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But of course I couldn't read Leo's mind or peer into his soul. “Okay,” I said as Oren delivered my lunch order, “I'll back off. I was afraid I'd said or done something to make you mad. This weather makes me cross.”

Leo laughed, a strident and, of late, an unfamiliar sound. “Hell, Emma, isn't it time you got over all that Catholic guilt shit?”

“I don't do guilt,” I snapped. “I don't even understand it. That's what confession's for. Guilt stinks.”

Leo gave a disbelieving shrug. “If you say so. Hey, I've got to get back to work. All things considered, we're pretty fat for this issue. If not a raise, maybe a Christmas bonus?” He had stood up and made as if to cuff my shoulder, but his hand fell away. “See you, babe.”

I ate hurriedly, which is an occupational hazard. I felt just a little furtive, sitting alone in the Venison Inn's bar at midday. Like most of Alpine's buildings, the place wasn't air-conditioned, but it was much cooler than outside. Still, I resisted the urge to linger over a second Pepsi. Without food to accompany the beverage, I might be tempted to buy a pack of cigarettes from the machine next to the rest rooms.

I arrived at St. Mildred's Parochial School just before one-thirty. The main doors were locked, but the office was open. The school secretary's desk was vacant, but before I could wander out into the hall, Veronica Wenzler-Greene called to me from what I presumed was the supply room.

“I'm checking the new textbooks,” said Principal Ronnie, brushing dust from her beige blouse. “We're introducing a new math curriculum for fourth through eighth grade this year. It's very exciting.”

“Wonderful,” I said, trying to exude enthusiasm. In my opinion, math was about as exciting as grout buildup. “Carla's including that in her back-to-school story, I imagine?”

Ronnie nodded with a jerky motion as she led me into
her office. She was a tall, sharp-featured woman in her early forties whose sandy hair was cut close to her head. Her mother had been a housekeeper; her father, a mill-worker. Ronnie's ex-husband, Gerry Greene, was a network technician for US West. The hyphenated name, according to Vida, was the result of a scholarship to Loyola Marymount in Los Angeles. Apparently, the Jesuits had taught Ronnie to think for herself—or like a Jesuit, which may or may not have been the same thing. I wondered why she hadn't lopped off the Greene after lopping off Gerry, but perhaps she thought the hyphen added importance.

“Carla should have most of our plans for the coming year,” Ronnie said, sitting down behind her orderly desk and offering me one of two molded plastic chairs which I assumed had withstood the depressed forms of various sets of anxious parents. “I honestly don't see what more I can tell you.”

My gaze darted around the room, which was decorated with cutouts of autumn leaves, photographs of previous graduating classes, Ronnie's framed doctorate from Washington State University, a picture of her with the current archbishop, a crucifix, and a statue of Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

“I'm interested in the school-board vote,” I said. “I understand the need to add members because three isn't really representative.” Noting Ronnie's quizzical expression, I went on quickly. “That is, with a hundred and forty-some children enrolled, you'll have a better cross section with five members, right?”

Ronnie nodded sagely. “That's our hope. It should have been changed years ago. I've been lobbying the parish council ever since I became principal. Having been away from Alpine for so long, I'd forgotten how hidebound people can be in small towns. Luckily we have some new blood, and there will be more when the
community-college faculty is in place. I hear they're about to appoint a president.”

That was more than I'd heard. Silently I cursed Carla. If the rumor had reached her, she hadn't confided in me. Feigning knowledge, I moved on to the matter at hand. “What do you hope to accomplish with the additional membership?”

Ronnie rolled to one side and then the other in her padded swivel chair. “Excellence, of course. Education for the twenty-first century. Graduates who can compete on the highest level for college scholarships. A love of learning that will sustain our students throughout their lives.”

In other words, by eighth grade, they'll stop wetting their pants, I thought to myself. As the mother of a fourth- or fifth- or whatever-year college student Adam might be by now, I had no illusions. “Immediate goals?” I queried, trying desperately to look interested.

“Well.” Ronnie placed a long, thin hand against her high forehead. “The curriculum, of course. We're already addressing math. But science is a priority. And computer technology. The equipment we have now is obsolete. The school got it through one of the timber companies before I arrived. It's strictly Dark Ages, not at all what our students need to get a sense of the real world. My dream is to hire someone who can write grant proposals. Greer Fairfax has volunteered, but…” The thin hands sketched an arc.

“Math, science …” I ticked off on my own ordinary fingers. “What about history, geography, English, and … religion?”

“History.” Ronnie seemed amused by the concept. “My feeling as an educator is that cultures are far more important. Geography—if you want to use that outmoded term—is factored into ethnicity. English is important, of course, but traditional reading and writing teaching methods are—to be frank—worthless. Again, I feel that
we can give students a richer understanding of the world around them through books and writing assignments that are of a more global nature.”

In my head, I tried to translate the principal's rationale. Instead of Dick and Jane and Sally, it sounded as if first graders were going to get a dose of M'Bawa and Abdul and Yu Ling. Maybe that wasn't all bad. “But what about religion?” I persisted.

The patronizing smile that Ronnie bestowed on me would have rankled a more sensitive soul. “Social issues, that's the wave of the future. What is religion, but the cornerstone of organized interpersonal behavior and relationships?”

I was dumbfounded. “I thought it was more … spiritual,” I said, unable to keep from glancing at Our Lady of Mount Carmel. The plaster statue looked ticked off, but no doubt I was letting my imagination get the best of me.

I felt myself shrinking in the plastic chair, getting smaller and more insignificant by the moment. No doubt countless parents sitting in my place had felt the same way. “What about preparing them for the sacraments?” I tried not to cringe as I awaited the principal's response.

But Ronnie surprised me. “Absolutely,” she asserted. “First penance and the Eucharist are still important.” She continued speaking, apparently oblivious to my expression of qualified relief. “They symbolize the Church's involvement in humanity.”

They symbolized a lot more to me, but perhaps this wasn't the time to say so. Somewhere along the line, my original intention of letting Ronnie offset Ursula Randall's abrasive remarks had been lost in a sea of educational hyperbole. Desperately I tried to salvage something from the interview.

“Are you saying that Catholics should work with the rest of the community?” The question sounded half-assed at best.

Again, Ronnie nodded in that sage manner that was
beginning to annoy me. “Definitely. We need to teach our children so that they lose a sense of self without losing self-esteem. It's tricky, of course. But statistically, Catholic-educated students are going to become America's leaders. The public schools are finished. It won't be long before they can't produce pupils who can survive higher education. The graduate programs in particular will be filled with privately taught students. Obviously most of them will be the products of Catholic schools. Everyone else will— alas—fall by the wayside.”

“So,” I said in a faint voice, “you expect from the expanded school board … what?”

“To uphold our mission statement,” Ronnie replied without hesitation. “Actually I'm drafting a new one. It should be ready by the time the votes are in on the new members.”

“And what is the gist of it?” The small office had grown very warm. If Our Lady of Mount Carmel wasn't breaking a sweat, I certainly was.

“Basically the goals I've already outlined.” Ronnie picked up a ballpoint pen and tapped at the blotter on her desk. “However, the long-term objective is to give the school more input in financial matters. Virtually all of St. Mildred's finances are now in the hands of the pastor, with occasional advice from the parish council. That simply won't do as we head for the twenty-first century.”

Heading for the door was what I had in mind. I stood up and forced a thin smile. “Is Father Kelly helping you formulate the new mission statement?” I asked.

Ronnie raised her unplucked eyebrows and regarded me as if I'd asked whether a fox was going to baby-sit the henhouse. “The pastor prefers not to get too deeply involved in the school. After all, he hasn't had much experience in elementary education.”

It was useless to point out that Dennis Kelly had taught in a seminary before his appointment to St. Mildred's. Indeed, I had the impression that it was useless to argue
any point with Veronica Wenzler-Greene. Her agenda was clear. She was empire building. St. Mildred's Parochial School was her territory. Ronnie ruled.

And in all the conversation about Catholic education, one thing had been missing: neither of us had mentioned God.

God help us.

“I flunked,” I declared upon entering the news office. “Ronnie is just as bad as Ursula Randall, except in a different way.”

Vida and Leo both looked up; Carla wasn't at her desk.

“Oh, dear,” Vida said.

“Shit,” Leo remarked.

“Watch your language,” Vida snapped, then turned back to me. “Perhaps we have a second chance. Ursula wants to see you.”

The low, slanting roof of
The Advocate
tends to trap the heat. I felt the perspiration dripping down my back. I also felt my hackles rising. “So? When is she coming in?”

“She's not.” Vida wiggled her eyebrows. “She would like you to drop by around three. She promised lemonade.”

“Damn!” I whirled around, childishly throwing my purse against Carla's desk. “What is this, a command performance?”

“So it appears.” Vida's expression was bland. “Ginny tried to explain that Ursula ought to come down to the office. But Ursula doesn't seem to care for suggestions.”

“Okay, okay.” I sighed, retrieving my purse. “I'll go see the wretched bitch.” Catching Vida's sharp look of disapproval, I waved a dismissive hand. “Sorry. This isn't a good day. How do I find her house in The Pines?”

Vida gave me explicit directions. Fifteen minutes later, after checking my phone messages, I drove off to the development of upscale homes between the mall and the
ski lodge. The house that Ursula had purchased was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and bore about as much resemblance to French Provincial architecture as a dandelion does to a daisy. Still, it was handsome by Alpine standards, and there was evidence of recent expensive landscaping in the ornamental evergreens and late-summer flowers.

The interior, however, was more imposing. It appeared that Ursula had moved her furnishings lock, stock, and baroque from her previous home in Seattle. The large living room was filled with antiques, mostly from the seventeenth century, ornate, overdone, and oppressive. The angels that adorned each side of the white brick fireplace could have come from an Austrian church.

“What do you think?” Ursula asked, sinking onto a stark white sofa. “My brothers are aghast.” She laughed in her husky, almost hoarse manner.

“Jake and Buzzy?” I said, not merely stalling for time, but somehow unable to comprehend that Ursula was also an O'Toole. For all their flaws, both men seemed firmly rooted in the rocky soil of Alpine.

“Ostentatious, that's what Jake calls it,” Ursula said with amusement. “For once, he used the right word. Why on earth does he think that a large vocabulary makes him important? The Grocery Basket is rather successful—or so I understand.”

I thought so, too. Despite Safeway's arrival in Alpine a few years back, Jake and Betsy O'Toole seemed to be doing well. Buzzy, of course, was another matter. But that wasn't why I had driven up to The Pines.

“You've certainly settled in,” I remarked, thinking that the only thing that was missing in the overdecorated room was a giant pipe organ. “Does it feel good to be back in Alpine?”

Ursula's carefully made-up face turned thoughtful. “Well … yes. They say you can't go home again, but
that's nonsense. You can if you want to. You can do anything if you want to.” Her green eyes were hard.

“And Warren?” I asked innocently. “Is he glad to be back?”

“Thrilled.” Ursula suddenly swiveled on the sofa. “Lemonade! Let me fetch you a big glass.” She rose, a surprisingly self-conscious figure in a sheer sleeveless tangerine outfit that had probably cost at least three hundred dollars. It was a shame that Ursula and Francine were at odds. The newcomer would otherwise be an excellent customer at the apparel shop.

Ursula went behind a marble-fronted bar at the far end of the room. It looked vaguely like an altar. She mixed and stirred and dispensed ice with all the formality of a priest conducting the liturgy. Producing two tall cut glasses, she served me, then resettled herself on the sofa.

“Now, where were we?” she said with a tight little smile.

“I was asking about Warren….”

“Ah!” Ursula reached into a gilt-edged box and withdrew a cigarette. “But that's not the real reason you're here, is it?” She gestured with the unlighted cigarette. “Wouldyou…?”

I would, but restrained myself. “I'm trying to quit. Again.”

“Bravo.” My hostess took a deep pull on her lemonade, then flicked at the cigarette with a heavy gold lighter. “You want to hear my announcement, isn't that so?”

“Your announcement?” I echoed in a faint voice.

Ursula exhaled a pale blue cloud of smoke. “Yes.” She paused for dramatic effect. “I'm running for the school board. It's the least I can do.”

“Oh.” If not surprised, I sensed that Ursula felt I should be impressed. I was neither. “That makes three candidates so far. Do you have a platform?”

If Ursula was disappointed by my reaction, she didn't
let it show. “Naturally.” Tipping her head back, she gazed up into the rafters of the open ceiling. “It's a very simple one. Traditional Catholic values. I'm sick of these liberal lunatics trying to turn the Church into their private little playground.”