know what will catch people’s interest. How to massage the media to get the best coverage.”
Someone laughed. “Way I hear it, you were always good at massages, Rafe.”
“This is a serious discussion,” Howard Hackett complained, and Rafe tried to remember if the man had a daughter. Truthfully, he couldn’t recall many of the local girls he’d romanced and left behind.
“I know how to handle the press,” Rafe acknowledged. “If you want me to do this, I will. Otherwise, I’m perfectly happy going about my own business.”
“I nominate Rafe D’Angelo for publicity chairman,” Nick said quickly. “All those in favor say aye.”
There was a surprisingly supportive vote of confidence in favor of the motion. There were no opposing votes, though Rafe suspected his father’s silence cost him dearly. He could tell from the older man’s posture in his chair that he wasn’t liking this turn of events. Not liking it at all.
A short time later, the meeting broke up. Rafe was trapped in a round of congratulatory handshakes and slaps on the back, so that he couldn’t immediately join his father and brother on the sidewalk in front of the Silver Saddle. Calloway, Hackett and Swinburne, who he’d already begun to think of as the Unholy Trio, cornered him with promises to be in touch soon.
When he finally emerged from the bar, he found his father and Nick waiting near the lodge’s van in the weak sunshine. From the matching set of their hardened jaws, Rafe could tell there had been harsh words exchanged. He could make a safe bet on the topic.
He decided to ignore the ice forming between them. Before Rafe and his father were through with one another, he suspected there were going to be plenty more worthwhile arguments between them. He didn’t need to run interference for Nick, who had always been able to take care of himself.
He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, wishing he’d remembered to bring gloves. Easter might be right around the corner, but there was still snow on the mountaintops and the air was chilly.
Yanking his collar up, he said, “I’d forgotten how cold it can be up here, even in spring.”
His father’s expression was a mixture of annoyance and something more petulant. “Easy to forget,” he snapped, “when you don’t come back to a place for twelve years.” He banged on the side of the van near the sliding door and looked at Nick. “We gonna stand around talking all day so I can freeze to death, or can we go home now?”
Nick just grinned and shook his head, and in no time he had helped Sam to the backseat and stowed the wheelchair in the cargo hold. As Rafe closed the back doors, he nudged Nick’s arm to grab his attention.
“Why did you do it?” he asked in a low voice so that Sam couldn’t hear. “You know you just made the old man mad.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“I’m serious. One son on his hit list is more than enough.”
Nick shrugged. “The way I figure it, you’ll never get off his list if you don’t throw yourself into what matters to this family. Pop’s right about one thing, Rafe. Your home has to be more than just an address. Whatever you have planned for a future here, it will work better if you make your family a part of it.”
“I’m not used to involving other people in my business. My private life stays private.”
“Then you made a mistake coming back. Trust me, there’s very little in this family that isn’t a group effort. Whether you like it or not.”
There was a muffled rap on one of the side windows. Pop, trying to hurry them along.
They wove up the winding mountain road in silence. The sky was cloudless, a bright, clear, uncomplicated blue that the postcard companies must love. Every so often, Sam sighed heavily from the backseat, but neither Rafe nor Nick remarked on it.
When the quiet reached an uncomfortable level, Rafe looked over at his brother. “So how’s the local rag of a paper? Is it still only fit for lining the bottom of a birdcage? I suppose if I’m going to drum up interest in this festival thing, I should start there.”
“We have a new person in from Denver working the area,” Nick replied. He shrugged. “We do all right. Nothing much earth-shattering to write about around here.”
Rafe couldn’t help a derisive laugh. “Oh, how well I remember that. A night on the town around here takes about ten minutes.”
“You would know,” his father commented from the back-seat.
There was another long, ugly moment of silence. Rafe stopped the impulse to turn in his seat to look at Sam. Don’t say anything. Don’t feed the temptation to strike back. You open that dialogue, and there’s no telling where it will go.
He took a couple of calming breaths. “So this reporter… what’s he like?”
Nick tossed him a grin. “She. Danielle Bridgeton. And from what I’ve heard around town, she’s not all that excited about being stuck up here. But I’m sure you can win her over. It’s part of the reason I suggested you. The old Rafe D’Angelo charm might come in handy.”
Sam muttered something under his breath.
Since he’d been gone, Rafe had become quite an expert in a lot of things. He knew how to break a horse, how to spot a cheat at the blackjack table, how to survive thirty days on a week’s worth of rations. He had learned patience and the art of compromise. So how could his father get to him?
He can’t. Not if you don’t let him.
Ignoring the annoyed, grumbling sound from the back of the van, Rafe said 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
