Chapter Nine

The evening of the police department Christmas party turned out to be cold and dark—like every other arctic winter night. There are only a few places in Barrow big enough to hold a crowd of over a hundred people, including Hopson Middle School. Nothing like a streamer-strewn school cafeteria to set the mood for a festive occasion.

I baked a pumpkin cheesecake and German chocolate cake for the potluck.

Most of the time, black sweatpants are considered formal attire, but the Christmas party called for fancy duds. Several of the women shopped for months for the perfect outfit and went a tad bit crazy with their ensembles. I wore a knee-length, black, flared skirt with black tights and Mary Janes with a red, V-neck, soft, cashmere sweater. I even took the time to curl my hair and carefully apply makeup instead of slapping it on in a dash like I do most nights when getting ready for work.

Bernadette picked me up. She ran inside and grabbed the cheesecake. As soon as I stepped outside my apartment, a gust of wind blew under my skirt—cheap thrill having -35 degrees blasting up your legs. My hair whipped into my face, slashing my corneas, causing watery eyes and smudged mascara. So much for making an effort.

I maneuvered the five-layer cake through the biting, forty-mile-an-hour wind and over snow embankments. The delicate balancing act of holding the cake in one hand while trying to open the car door with the other proved too much for me to handle. Bernadette reached around me to open the door and saved my parka from being permanently stained with frozen, decadent dessert.

When we arrived, several people were already there setting up tables for the food. The dispatchers and records clerks had worked all afternoon decorating the place, and it looked very festive—especially the six-foot-high silver, metallic tree adorned with purple glass ornaments.

I set the cake on the dessert table and shrugged out of my parka.

“You look nice, Anne,” Bernadette complimented me.

“Thanks, so do you.” She wore black pants and a kelly-green sweater—a color my lily-white complexion would never tolerate. It looked lovely against her dark, olive skin.

I was feeling pretty good about myself until Sylvia and Ambrosia showed up. The All-Nude-Liza-Minnelli-Revue wore more clothes than the Dispatch Doxies. Short skirts and suggestive tops. Sylvia, a busty girl, wore a flowing gray and black blouse. Most women would’ve worn a camisole under it for modesty. Not Sylvia. The V-neck plunged to her navel, and her cleavage worked overtime.

Ambrosia wasn’t blessed with an ample bosom, but took advantage of her slim frame by wearing a skin-tight black leather bustier, tied with red ribbon—for the Christmas spirit, I’m sure.

I’m a sensible woman. I wore a pair of pack boots to the school and changed into my cute shoes once inside. Not the Doxies. They were both sporting four-inch heels and actually walked on the ice with them.

I hated them for no other reason than they could manage that.

They stood by the door and welcomed everyone as they entered. It didn’t take a genius to notice the greetings for the single officers were a little more enthusiastic than the ones for the married and/or female officers. Of course, if a married officer’s wife lived off Slope, he was fair game.

Back in the summer, Ambrosia had a fling with Officer Tice. When his wife moved to Barrow, things got complicated. I don’t care what people do on their free time. Truly, I don’t, but when a wife calls the police department looking for her husband whose shift ended three hours earlier, I’m not going to lie. A couple of the officers got upset with me when I transferred her call to the squad room.

They had to make the excuse for their fellow officer, not me.

Livid, Ambrosia had stormed into the station in the middle of the night to confront me.

“Just because you can’t get laid doesn’t give you the right to destroy other people’s love lives.” She screamed so loudly officers from the squad room came to see what caused the commotion.

“Have some dignity, woman,” I responded—rather self-righteously, I might add.

“Dignity!” She flew around the dispatch console, claws extended, ready for a fight.

Owen caught her before she reached me. “For God’s sake, Ambrosia,” he said as he held her at bay.

“Why are you so upset, anyway?” I asked. “Aren’t you getting it on with Horowitz and the new pilot at Search and Rescue?”

“That’s not the point. Dispatchers need to stick together and you didn’t have my back.”

“Ambrosia, darlin’, there’s a difference between supporting you professionally and condoning mortal sin,” Officer Owen said—surprising us both.

I cracked up.

Ambrosia left the station in a huff.

Several single women worked for the police department—records clerks, administration staff, dispatchers, a few corrections officers and two female cops. The seven-men-to-every-woman statistic for Alaska is accurate, but that applies to the oil fields and the fishing waters of the Bering Sea. The villages and hub communities have an abundance of women and the old Alaska saying about the plethora of men—the odds are good, but the goods are odd—is most evident there.

When the PD hires a single cop, there is cause for celebration...or stalking.

I had my back to the door, arranging the side dishes on a table when I felt the estrogen level in the room rise. Heartbeats increased, and as if by magic everyone’s perfume became more aromatic. The room filled with tension and the hum of hungry-as-a-nanuq vibrations.

Joe had arrived.

He’d been in town for all of two weeks and as far as I knew he hadn’t hooked up with anyone yet. Believe me, I would’ve known if he’d fallen prey to the charms of the many women vying for his attention. Catching the new guy was a competition, and no one would hide the fact they’d had dinner with him. If they’d actually made it to the bedroom with the guy, the strutting and preening would be endless. All the other women would sit around and discuss the sluttiness of the successful seductress.

I turned to watch his entrance.

The Christmas lights paled as every woman in the room turned up their smiles. The poor guy stopped in the doorway and looked around. Clearly, he’d come on his own and was searching for a familiar face. A few women started toward him, but he spied me, smiled and walked in my direction.

I relished the stunned looks on the women’s faces. I always wanted to be the slutty woman they discussed over coffee, but I didn’t have the confidence it took to approach a good looking man—or any man for that matter. I realized I needed years of counseling to address the scars—both mental and physical—caused by Ray, but there was no way I’d talk to anyone about what had happened to me. Medical records could be subpoenaed, which meant no doctors or therapists for me.

Smiling brightly, Joe said, “Hi there, Anne. Long time no see.” He pulled me close and did the whole Italian-kiss-on-both-cheeks thing.

I blushed.

The women in the room glared at me.

“Thanks for the brownies,” Joe whispered. “I can understand a man risking lifetime incarceration for them. Delicious.”

“I’m glad you liked them.” I smiled.

His grin took my breath away and wracked every nerve in my body. His gaze was too powerful. His beautiful, obsidian eyes peered into my soul and I had to look away.

I straightened the items on the dessert table.

“Wow. This is quite the spread. Did you make something?”

“Yeah.” I pointed to the sweets I’d brought, and he flashed another smile.

“German chocolate cake is my favorite.”

The sound of Bernadette clearing her throat resonated over the PA system. Silence filled the room as everyone turned their attention to her.

“I’d like to welcome everyone. It’s good to see so many friends and family here tonight.” She scanned the room and smiled. “A special guest will arrive later tonight. Little ones, you better make sure your parents have you on the nice list.”

The kids wiggled with excitement.

“There’s a lot of yummy-looking food over there. We’re fortunate to have some of the best cooks in Barrow working for the Department. Before we fill our plates, Oliver, will you say the blessing?” Bernadette asked an Elder—the father of a records clerk.

One of the many things you have to appreciate about Barrow is that politically correct doesn’t mean a damn thing. Everyone, regardless of their religious affiliation—or lack thereof—bowed his head. An Elder was speaking. Respect was given.

A hearty “amen” later, the line formed.

Joe touched my lower back to guide me out of the way of the encroaching crowd. The warmth of his hand seeped through my sweater. I inhaled and savored the feeling.

“My things are over there.” I pointed to a table at the far end of the room. “There’s an open space if you want to sit with us.”

“That’d be nice. Thanks.”

Merriment filled the food line. I enjoyed watching Joe interact with everyone. He was witty and dished out as many jokes as he received. A good sense of humor is key to life in the arctic. If you take yourself or your job too seriously, you’ll burn out in less than a year. Life is tough. The isolation and the lack of the usual entertainment opportunities can eat away at a person’s psyche. The high cost of plane tickets, the only way out, coupled with the extreme cold and long, dark winters can lead to severe depression. A funny bone is some people’s only saving grace.

Plates filled and drinks in hand, we walked through the crowd to our table. Bernadette smiled. “So, Joe, how are things going for you? Getting settled?”

“Doing great. Thanks, Chief.”

The dinner conversation covered several topics such as the weather, recent arrests, and the Barrow High School Whalers’ basketball season. Then, as most conversations with Slope residents go, the talk turned to family.

“Joe, do you have family back east?” Bernadette asked.

He nodded.

“Aren’t you missing them? It being Christmas and all?”

“Yep.” We waited for him to elaborate, but instead he looked toward the queue at the dessert table. “Should I make a run for the cake? There’s a mob forming.

Owen stood in front of the table, turned toward me, and yelled across the room, “Hey, Anne, how are we supposed to cut this cake tower?”

“What makes you think I made it?” I asked.

“Duh. It’s five layers.”

Everyone laughed.

I stood. “I’ll bring you some after I cut it.” I asked Joe, “Want anything else?”

He grinned. “One of everything.”

“Bernadette?”

“I like the way Joe thinks. Bring a sampler platter back.”

With the long knife I set on the table next to the cake—assuming someone else would take on the duty of cutting it—I sliced.

Owen stood across from me with his plate ready to catch the first piece as it fell. He instantly dug his fork into the pile of coconut, pecans and chocolate and took a bite. “Oh. My. God.” He shoved his plate forward to get another slice. “Marry me, Anne.”

I blushed and laughed. “You’re a nut.”

“What? You don’t think admiration for a woman’s cooking skills is enough foundation for a happy and fulfilling marriage?”

“Sure, but don’t you think the woman should have some admiration for the man?” I asked and winked.

“Ouch.”

We both laughed.

CRASH. The room fell silent as we tried to figure out what had happened. Then another crash. It came from the roof. The kids jiggled and squirmed. Thumping sounds from the entry could be heard and then a bellowing “Ho. Ho. Ho.” as the red-clad, boisterous, bearded man entered the room.

The kids swarmed him.

Hunched over from the burden of his bag, he walked across the cafeteria and dropped his huge bundle of gifts under the tree.

The bitter cold colored his cheeks a bright red. He straightened the fake beard that had been blown askew by the wind and looked at the kids gathered around him. With a mitten-covered hand he repeated, “Ho,” and pointed to Sylvia.

“Ho.” He pointed toward Ambrosia.

“Ho.” He pointed at Reverend MacKenzie.

The adults howled with laughter.

Once Santa, aka Captain Murphy, handed out all the kids’ gifts, clean up began. In short order, we had the tables and chairs stacked and the floor swept. Folks gathered their food containers and heaped any leftovers they wanted onto paper plates.

After the official party, several folks came to my apartment. I’d made an array of dips and appetizers as well as real eggnog, coffee punch and various desserts. I love cooking, and Christmas is the best time of year to do it. I always made trays of goodies to share with my friends and neighbors.

It was something I learned as a kid, when Mama was still a decent person. She’d make sugar cookies shaped like Santa, reindeer, and Christmas trees and we would frost them with different colored icing and sprinkles. I can remember doing that when I was four years old. By the time I hit sixteen, her descent into screaming-bitch-what’s-in-it-for-me mode was already fast-tracked, and I continued the tradition without her.

In addition to my alcohol-laden punches, folks brought their poison of choice. Drinks flowed freely. Only Joe and I restricted ourselves to non-alcoholic beverages. After her third shot of tequila in an hour, Sylvia decided everyone should dance. Officers pushed the living room furniture against the wall, and Bernadette pulled an iPod out of her purse. Owen used my computer speakers to enhance my Bose docking station and the dancing commenced.

Ambrosia snagged Owen. Sylvia grabbed Captain Murphy and everyone else partnered up. I went into the kitchen to wash up flatware and serving spoons. Nelson and Cash joined me to avoid the raucousness in the living room. I scooped up Nelson with the intention of coming back for Cash, but Joe stepped into the kitchen.

“I’m putting them in the bedroom. They’re freaking out a little bit,” I explained.

“Okay.” He turned to Cash. “Come on, big guy. It’s time for you to go to bed.”

Cash read my thoughts and willingly crawled into Joe’s arms. He flashed me an orange-tabby grin and then nipped Joe’s earlobe.

“Cash, behave.”

Joe laughed and repositioned Cash to restrict ear access.

We pushed our way through the dancers to the bedroom. It was still noisy, but the walls muffled the bass somewhat.

Joe looked around my room. A purple, handmade quilt draped over the bed that was covered with sage-and-lavender silk decorative pillows. Floral prints hung on the walls.

The only thing that would’ve made it more girly was a white canopy and a few teddy bears.

Nothing screams I-haven’t-been-laid-in-years louder than decorative pillows. Five adorned mine—one for each year of celibacy.

He smiled. “Homey.”

Pathetic, is more like it.

We stepped into the living room, and Ambrosia flittered across the floor. The red lacing on her bustier had loosened and revealed even more skin than before. She didn’t bother to hoist or tighten. The precarious perch of the leather left little to the imagination. She grabbed Joe and dragged him to the floor to boogie to a European-techno-beat song.

When Melissa Etheridge’s sultry “My Lover” started playing, Ambrosia released Joe and slithered over to Huffman who had been dancing with Sylvia.

Bernadette came to my side. “For some reason, the guys don’t want to slow dance with the chief. What’s that all about?” She laughed.

“So, Chief,” I asked. “Do you want to dance?”

She gave me a surprised look and said, “Sure.”

While other couples swayed to the slow music, I led Bernadette in a swirling two-step.

By the end of the song, all eyes were on us.

One last twirl, and both Bernadette and I bowed to the applause.

“Wow, Anne. I didn’t know you could dance.” Owen smiled.

I wanted to say—if you’d ever asked me to dance, you would’ve known—but, instead I said, “I have many hidden talents.”

“I’ll say. I call dibs on the next dance.” Captain Murphy reached for my hand, but hesitated when he saw Ambrosia.

Apparently, Ambrosia had called dibs on Huffman because she had him pressed against the wall, and the laces of her bustier had slipped even more.

Bernadette shook her head and said, “Do you have a blanket or something to throw over them? It’s getting a tad bit disgusting.”

“Hosing them down might be more effective,” Joe suggested.

No need. In a great rush, they grabbed their coats. Huffman grinned. Ambrosia smirked at Sylvia. The other cops shook their heads, and Sylvia muttered, “Bitch.”

“Wow. It took her six months to get him to bed. Guys don’t usually last that long,” I said.

“Well, he is engaged, you know?” Murphy pointed out.

“How noble of him.” I snorted in disgust.

Joe gave us a puzzled look. Bernadette shook her head and I grinned.

“Single, engaged, or even married, most cops don’t last a month. The Dispatch Doxies’ skills are legendary.” Bernadette scowled, did a quick assessment of his appearance and winked. “You’ve been here two whole weeks. There’s no way you’ve escaped their advances.”

He chuckled. “Those were advances?”

My heart skipped.

“I thought they were doing a porn version of Punk’d.”

The skip turned to cartwheels and back flips.

As Murphy led me onto the dance floor, I hazarded a glance at Joe. Gorgeous. He propped against the counter with his hands flying about as he entertained Bernadette with a story. She smiled brightly and if I hadn’t known better, I would have suspected her of flirting.

It was two A.M. before the crowd thinned out. By 2:30, only empty bottles, dirty dishes, and Joe and Bernadette remained.

Joe picked up the trash can and walked around the room discarding items.

Bernadette slumped on the couch. “Shoot. I drank too much.” She laughed. “Hey, Anne, you never told me why you were drinking a few weeks ago.” She fluffed a pillow and settled more comfortably. She looked at me as if expecting a story.

“It’s no big deal,” I said. “I’ll tell you later.” I turned my attention to Joe, hoping to distract Bernadette enough that she’d forget her question. I still hadn’t come up with a lie to explain my dance with the demon rum, and I was too tired to think of something convincing on the spot. “You don’t have to do that, Joe.”

“It’s late and you look tired,” he said.

Just what every girl wants to hear at the end of a party—a guy offering to help clean up. As if he’d say: You look tired. Let me take you to bed and massage away your tension with the warmth of my naked body.

I shook my head to clear it of visions of splendor under goose down and said, “Yeah, I am. I figure I’ll take care of it when I get up in the morning.” I looked at my watch. “Make that afternoon.”

He chuckled. “It was a great party. Thanks for inviting me.” He kissed my cheek.

“Goodnight,” I said.

Bernadette sat up. When Joe left, she stood and walked toward me.

“Why’d you ask me to dance?” she asked.

“Because you said none of the officers would slow dance with you,” I explained. “I wanted them to see it was no big deal.”

She stepped closer and touched my hair. Her hand caressed my cheek, and she traced my lips with her fingertips. I could see her heartbeat pulsing at the base of her neck, and I inhaled the exotic, spicy smell of her perfume.

Her hand rested on my collarbone, and she leaned in to kiss me. Her lips were soft. I stood perfectly still, barely breathing.

Frustrated, she plunged her hand into my hair and pulled me closer, urging me with her tongue. For a split second, I capitulated and returned her kiss. Our tongues intertwined. I was surprised to discover that a woman’s tongue felt the same as a man’s against mine. She skimmed her hands down my back and rested them on my hips. Gently, she pulled me against her and whispered, “Anne, please.”

“Bernie, no.” Guilt overwhelmed me. I knew how she felt about me, and I should never have asked her to dance. Returning her kiss was misleading, but damn it, it felt good to be touched. Human contact. A hug. A kiss. Things a person needs to survive.

Things I didn’t deserve if getting them hurt someone—especially someone I held dear.

Bernadette had tried to kiss me several times over the years—one of the reasons we quit being roommates—but this was the first time I ever let my guard down.

“I’m so sorry, Bernie.” I stepped way. “I didn’t mean to lead you on.” Tears stung my eyes. How could I be so cruel?

“Sweet Annie, you didn’t.” She smiled. “I’m just drunk enough to press the issue.” She caressed my face, gave me a quick kiss and hugged me. “We’d be great together, you know?”

A knock on the still-opened door prevented me from answering her question. Joe stood in the threshold with a blank expression on his face. “I don’t know your phone number, so I came over,” he explained.

Bernadette stepped away from me and gathered up her iPod and purse.

“I thought I’d help you with the clean up this afternoon.” He looked at Bernadette and then at me. “Does around two work for you?”

“That’d be great. Thanks.”

Bernadette put on her parka and stepped past Joe. “I’m heading home now,” she said. “I’ll talk to you soon.” She smiled at Joe. “Goodnight.”

He stood in the doorway until the outer door of the apartment complex slammed shut. “She’s not driving, is she?” Then he laughed. “Then again, who’s going to arrest her?”

“No. She only lives a few blocks away. She’ll get her car later today,” I explained.

He stepped into the apartment. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re crying, and it looked like you were breaking up.” He handed me a clean napkin so I could wipe my eyes. “I wasn’t sure if I should turn and go or step in. I hope I didn’t cause any problems between you two.”

“Oh, no. We’re still friends.”

“So, I did interrupt something?”

“Not really. It’s a discussion we have a few times a year.” I looked directly into his eyes and said, “No one knows about this, and no one ever will, understood?”

He nodded. “Understood.”

I looked at my watch. It was three A.M. “Let’s make it four for clean-up, if you don’t mind.”

He chuckled. “See you then.”