Too Much at Stake (2 page)

"Do I really look like an elephant after all the work I have done losing weight?" Pat whispered under her breath. The group moved on.

Over the past two hours, since Pat was drafted from the food crew into the tent-raising business, she had learned a lot about setting up the tent, and her respect for the dedication of those who worked with the Chautauqua tent show rose considerably. She had been handed work gloves, given a crash course on building a show tent, and sternly advised not to get in the way of the tractor or the machines putting up the huge center poles. In an ideal world, Pat decided, bringing the tuna hot dish and fresh rolls from the Ashland Baking Company Bakery, and helping inside would have been enough.

"Hi, Pat," a voice called from the chalet. "Haven't seen you lately in the Black Cat."

"Hello, Honore. Sure was nice of you to bring out all those muffins," Pat responded. "Would it be too selfish of me to hope you brought coffee, too?" Pat and Honore had become friends the year before when Joe Abramov, a regular at the coffee house was murdered.

"Couldn't have the tent-raising without good coffee," Honore agreed. "I don't guarantee that it won't be gone before lunch, though. Are you working outside this year?"

Pat nodded, shivering slightly. "Yes, but surprisingly, I'm actually enjoying the work."

Well, I'll try to save you a cup for morning break. How's that?" Smiling, Honore went inside the chalet.

Pat certainly wouldn't have enjoyed exercise a year earlier, when she had arrived in Ashland. She had been tired, overweight, and out of shape. But for the last six months, she and Deb had joined Curves, their local gym.
Darned if it hasn't helped,
Pat reflected. Although truth be known, Pat still wasn't above stealing a bite from a great cookie or two.

"Holy crap! Look out!" came an exasperated shout.

Pat looked up the hill to see a pipe rolling down toward her. She jumped out of the way just in time.

"Sorry!" Deb yelled sheepishly, sliding in her wet boots as she ran to stop the pipe—and landed on her rear end in the mud. "Here! Help me up, and let's get this one to the guys. It's the last one," she said, laughing at herself and reaching out a hand to her friend.

Pat felt the little muscles in the small of her back tighten as she bent down to pick up the pipe, but she braced herself, knees bent, and reached out. All the working out had

helped build up her muscles around her joints.
Not bad,
Pat thought.
Still, that big 6-0 is coming up. I need to be careful.
She never wanted to be in the position again of not being able to climb a set of stairs.

What the—?
Pat thought, as she and Deb both fell down together laughing. They stood up and tried to wipe themselves off with their work gloves.

"Isn't this fun?" Deb called from her end of the pipe. "Next, we get out the rest of the canvases, and a new magical world appears. Aren't you glad you came?" Her bubbly good nature couldn't be kept down by inclement weather and a roll in the mud.

So much for slipping into the nice warm chalet for a cup of coffee,
Pat thought, smiling at her friend and seeing the excitement in Deb's eyes.
Besides, those great muffins Honore brought might be all gone by the time we take a break.

"Need some help over here!" came a call. Laying down the last pipe, the women watched as up and down the hill, a dozen or so volunteers trudged toward the barn to load canvases. When the work was finished, they would be the largest summer tent show in the United States. The canvases were stacked on a large flatbed pulled by an old John Deere tractor.

"What's holding up those canvases?" bellowed a young man in his twenties. His shout startled Deb, causing her to slip once more. "Oops, sorry, Deb!" he said, reaching out a large, firm hand to stop Deb's fall. He had a chiseled face and a lean, strong body that only the young can have. He pushed back his cowboy hat securely on his head, revealing red hair. "Didn't mean to scare you, but it looks like you've made friends with the mud already. Phil Anich is getting ornerier than a she-bear in spring down there." His voice had just a little eastern Canadian lilt. "I s'pose he feels hyper-responsible just because he's the operations manager. And now there's extra pressure—the wind and rainy weather didn't allow us to do this yesterday."

Pat looked curiously at the handsome young man. His hat was a Stinson, she noted, and it had a plastic rain stretcher over it to keep it dry.
That's the only thing that's dry on him,
she thought wryly as she looked at his muddy jeans and cowboy boots.

Deb nudged Pat who, lost in thought, almost fell in the mud again.

"Hey, watch what you're doing, will ya?" Pat reacted.

"That handsome lad you're staring at is Forrest Johnson," Deb whispered. "He's the best homegrown talent that the ski hill and surrounding North Woods has produced in years. Rumor has it that he wants to be a singer like his dad. The talent seems to ooze out of his ears. He can do it all: sing, dance, play the piano, or strum banjo, guitar, or mandolin—everything, that is, except for the fiddle."

Pat turned toward Deb and raised an eyebrow. "Why not the fiddle? Isn't it in his blood?"

Deb nodded her head knowingly. "Funny thing about the fiddle. His mother, Linda, signed him up early for fiddle lessons at the local music school, but Forrest railed against it from the beginning. He stubbornly refused to submit to the strenuous practice schedule—that's a requirement for the young Suzuki students—and insisted he wanted to play the guitar. His mother was so disappointed."

"Like father,
not
like son, you mean?" Pat countered as she moved another batch of stakes. "Why don't our kids ever do what we want, anyway?"

"The eternal question," Deb agreed. "Forrest grew up in the shadow of the Big Top, living in the A-frame at the base of the ski hill on Mount Ashwabay. Their home is just a few hundred yards from the backstage flap on the Tent and a stone's throw from the storage barns where all the show equipment is stored each fall during the second week of September. Didn't I tell you she manages the grounds and property? Quite a woman."

"There seem to be a lot of independent women in these parts," Pat said.

"She's been the caretaker of the ski hill grounds for twenty-three years." Deb smiled pensively. "During the long winters, when the only neighbors are deer, fox, raccoons, porcupines, and rabbits, her cozy home stands sentry in the woods."

"Must be lonely out here when the Tent is done for the season," Pat said.

"Not really," Deb continued, as she dragged more stakes to the next spot designated for a pole. "The ski hill is small but pretty busy. Forrest is a darn good skier, too. Never really got into competition, though. Guess he was too busy helping his mom—it was just the two of them, you know. Still, Linda made sure that her son benefited from the best things that a boyhood in the northern Wisconsin woods offers: affinity with nature and isolation from big-city pressures. That was her thought when she made the difficult decision to keep her child and raise him, single-handedly, in the woods, rather than move to Kansas City to live near her family." Deb sighed. "Forrest has other ideas, though. Kids grow up, and they want to spread their wings."

Pat wasn't listening but was busy with the task at hand. "Deb, how many of these stakes go in each spot again?" Pat brushed away the water that was dripping down her hat into her face.

"Four at each."

"Hey, ladies, we need stakes over here, now!" someone shouted from the other side of the massive tent-in-progress morphing before their eyes.

"When did we become ladies?" grumbled Pat as she picked up more iron stakes and took them to the men who were struggling with the wind and canvas.
When we were young, "ladies" always had "old" in front of it. Is that what I am?
"Boy, if it gets any windier, you guys are going to lift off."

"If it gets any windier, we'll stop for the day. Too dangerous," Phil Anich replied.

Pat wondered if it would be a sin if she prayed for a bit more wind, just so they could stop. No, she decided,
not a good idea. Besides, when were my prayers so powerful anyway?
She turned back to Deb, as if they hadn't been interrupted. "So does Forrest get to see his dad much?"

"Some. He only saw his father every couple years when he was growing up—once a year if he was lucky," Deb responded. "Of course, when Monty's group made its annual pilgrimage to perform their fiddling magic on the Big Top stage, he always scheduled a visit for a few weeks with Forrest at the same time. Forrest grew up not knowing that real dads did anything different. Still, the house show band members took him under their wings and shepherded him into manhood and into the musical world. One big happy family. But like I said, Forrest is like a young eaglet ready to take flight. And his dad, Mac ... well, Mac is Mac."

"What? Are you saying his dad is Mac? Monty McIntyre from Monty and the Canadian Fiddlers?" The two women sighed at exactly the same time—they were two moms whose children had already left home.
Is any group ever "one big happy family"?
Pat wondered.
For that matter, was there ever a family that was? There's probably more to this story than I will ever know.

"Keep it moving, ladies," Forrest said as he walked alongside Deb and Pat. He good-naturedly nudged Deb with his elbow. "We've got to get this tent up today."

"Rain's holding us up. Phil knows that," Deb reassured him. "He's in charge and he's eager for the new season to begin."

"I am, too," the young man admitted. "Ed's going to let me sing with the house band."

"The Blue Canvas Orchestra?" Deb asked.

"Yup. The one and only. Ed and Cheryl sure have added some punch to that band in the last few years," Forrest replied enthusiastically. "It doesn't hurt that he's my godfather."

"Well, then, let's get this big gorgeous blue lady up, because we can't wait to hear that," Pat said, patting him on the shoulder. They came to the large doors on the barn just as the largest canvas tent rolls were put on the trailer.

"Looks like they have enough help with that one," Pat said, pulling at her friend's arm to urge her farther into the dry old storage barn.
I've had enough rain and mud,
Pat thought. "Let's see if we can pull some of these smaller rolls closer to the door for them."

"Okay. We can wait here until Phil tells us which roll to take next."

"Good idea," Pat agreed. "By the way, have you seen Mitch and Marc yet? Those dirty dogs were supposed to be here an hour ago."
I wonder if Mitch is looking for his jacket,
Pat thought idly.

"Oh, they're here, all right," Deb assured her. "Marc was helping to tie knots, and Mitch was helping to move the bleachers in place. He'll be sore tomorrow." They laughed together at their middle-aged husbands as only old friends could.