to Nick, “You realize that these people will never agree on anything, don’t you? This festival is going to be a mess no matter how many committees get formed.”
Nick frowned. “I hope you’re wrong about that. It needs to be a success.”
“Why do you care? If I remember correctly, you were never much of a townie, either.”
“What’s good for Broken Yoke is good for the lodge. Every year we lose a few businesses. A few more young people move down to Denver where they can find work doing what they want instead of what their fathers want. It’s a trend I’d like to see stopped, and if a festival can help that, then I’m in favor of it.”
Rafe rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Nick. That’s a tall order. There’s no focus for this thing, no focal point.”
Nick gave him a quick look. “That’s why I threw your name up for publicity chair. If anyone can find a way to make something mediocre sound exciting, it’s you.”
Rafe knew Nick was referring to all the times he’d talked his brother into some harebrained scheme as kids, the girls Rafe had convinced to sneak out of their bedrooms for a clandestine meeting at Lightning Lake. Or the goose bump– producing trips he’d got them to make to the boarded-up Three Bs Social Club, which everyone said was haunted but was still one of the most perfect make-out places in the world.
“It will take more than that,” Rafe said, pursing his lips. “Journalists don’t like to be manipulated. The town wants this thing to make money, but this Bridgeton woman won’t be interested in a festival that’s motivated by greed. She’ll want some charitable or civic angle. They don’t like to feel like puppets for some commercial venture.”
Nick nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point. But the festival isn’t just to line the pockets of every businessman in town. This all started last year because we want to add on to the library, create a kid’s playground at the city park and clean up Lightning River Overlook.”
Worthwhile causes, every one of them. But what kind of spin could Rafe put on it for this newspaper woman to catch her interest? The whole thing was so disorganized at this point. How much money was the city willing to spend? And even if they could get people to come, how could they handle the influx?
He shook his head and laughed. “This is ridiculous. I’m not a PR person. I never have been.”
“What about when you worked for that Crews guy? I got the impression you did some of that for him.”
“I did a lot of things for Wendall Crews for several of his development projects. But I wouldn’t say it was PR work.”
He wasn’t sure what he would have called the years he had worked for Wendall. They’d had an interesting relationship. More mentor and student than anything else.
Shortly after leaving Las Vegas, Rafe had latched on to a job as a river raft guide on the Colorado. Wendall, an overweight and out-of-shape real-estate developer from Los Angeles, had signed up for one of the trips. It was clear none of the other tourists wanted the businessman for their raft partner. He was friendly enough, but clearly, they thought he couldn’t hold up his end of the overnight trip down the river.
They were right; he couldn’t. On the second day, on the next-to-the-last rapid, his raft had gone careening down one of the chutes, and Wendall had gone over the side and into the churning river. Caught in a whirlpool, the guy had sunk like a boat anchor. Rafe had gone in after him, hauling the panicked guy onto some flat rocks, even pumping water out of him before it could do him any serious harm.
Later, everyone had said Rafe had gone beyond the call of duty to save Wendall. At the time, he would have said all he was trying to do was keep from losing a customer on his watch.
But Wendall had been convinced that he would have died without Rafe coming to the rescue. He was so grateful that the next day he’d made Rafe a business offer to come work for him. One no one in their right mind would have refused, especially not an opportunist like Rafe. He’d quit his job and moved to L.A., where he’d worked by Wendall’s side for four years, until last fall when the big guy’s heart had finally done him in.
“You’ll think of something,” Nick reassured him. “You always had the power of persuasion.”
“What am I going to say?” Rafe spread his hands out as though framing a sign. “Come to Broken Yoke’s second annual festival…unless the high-school gym floor is being varnished.”
His father slid forward on his seat so he could catch Rafe’s eye. He looked thunderous. “This is exactly why I didn’t want you for the job. Take it seriously, or resign. We need someone who can appreciate Broken Yoke for what it is, not for how many jokes can be made about it.”
“I’m not going to resign,” Rafe said quietly. His father was getting on that buried nerve that was not quite dead yet. “In fact, I’m going to see this reporter at the paper as soon as possible.”
He could almost see Sam’s back stiffen for battle. “I’m sure you’ll have the woman dancing to your tune in no time. Just make sure it’s legal.”
The insinuation burrowed and found a home under Rafe’s patience. His father’s capacity for being strong- willed and unreasonable really rose to sublime heights at times. Rafe turned a little in his seat, and their anger met head-on. “Do we need to talk, Pop?”
If this was a quarrel at last, then let’s have it.
Nick took his hand off the steering wheel and chopped the air, cutting through the unpleasantness. “I think the two of you have talked enough for now.”
Sam settled back in his seat. “There’s nothing more that needs to be said anyway.”
His mild, colorless voice diluted some of Rafe’s irritation, and the knowledge that they had just made the turn-off to Lightning River Lodge did the rest. Sooner or later he supposed they’d have it out, just like the old days, but not today. Not with the rest of the family waiting for them, and the sky so blue that anything seemed possible. Even peace.
The lodge was busy and noisy. There were several noon checkouts keeping Brandon O’Dell, the front desk manager, busy. He barely managed a wave in their direction before he was pulled back to attend to another guest.
The small dining room was still doing a brisk business, too. As the three D’Angelo men wove their way around the tables toward the kitchen, Aunt Renata looked up from where she was trying to make sense of an Easter decoration she had strung out along one of the banquet tables. Fake green grass lay everywhere. Rafe knew that they would have a full house on Easter for Sunday brunch.
The kitchen had always been the heart of the lodge. Even twelve years ago, Rafe had spent more time here than in any other room in the family’s private quarters, which lay just beyond the double doors. Around the big wooden island table rested so many memories. This was where his father had chaired family council meetings, and his mother had taught all four of her children—Nick, Matt, Rafe and Addy—with gentle persuasion and stern looks.
Every surface in the room was covered with gaily wrapped pieces of candy and more eggs than Rafe had seen in years—all of them in various stages of coloration and preparation. He knew that each one of the lodge’s guests would find a small basket waiting outside their room door on Easter morning. As Nick and Rafe swung through the double doors, with Sam bringing up the rear in his wheelchair, Rose D’Angelo looked up.
“About time you were back,” she told them. “Come eat lunch.”
His mother presided over a quaint collection of copper pots, garlands of herbs and spices, and all the latest gadgets with the command of a general. In Rose D’Angelo’s life, the preparation of food had the same importance as the eating of it, and if you entered her kitchen, you often got drafted into helping out.
She dished up bowls of steaming minestrone from the