an old man. Please stop worrying about Xander and blaming yourself for what happened. You couldn’t have saved his mother. No one could have. The cancer spread too quickly.”

  “His father dying when he was just a toddler, and now his mom gone? I worry about him.” Atka turned from the boy who looked so much like the woman he thought he’d marry—the woman who was snatched away almost as quickly as he’d found her. The last promise he’d made to Mary was that he’d take care of her son. It was a promise he intended to keep. He walked over to a wooden slab that held several keys. “Maybe moving him to Anchorage will help.”

  “Good luck with that. He loves this land as much as his mother and grandparents ever did. Being here keeps him close to her.”

  “But going to college would open up a whole new world, one that would allow him to both honor his mother’s memory and forge his own life.”

  Frank walked up and put a hand on Atka’s shoulder. “Give him time. Perhaps his mind will change. He is not the only one who needs to move ahead and forge a life. Burying yourself in work is not the answer.”

  Atka looked at Frank with glistening eyes. “Yes, but it helps the pain.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, Atka sat in a wooden rocking chair made by his apaaq’s hand, covered by a deerskin that had been lovingly tanned and softened by his emaaq. His body was warm, his belly was full and the angst that had earlier creased his brow was gone. His grandparents had never understood the need for modern contraptions—or, per his emaaq, distractions—such as TVs, radios or the like. They vaguely knew of video games, though only through conversations with their many grandchildren. When he’d purchased cell phones for both of them, the devices had gathered more dust than talk time.

  So they sat chatting in the cozy, quiet living room of a rambling three-bedroom home, their intermittent conversation, spoken in the Yupik language, punctuated only by crackling logs in the fireplace and varied sounds of wildlife just outside their door.

  His grandmother eyed him over her cup of tea. He braced himself for the question he knew would come before evening’s end.

  “Children soon come?”

  “Emaaq, you already have more great-grandchildren than can be counted on fingers and toes!”

  “Yes, but not from our guardian angel.”

  Atka smiled at the use of his name’s meaning. As the youngest of ten grandchildren, he’d often wondered why this magnificent woman before him, the one who’d named him, had believed him to be the clan’s protector, preserver and champion. Yet words like these had often been used to describe him.

  “To have a child, I need a wife, right?”

  “Don’t ask silly questions,” she retorted, her tone brusque but eyes twinkling.

  “You’re the one who asked about children when I’m not even married. With business booming, I have no time for a social life. Women take time, and work, right, Apaaq?”

  Atka’s grandfather thoughtfully removed his pipe, and blew a perfect circle of smoke into the air. “A closed mouth always provides a correct answer.”

  He smiled, replaced his pipe and stared into the fire.

  “Apaaq! I remember you telling me that marriage was around a point of land and not to take a shortcut to get there.” Silence. Another blue circle of smoke floated toward the ceiling. “Help me out!”

  “In this, you need no help. Your road to matrimony is too long already.” Emaaq’s voice was low yet firm. “We are old. Mary is gone. I know you loved her, sweet boy, but it has been three years since she journeyed to the Great Spirit. The time is long past for you to find your ukurraq, begin a family and continue the traditions you were taught in more than a few qasgi meetings. Will you deny me the joy of holding your precious panik before your apaaq and I fly to the sky land so that she will know me upon my return?”

  “He,” the grandfather corrected, sure that Atka’s first would be a son.

  “No pressure, right?” Atka rose from the rocking chair, went over to sit cross-legged in front of his grandmother and took her hand in his. “Emaaq, I could never deny you anything. When I marry, I want the woman to be smart, kind, loving and beautiful...just like you. To find someone so special will not be an easy task.”

  “Perhaps. But I will ask the spirit guides to help you.” Just then, the shrill sound of a feathered creature calling for his mate sounded through the window. His grandmother chuckled lightly. “Children soon come.”

  “All right, Emaaq.” After a bit more conversation he kissed his grandparents and retired to a room he’d slept in since childhood. Early tomorrow, he’d walk with his apaaq to the sacred space where his great-grandfather and others were buried, perform aviukaryaraq—an offering to them and the land—and hunt. Then he’d fly to Dillingham for a casual walk-through of his fisheries at Bristol Bay and a couple nights of solitude in his one-room cabin. Smiling, he drifted off to sleep, knowing that the chance of his meeting a suitable woman or wife at either location was slim to none. So his thoughts on dear emaaq conspiring with the spirits to bring him a wife could be summed up in four words.

  Good luck with that.

  Chapter 2

  Teresa snuggled farther down in her newly purchased sheepskin coat, the sexiest one she could find at the store the hotel concierge had recommended. The black wool pantsuit, turtleneck, high-heeled boots and faux-fur coat had gotten her through the flight and the interview with politician Paul Campbell. For her meeting at his campaign office, she’d dressed to impress. For the rest of her itinerary she planned to heed her boss’s advice to layer to stay warm.

  During the ride back to the hotel, she scanned her notes from the morning’s interview. All in all, she thought it had gone fairly well, especially given the fact that she’d immediately sized up her interviewee as an arrogant know-it-all, clearly prepared to do and say whatever it took to get into office. Two minutes in and he’d played the flirt card. Within five, she’d been informed the victory he considered a fait accompli was only one of three steps to the US presidency. It was one thing to be confident. Thanks to her brothers, even a shred of cockiness was tolerable, sexy even. But privileged arrogance was a turnoff. Like Paul, she’d grown up in the lap of luxury. Unlike him, she still had compassion for those less fortunate and a perspective ever mindful that her lifestyle was a blessing and not her just due. She casually eyed the passing scenery as their meeting replayed in her mind.

  * * *

  “Ms. Drake!” His blue eyes had twinkled with open admiration as he approached her with outstretched hands. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” She extended her hand. “Please call me Teresa.”

  He took it. “Only if you call me Paul.”

  Teresa’s eyes had narrowed when he unabashedly scanned her body and seemed to nod his appreciation. She had pulled her hand from a shake that had lasted too long. She was not a pork chop, and thought his wife might have a problem with the fact that her husband viewed some journalists as he would a piece of meat. Bad career move, Paul. As a seasoned politician who thought he knew
everything, he should have known better than to act like this.

  “I understand you’re a part of Paradise Cove’s first family. Your brother is Nicodemus Drake?”

  “Yes. First family is a generous description, and that title belongs to him and his wife, Monique. I am simply a citizen of that wonderful town, the same as your parents and other relatives still living in PC. Speaking of which, I understand you graduated a year ahead of my oldest brother, Ike Jr. Do you remember him?”

  “Are you kidding? Who could forget Ike? He was as brainy, gregarious and charming as they come, something that obviously runs in the family.” He had winked, and gestured toward a seating area in his roomy office. “Shall we?”

  Teresa had covered the urge to gag with a patient smile, taken a seat and steeled herself against what would surely be a taxing interview. On the bright side, all she had to do was get through it. And she did.

  * * *

  Hours later, she reached the hotel. After securing a bellman to deliver her many purchases, she continued to her room, ordered room service and changed into comfy clothes. A crash course in all things Alaskan, gleaned from the information she’d been emailed and more than a dozen sites bookmarked on her browser, had helped her come up with a time-effective game plan to make the most of her time on the last frontier and, most important, be able to make her flight leaving Anchorage for Saturday morning at 12:45 a.m. She’d decided to theme her four-part series around Alaska’s people, places and plentiful resources, all of which she’d discussed with Paul in order to set up the rest of the series. By dinnertime, she’d finished a nearly perfect first draft of the leading article and also firmed up her travel plans for the next two days. Figuring she’d benefit more from dining in the restaurant than again in her room, she called downstairs, and after another conversation with a helpful concierge, she decided on the Glacier Brewhouse. She pulled on a pair of woolen stretch pants, paired them with an oversize sweater, her “sexy” sheepskin coat and new Ugg boots, and headed downstairs to an awaiting taxi.

  Five minutes and she’d reached her destination. When asked, the driver had agreed that this restaurant was a fine choice. Both he and the concierge must have been right: a weeknight, yet every table was taken.

  She approached the host stand. “How long is the wait for a table?”

  The hostess looked around. “About fifteen to thirty minutes. But there are seats at the bar.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  She walked over and found a seat next to a guy engaged in conversation with the bartender.

  The bartender smiled. “Good evening. What can we get for you tonight?”

  “A menu for starters, thanks.”

  “Coming right up.” The bartender gave her a menu. “Your first time here?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re in for a treat.”

  “I don’t doubt that. The restaurant came highly recommended.”

  He placed a glass of water in front of her. “As you know, we’re a brewery, with over a dozen selections on tap. We’ll surely satisfy your taste for a cold one, no matter the palate.”

  “Um, personally, I’m more of a wine girl.”

  The bartender’s eyes widened. He looked at the man he’d conversed with before she arrived. “Did you hear that, man?”

  The man smiled, answering without looking up from his phone. “I heard that.”

  Teresa glanced at him. Great hair. Smooth skin. Nice teeth. And a nearly hidden dimple that flashed when he smiled. Had she been on a mission to meet a man, this one would have definitely intrigued her. Even with his five-o’clock shadow, when she liked her men clean-shaven. But she wasn’t here for that. She was in town on business and in this place for something to eat. That was all. She wasn’t here to flirt with, or pick up, handsome men. These words she repeated more than once as the two men interacted.

  “Who’d walk into the best brewery in America talking about wine?”

  Handsome shrugged. “A woman pretty sure of herself, I’d say.” He looked at her. His eyes were dark, almost black, and smoldering. Had someone just turned up the heat in the room? Teresa forced her eyes to the menu, while they’d really wanted to linger on the man’s tantalizing lips.

  The bartender went on. “Tell me the type of wine you prefer, and I’ll serve up a few samples that will convert you from a stemmed glass to a hearty, chilled mug.”

  Teresa laughed. “I like a semidry Chardonnay, with hints of fruit and a little spice.”

  “I’ve got a couple choices, either of which will be perfect.” He walked away.

  Teresa looked at the sexy stranger seated beside her, noted the strong, tanned fingers gripping the mug he’d just set on the bar and imagined he could perform one heck of a massage. Just as quickly, she chided herself on not being able to rein in her errant thoughts. That she’d not had a good fracking in months was no reason to entertain fracking a stranger. Or was it?

  “What kind are you drinking?”

  The man looked up from his phone, and over at her. “Me?” She nodded. “A Belgian pale ale.”

  “What’s that taste like?”

  “I’m no expert.” He shrugged. “Tastes like beer to me.”

  She leaned toward him conspiratorially. “I probably shouldn’t say this too loudly, but I hate the taste of beer!”

  Again, that smile as he leaned toward her and whispered, “You’re in a brewery. Definitely not a good idea to say that out loud.”

  He smelled like sunshine and the fresh outdoors. His long lashes created a shadow on his high cheeks as he returned to using his thumb to scroll the cell-phone screen. A part of her wanted to nuzzle her nose into his neck and feel that thumb lightly rubbing her shoulder. Even though he was obviously more interested in his electronic device than in human conversation, she couldn’t leave him alone.

  “Are you a local?”

  A tick or two passed before he answered. “Pretty much.”

  She got the message. “Sorry to bother you.”

  He set the phone on the bar top. “You’re not a bother. I’m just not good at small talk.”

  “And I’m exactly the opposite. Being a writer by choice and curious by nature makes questions come easy.”

  Handsome nodded, took a swig of beer. The bartender returned with two shot glasses. He explained the two choices he’d brought her—one light and citrusy, the other flavored with cloves.

  She took a teeny sip of the first one, twisting her mouth in displeasure. “Would you toss me out if I stuck with water?”

  The bartender laughed. “No way, pretty lady. There are other drinks on the menu.”

  “I’ll have a look, thanks.” He moved on to another customer. She turned to Handsome and held out her hand. “My name’s Teresa.”

  “Atka,” he responded, taking her hand and shaking it.

  His grip was firm but brief. Too brief, she decided.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

  “At. Ka. It’s from my native language.”

  “Which is?”

  “Yupik. My family are native Alaskans.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Really? Tell me more.”

  He frowned slightly, then reached for his phone and began scrolling. “Is that why you’re here, to write about the native Alaskan people?”

  “I’m here to cover the state from a variety of angles and, yes, the people who live here is one of them.”

  “It’s good that you will include those native to this land, but I am probably not the best person for that information. There are many languages and dozens of tribes. There’s a center on our culture that I could recommend.”

  “Please do.” She reached for her phone and recorded the name of the center he gave her. Then, sensing his private nature, she changed the subject.


  “Any menu recommendations?”

  He visibly relaxed. “You can’t go wrong with any of the seafood entrées. Though I usually get the land and sea Oscar. Gives you a little bit of everything.”

  Teresa read the dish’s description. “Wow...salmon, crab prawns and a filet? Sounds like a hearty meal.”

  “You won’t leave hungry.”

  Conversation centered around the menu until they’d made their choices. The bartender returned, took their orders, poured a fresh beer for Atka and was gone again.

  “So, how was it growing up here?” Putting up her hands against any objections, she hurriedly continued, “Off the record, if you’d like. I’m not on the clock right now.”

  He took a swig of beer. “It’s not the same experience as that of kids in the lower 48.” He eyed her and smiled warmly. “And probably much different than yours.”

  She nodded as the bartender brought her lemonade, took a sip and asked, “In what way?”

  “It’s a simpler life, calmer life. Lots of outdoor activities—hunting, fishing, skiing, boating, the dream life for any kid. My family would take road trips to Portage, Twentymile or any number of other glaciers, or go bear and deer hunting in Prince William Sound.” At her slight grimace, he continued, “I know. For most it’s not politically correct, but in Alaska, killing animals is not only a way of life but for some a necessity to survive. The native people wouldn’t have made it had it not been for the food the animal provided and the trade its fur maintained.”

  She nodded. “I understand. My great-great-grandfather was part of the gold rush, and passed down adventurous stories of killing bears and catching fish with his hands. My grandfather still lives in Louisiana, my family’s home state, and loves to fish and hunt, as do some of my brothers.” His expression was mysterious. “What?”