Free Alpine Hero by Mary Daheim

swinging at her wide shoulders, Roseanna went to the filing cabinet behind the antique mahogany desk that served as the reception counter. She presented the three portraits with a certain dramatic flair.
    “Well? Aren’t they gorgeous?” she enthused. “Aren’t you and your menfolk gorgeous?”
    We weren’t quite that, but I was pleased with the result. Ben had debated whether or not to wear his clerical collar, but to my surprise, Adam had talked him into it. My brother’s sun-bronzed face, engaging grin, and warm brown eyes looked out at me. His features are sharper than mine, and his brown hair crinkles. Ben is just above average size for a man, while I am a bit under for a woman. Still, the resemblance is there, particularly in the mouth and eyes. No, we are not gorgeous, but we do have our charms.
    Except for Adam’s eyes, which are also brown, he doesn’t look like Ben or me. As his face grows leaner and becomes more chiseled, he bears a remarkable likeness to his father. Adam is also tall like Tom, six-foot-two at last measuring. The mother in me was proud of my handsome son; the cast-off lover in me was suddenly saddened.
    “What’s wrong?” Roseanna asked in obvious disappointment. “Don’t you like it?”
    “Oh, yes!” I exclaimed, forcing a big smile. “It’s great. I was just thinking how Adam has … changed.”
    Roseanna uttered a small laugh. “Babies one day, grownups the next. Don’t I know it?”
    The Bayards had three children, all but one now out of high school. Their own family portrait was proudly displayed in a gilt frame on the opposite wall.
    Since Wednesday was payday, I felt safe writing a check for the pictures. Roseanna would mail Ben and Adam’s copies to their respective residences in Arizona. I was putting my checkbook back into my purse when Ed Bronsky burst through the front door.
    “Hey, hey!” cried my former ad manager and Alpine’s newest millionaire, courtesy of his late aunt in CedarFalls, Iowa. “Just in time! I’ve been having cocktails with Mayor Baugh at the country club.”
    “Ed,” I said, “we don’t have a country club in Alpine.”
    Ed pulled back, creating three chins where there were usually only two. “Well! That’s what you think, Emma Lord! We do now. Fuzzy Baugh and I have decided to turn the caddy shack into a country club.”
    If it was true, that was news. If it was news, I didn’t want to hear it. Not just now, thirty minutes after
The Advocate
had gone off to be printed in Monroe. Besides, Ed’s pretentious manner irked me these days. I actually preferred his preinheritance sloth, pessimism, and obsequiousness.
    “We’ll have to do some fund-raising,” Ed went on, whether I wanted to hear it or not. “Oh, sure, I’m willing to fork up some big bucks as seed money. But what’s a golf course without a country club? Where can you go for a couple of drinks and maybe a big steak after you finish that last hole?”
    For Ed, the last hole was probably on the fifth green. I couldn’t imagine him playing a full round of golf, even with a caddy. Furthermore, Ed was the only man I knew who had broken three ribs in a head-on collision with a golf cart. He’d run into Durwood Parker last September, which wasn’t entirely Ed’s fault. Durwood is the worst driver in Alpine—nay, in the world—and has had his license pulled by Milo Dodge.
    I was determined not to discuss Ed’s plans. “I must run,” I said, glancing at my watch. It was shortly after five-thirty. Milo wasn’t picking me up until seven, but nobody, especially Ed, needed to know that.
    “Now hold on, Emma,” Ed said, putting a pudgy hand on my arm and suddenly looking serious. “I need some advice. You’re a publisher, you must have some contactsin the book business. How should I go about getting my autobiography published?”
    It was all I could do to keep from screaming. I know I didn’t do a very good job of hiding my dismay. “Your autobiography? Why,