These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (18 page)

“Well, I don't have a car.”

She looks up at me and frowns. “That's right.” She thinks for a moment. “I suppose I could loan you mine.”

I can't help but grin at the thought of being behind the wheel of that hot litde car. “I'd be super careful with it.”

She nods but doesn't look totally convinced. “Maybe if you get the job, we should look into getting you transportation of your own.”

“Well, if I get the job, I could probably afford a car.”

By the afternoon I have an appointment with Ross on Thursday at two. This motivates me to swallow my pride and head to the fitness center. My short-term goal is to work out every day before this interview, as well as to eat right. I also plan to unpack my working clothes, do some laundry, and visit the dry cleaners, and I might even get my long hair cut into something more stylish and flattering. I'm not exactly ready for that makeover Mom would like me to have, but I plan to do everything I can to spiff up my image. At the moment, it's not terribly impressive.

I wouldn't say that I'm a new woman by Thursday, but I'm off to a pretty good start. With my mom's encouragement and financial backing, I made an appointment with her hairdresser, Crystal. On Tuesday I got my long hair cut into layers that curl softly around my face and stop at my shoulders. Then Crystal highlighted it with auburn, something I've never even considered. But I like it. I saw Emma at the fitness center yesterday, and she said my new do makes my face look thinner. Then, after my haircut, Crystal introduced
me to a “beauty associate,” Gloria, who's the local makeup guru, and I made an appointment with her for the next day. Gloria gave me some basic pointers and sold me some cant-live-without items, which I had to use my Visa to purchase, but I'm sure it's all worth it. The overall effect is quite an improvement. Plus it made my mom happy.

Thursday morning I meet the day with a brand-new optimism. I go to the fitness center as usual, then hurry home to get ready for the interview at Black Bear Butte.

Knowing that Ross Goldberg is a man of discerning taste, I realize I must dress as impeccably as possible. I'm going with businesslike chic. For the chic part, I choose the Valentino boots. The Ralph Lauren tweed suit should do the rest. I realize this combination could be risky because it rendered me jobless last time. But, really, I can't blame these innocent clothes for that. I'm not superstitious.

Even so, I feel anxious as I drive Mom's beautiful car up to the ski resort. My nervousness is partly due to the fact I'm not that great a driver. We had a dusting of snow this morning, and I'm worried the roads may be slick. Consequently I'm driving like a grandma.

Even more than that, I'm nervous about this interview. I'm a litde inexperienced when it comes to interviews. I mean, I haven't interviewed since I got out of college. And then I had only two interviews before I landed my previous job. So when it comes to impressing a potential boss, I feel pretty clueless. On one hand, I
could blow my own horn, but that might make me look like a conceited show-off. On the other hand, I could act teachable and eager to learn everything about the ski-resort biz, but I don't want to come across as ignorant. Finally I decide that a combo might be my best bet.

It also occurs to me that prayer can't hurt. After my little epiphany the other day, when I handed the steering wheel of my life back to God, I realized that I need to stick with it. So I pray. I ask God to open this door if its meant to be open. Otherwise… well, I guess I don't really know what happens then. Its not like I have a backup plan.

When I get to the resort without a single fender bender, I'm impressed with the improvements I see. The Goldberg family really has sunk a bunch of bucks into this place, which looks stunning under its first thin blanket of snow. It's not enough to open the resort but enough to make it picture perfect. I find my way up to the administration area, and Marge, Ross Goldberg's assistant, invites me to wait in the recently redecorated lobby. I sit in a big leather chair that faces a tall rock fireplace. Impressive.

After about twenty minutes, Marge informs me that Mr. Goldberg can see me now. I can feel my palms sweating as I rearrange my bag, a chocolate brown Monsac that Callie gave me for Christmas last year. I thought it was a little old for me then, but now I think it looks rather sophisticated.

“Cassidy,” says Mr. Goldberg, standing behind his desk as he leans forward and extends his hand to shake mine, “good to see
you.” Then he actually seems to look at me—I mean,
really
look at me, almost as if he's surprised at what he
sees.
And he nods with what seems like approval. “You are looking well.”

“Thanks.” I smile.

“Your mom told me you've gone through some hard times lately.”

I nod and bite my tongue. Does the whole town know my history by now? What did Mom tell him about me?

“Have a seat, and let's talk.”

I try to block out all negativity as I sit down, willing myself to forget about what Mom may or may not have said.
Just focus on this interview.
“The resort looks fantastic,” I begin. “I'm so impressed with all the improvements. I hadn't been up here for a couple of years. But it's really coming into its own.”

“Coming into its own?” he echoes with a thoughtful brow. “I like that.” Then he thanks me for sending him my resume prior to our meeting, saying that he's gone over it carefully and that he likes what he's seen.

“Thank you.”

“So tell me, Cassidy, what can you do for Black Bear Butte?”

“I did a litde research,” I tell him. “I saw your Web site and picked up some brochures in town. To be honest, I found them, well, unimpressive.”

He nods and leans forward slighdy. “Yes?”

“And then I come out here and see that this place, for a small ski resort, really is impressive.”

“Its even more impressive when we have real snow.”

I smile. “Yes, I know.” Then I launch into an off-the-cuff plan about how we could cross-promote with local businesses by offering free ski passes combined with a purchase, how we could take advantage of some online opportunities, and how a graphic designer I know in the city would be perfect to create a new logo and some promo materials. “I'm sorry,” I finally say, pausing to catch my breath. “I didn't mean to get carried away.”

“No, I like that,” he says. “That's exactly the kind of enthusiasm I'm looking for.”

“Really?” I shouldn't act so surprised.

He grins. “Yes. And I like that you're from here, Cassidy. You know what Black Bear is all about.”

I laugh. “That's for sure. My sisters and I sort of grew up on the mountain.”

“Do you still ski?”

“I haven't for a couple of years, but everyone knows it's a little like riding a bike.”

“Well, if I hire you, you'll get a free season ticket that I'll expect you to use. Of course, you get a few other benefits too.” Just then his phone rings. He answers it and says he'll be right there.

“Will you excuse me for a couple of minutes?” he says, standing. “Something came up in the mechanics department that needs my immediate attention.”

“Of course,” I say, leaning back into my chair.

“I'll be right back.”

Then he goes, and I'm alone in his swanky office. It really is attractive with its large, lodge-style furnishings, a smaller stone fireplace with a gas fire that's cheerfully burning, and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on the mountain. I notice several manila file folders neatly fanned out on his oversize desk and can't help but wonder if they are for other applicants interested in this job. And, if so, who are they? What are their qualifications? Are theirs more impressive than mine? I glance over my shoulder and see that Marge has left the area too. Then I stand up and casually glance down at the pile of files. Two of the names, both men, are completely unfamiliar, but then I see Suzanne Diessner's name, and I cringe.

Suzanne and I used to work at the same firm in Seatde. We started out in the same department about the same time. Actually, I think I was there a month before her. But she was one of those women who knows how to use “all her assets” to get ahead of the game. Consequently, she quickly climbed the corporate ladder, landing an enviable position above me. I didn't know her that well since she didn't usually give someone like me the time of day. Even so, I tried not to believe every rumor I heard, although I did question her scruples occasionally. Not verbally. But some of the things I saw made me wonder. Then, about a year ago, Suzanne suddenly left the firm. I never heard why. I suppose I could assume she was smart to get out of there before downsizing began. Still, it makes me wonder what she's been doing. And I'm curious why she's looking for a comparatively small-scale job like this now.

I've just flipped open her folder and am viewing an attractive cover sheet, complete with a gorgeous photo of Suzanne, when I hear the sound of a woman loudly clearing her throat. I drop the cover of the folder and turn around. My face is already getting warm.

“Can I get you anything?” asks Marge with highly arched brows. I know she saw me peeking at the folder. I can only imagine what she thinks of me.

“I, uh, no thanks,” I say quickly, suppressing the urge to press my cold hands against what I'm sure are now blazing red cheeks.

“Coffee, tea, water?” she persists. “Mr. Goldberg might be a few more minutes.”

“Sure, some water might be nice,” I say, hoping to get rid of her. “My throat is a little dry.”

“Yes, it can be very dry up here with the altitude and cold weather.” But she just stands there, watching me as if she expects me to steal something. It seems my only hope is to confess.

“I, uh, I noticed the name of someone I know,” I admit, pointing to the folders. “I haven't seen her in about a year, and I was surprised to see her name.

“Ms. Diessner?”

“Yes,” I say eagerly. “Suzanne Diessner and I worked for the same firm in Seattle. I'm sure it's on her resume. And I just couldn't help but, well, be curious, you know, as to how she's doing and all.”

Marge nods with knowing eyes. “She seemed like a nice young lady when she interviewed last week.”

“She's very pretty isn't she?” I say, certain I should be crawling out of here with my tail between my legs.

“Very.”

“And she seemed very good at her work,” I add, somewhat generously, I think.

“Her resume is impressive.”

I know my expression is desperate now. How do I get out of this? Should I just apologize and leave? I am such a fool. “I really wasn't trying to snoop,” I say “It's just that, well, the name was familiar, and I… was curious, and I'm so sorry. I must look terribly unprofessional.”

She nods, but then she smiles slighdy “I'll get your water.”

L seriously consider slipping out of this place while Marge is getting my water, but I'm afraid I'll just run into her or Mr. Goldberg, and then I'll have even more explaining to do. I have no doubt she will tell him of my faux pas. And I have no doubt that it will be a good excuse for him not to hire me. It makes no difference that he and Mom are friends. Except that he may tell Mom why he was forced to disqualify me. You don't hire someone who can't even make it through an interview without embarrassing herself. Besides, why shouldn't he hire Suzanne over me? Even if I hadn't been a snoop and a fool, Suzanne is everything I am not. Of course he'd pick her.

“Here you go,” says Marge, neatly centering a glass of ice water on a coaster made of stone.

“Thank you,” I mutter, feeling like I'm in the principal's office, waiting to be disciplined.

After several more minutes, Mr. Goldberg finally returns. But now he seems a little stiff and formal. I'm guessing that Marge already spilled the beans. Whatever.

“I'm sorry that took so long,” he says without sitting back down in his chair. He just stands there looking at me in a way that I'm sure is meant to indicate that this interview, as well as my chances of being hired, is finished.

I stand too, picking up my purse and glancing at the door. “That's okay.” I force a smile. “I totally understand.”

“Thanks for coming in.” His voice sounds stiffly polite, but I can't read his expression. During the interview he seemed fairly positive and somewhat interested in me. But now he's wearing a poker face. And as he shakes my hand, I have a feeling this is it. Just get me out of here.

“Thank you for considering me,” I say, moving toward the door.

“Someone will get back to you.”

I make a quick exit. I don't even look at Marge or say goodbye. I just want out of here. As I walk across the deserted parking lot to my mom's car, I can't help but replay the whole scene with Marge as well as some of the more stupid things I said during the interview. I know that it's hopeless and the best thing would be to forget about it. But I can't help but relive the whole, horrible thing
again and again. Its like a form of self-torture. I said too much during the interview. You're supposed to hold some things back, but as usual, I let it all hang out. Then to top it off, I get caught red-handed snooping through the competition. How lame can I get? His last words hit me as I get into the car.
Someone will get back to you.
That means Marge will be very polite when she calls. She'll probably say something like, “I'm sorry, Ms. Cantrell, but we've decided to go with someone else.” Probably Suzanne Diessner. And the idea of Suzanne taking the only job in Black Bear that might've been suitable for someone like me makes me want to pull out my hair and scream. And yet I have only myself to blame. When will I learn?