Northern Lights

It could mean having their articles picked up by the wire services.
    Well, she was going to make that doctor's appointment for him herself, then nag him into keeping it. They had a hell of a lot to do, what with the Galloway story and their plans to cover the Iditarod. Lord, it was already February, and March first nearly on them. They needed to get started if they were going to get any color on the race before deadline.
    She needed her man in tip-top shape—and she'd remind him of it at the top of her lungs if need be.
    She climbed out of the car with the take-out bag steaming fragrance and already spotted with grease. And shook her head when she saw the faint wash of light from the rear of their storefront operation. Max had fallen asleep at his desk again, she'd bet the bank.
    "Carrie."
    "Hi, Jim." She stopped on the sidewalk to talk to the bartender. "Early for you."
    "Need some supplies." He nodded toward The Corner Store. "Weather's supposed to stay clear, so I thought I'd do a little fishing." He glanced in the paper's window at the light. "Somebody else is starting early."
    "You know Max."
    "Nose for news," he said tapping his own. "Hey, Professor. Time for school?"
    John stopped to make it a trio. "Just about. Thought I'd walk it while I have the chance. Radio said we might break thirty today."
    "Spring's coming," Carrie announced. "And this breakfast is getting cold. I'd better get in and give Max a shove off his desk."
    "Got anything on the Galloway story?" John asked her.
    She dragged out her keys. "If there's anything to get, we'll have it for the next edition. Have a good one."
    After letting herself in, she flipped on the lights. "Max! Rise and shine!" She clamped the take-out bag between her teeth to free her hands. She stripped off her coat, hung it on a peg. She stuffed her gloves in one pocket, her hat in the other.
    As a matter of habit, she finger-fluffed her flattened hair.
    "Max!" she called again, stopping by her desk to turn on her com
    puter. "I got breakfast, though I don't know why I'm so good to you seeing as you've been cranky as a constipated bear lately."
    Setting the bag down, she moved to the coffeemaker and carried the carafe into the bathroom to fill. "Bacon-and-egg sandwiches. I just saw Skinny Jim and The Professor out on the street. Well, I saw The Professor at The Lodge first, finishing up his oatmeal before school. Looks pretty chipper for a change. I wonder if he's thinking, now that Charlene knows her old flame's dead, she's going to settle down with him. Poor slob."
    She started the coffee, then dug out paper plates, napkins, for the sandwiches. Under her breath she was humming "Tiny Dancer," the Elton John number that had been playing on her favorite classic rock station on the drive in.
    "Maxwell Hawbaker, I don't know why I put up with you. If you're going to be sullen and sulky much longer, I'm going hunting for a happier, younger man. See if I don't."
    With a plated sandwich in each hand, she started back to Max's little office. "But before I leave you for my wild, sexual affair with a twentyfive-year-old stud, I'm hauling your dumpy ass to the clinic for . . ."
    She stopped in the doorway, and her limp hands folded out at the wrists. The sandwiches plopped, one-two, onto the floor. Through the roar in her ears, she heard the screaming.
     
     
    NATE HAD HIS SECOND CUP of coffee while he discussed the Lego castle he and Jesse were building as their morning project. He'd had the first at Meg's, and most of his mind was still back there with her.
    She'd be flying north today, delivering supplies, then stopping off at Fairbanks to buy items for the locals here. For her fee of five percent tacked onto the purchase price, they could save themselves the round trip to one of the cities—a choice that wasn't always possible in winter— and have her do the shopping, the transporting and the delivery.
    It was, she'd told him, a small but steady portion of her business.
    He'd gotten a look at her office that morning, too. It was just as bold and stylish as the rest of the place, and set up for comfort and efficiency.
    A sturdy, crate-style desk, a tough-looking black computer with a wide, flat screen. Leather executive chair, he remembered, an oldfashioned freestanding clock and a lot of black-framed, arty pencil sketches on the wall.
    There'd been a huge plant, something that had looked like long, green tongues—in a glossy, red pot, snow-white file cabinets and a starshaped