The Alpine Christmas Read Online Free PDF

passed me in her cream-colored Mercedes on the bridge over the Skykomish River as I headed for Sea-Tac to meet Ben.
    Vida shrugged out of her tweed coat, yanked off her kid-skin gloves, and adjusted the ties of her black gaucho hat. “Bridget has volunteered to be Santa’s Little Helper for the Lutheran Retirement Home’s Christmas party,” said Vida,shoving her spare chair at our visitor. “Fuzzy Baugh is going to be Santa.”
    Gingerly sitting down, Bridget gave me a charming smile. She was in her early twenties, tall, slim, auburn-haired and blue-eyed. Her skin was flawless and her clothes were expensive, if casual. A russet fox-lined raincoat was worn over a cashmere sweater and wool slacks. Her hand-tooled boots came almost to the knee and matched her shoulder bag.
    “This will be fun,” said Bridget in a breathy little voice. “I used to visit old folks’ homes when I was a Girl Scout in Seattle.”
    “Then you’ve had lots of practice,” said Vida, whipping out a ballpoint pen. “Just remember: you’ll never run out of old people, but someday you’ll be one of them. Now—give me the program, in order of events.”
    As usual, Vida seemed to have the situation well in hand. I returned to my office just as the phone rang. This time it was Teresa McHale, the parish housekeeper. She went straight to the point, expressing her displeasure over Ben’s decision to move into the rectory.
    “It was one thing with Father Fitz being almost ninety,” she asserted. “But this is quite different. People will talk. Your brother is very close to my age.”
    I figured Ben was probably a good ten years younger than Teresa McHale, but if she wanted to kid herself, that was okay with me. It wasn’t okay for her to interfere with the clergy, however.
    “Sorry, Mrs. McHale,” I said cheerfully, “but this isn’t the Chancery. Ben’s a big boy, and while I’d just as soon have him stay on with me, I understand why there ought to be a priest available at the rectory. As I’m sure you realize, people undergo more spiritual crises at this time of year. They need to know somebody’s there to help.”
    Teresa McHale emitted a snort of contempt, probably aimed at me rather than the spiritually depressed. “So what if he’s six blocks away? You live on Fir Street, don’t you?”
    I acknowledged that I did, then started to say that the distance between my home and St. Mildred’s was beside the point.
    Teresa interrupted: “Have it your way.” She huffed as if I were indeed a Chancery official rather than merely the sister of a visiting priest. “But don’t blame me if something happens.”
    I gave a little sniff of my own as she banged down the phone.
Dream on, kiddo
, I thought to myself. If anything happened, it wouldn’t be Ben’s fault. Women weren’t a weakness with my brother, at least not one that he hadn’t been able to overcome. Teresa McHale was looking for trouble that didn’t exist.
    But of course it was already there.

Cha p ter Three
    Ben had borrowed Father Fitz’s aging but still reliable Volvo to transport his few belongings up to the rectory. He had come and gone while I was at work, but left a message on my answering machine asking me to pick him up after seven o’clock mass. It seemed that Teresa McHale, who had no car of her own, had commandeered the Volvo so that she could visit Father Fitz in the hospital.
    Ben and I had a leisurely dinner, prefaced with two bourbons apiece. The steaks were excellent, the conversation mellow, and the Viennese torte divine. The Upper Crust, along with the rest of downtown Alpine, had gotten its power restored just after lunch.
    Ben talked at length about the challenges of his assignment in Tuba City, how tough it was for the Navajos to keep their pride, to pass on their culture, to not lose their children to the wider world while at the same time preventing them from falling into poverty and alcoholism. I talked about the differences between general