“I’m guessing you mean her,” Jeff said, heavy on the irony. “That’s Domenica Garland. President and CEO of RPetCo Alaska.”

“Oh.” It was a weak response and Liam knew it. Trying to recover some portion of the genitalia that had followed Domenica Garland into the brewpub, he said, “Who are the old farts?”

Jeff sighed. “The one who was foaming at the mouth is Hilary Houten. Also an archeologist. He and Erik have, ah, professional differences. Blue Jay Jefferson is so far as I know the oldest living inhabitant of the Bay who was born here, white or Native. He knows where all the bodies are buried, including the ones he buried himself.” He changed the subject, by chance or design Liam couldn’t tell. “What does your wife think of the house?”

Liam thought of the three-bedroom, four-bathroom house on the edge of a 600-foot bluff that overlooked even more of the Bay than the brewpub did. “She’ll see it today.”

“My wife would have killed me dead if I’d bought a house before she’d had a chance to look at it.”

Liam smiled. “If it’s clean and warm and there is hot water, Wy will be fine with it. She cares more about what she flies than where she sleeps.”

“That’s right, you said she was a pilot.” Jeff cocked his head. “Commercial?”

“Bush. Owned her own air taxi in Newenham. Sold up when this job came along.”

“When does she get here?”

Liam looked out the window at the clear skies beyond. The Bay was flat as a skating rink. “This afternoon, if the weather holds.”

And if Wy hadn’t changed her mind, again, and turned around halfway.

Three

Monday, September 2, Labor Day

SHE HADN’T.

She was taking her time, however. Leaving behind the place where she’d lived much of her life and owned and operated a successful business had not come easily. When Liam had been offered the job in Blewestown they had half-heartedly discussed the possibility of a long-distance marriage. She was a pilot, after all, with two paid-for airplanes with her name on the titles, one of which, if she pushed it, had a cruising speed of upwards of a hundred fifty mph. Liam’s new posting was only about two hundred fifty miles from Newenham, less than two hours in the air in the Cessna, wind and weather permitting.

Not that she would push it because of the wear and tear on the engine, but in the end, neither of them could face the time apart. Newenham had changed on them, too, and recent events made leaving sound more attractive than staying. Her adopted son, Tim Gosuk, was déjà vu, at AvTec in Seward, a town a hundred fifty miles from Blewestown with an actual paved and maintained highway connecting the two, a rarity in Alaska. His current proximity to Liam’s new post was another incentive.

She was still smarting from the sale of Nushugak Air Taxi, though. Fifty percent of small businesses failed by their fifth year. Hers had not failed, it had thrived, and she was leaving behind a decade of experience and goodwill to begin cold somewhere else. It was not an attractive prospect.