These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (19 page)

I turn on the ignition and pray out loud, “Dear God, please help me get smarter about life.” Then I step on the gas with too much force, and Mom's car peels out over the icy parking lot, slipping sideways and totally out of control. My heart leaps to my throat as I slide straight toward a lamppost. I shut my eyes, not even daring to breathe until the car comes to a stop inches from the immovable iron. I breathe a prayer of thanks, then glance up to see Ross Goldberg looking down from a tall narrow window that overlooks the parking lot. I offer a feeble wave. Now he can be absolutely certain that he just interviewed a total idiot. I'm sure that cinches it.

uring the weekend I try not to obsess over the fact that I totally blew my chance at a good job. Concerned that he might've told my mom about how I nearly wrecked her car, I ask if she's seen Ross Goldberg lately, but she hasn't. Of course she tells me not to worry. And I tell myself not to worry, reminding myself that I did my best. Sort of. Even so, I know it's useless. I just hope Mr. Goldberg isn't the sort to share stories. It'll be just one more thing to live down.

On Sunday I decide to seek a distraction by going to Gary Frye's church. I feel pretty self-conscious at first, and it doesn't help matters when Gary comes over and greets me like his long-lost friend, then introduces me to everyone he knows. But I also find an old friend in the crowd. Okay,
old friend
might be an exaggeration. I went to school with Bridget Ferrington. We never spoke that much in high school. Mostly I just admired this tall, willowy brunette and wished I were more like her. We were in art together, and she generally kept to herself. Not in a shy way, as I would sometimes do, but in a way that suggested she was just slightly superior to the rest of us. We all knew she'd moved here from New
York, which sounded terribly exotic back then. Anyway, I'm surprised to find her at this church, surprised she's fairly friendly, and surprised she's a Christian, which she makes clear from the get-go.

“You really remember me?” I say after the service ends.

“Of course. Besides me, you were the most talented artist in Mr. Bevies class.” She laughs. “I guess that sounds a bit conceited.”

“But Bridgets a real artist,” says Gary, who seems to be stuck to me like glue now. He turns to me. “Have you seen her stuff?”

I admit that I haven't and learn that Bridgets art is usually available in a small gallery called Blue Pond.

“It has mosdy my nature pieces,” she explains. “My more modern work doesn't do too well in this town.”

“I can understand that.”

“But I have a rep in New York who is kind of a family friend. He gets my work into some East Coast shows.”

“That's so great, Bridget. I'm really impressed. And it's encouraging to see someone who's doing what she really loves—using her gifts. That's so cool.”

“Sort of like me,” kids Gary. “I mow lawns and shovel snow for a living.”

I feel bad now. “But you're kind of an artist too,” I say. “I mean, landscaping is an art, isn't it?”

“That's right,” agrees Bridget. “It's totally an art.”

Gary smiles now. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“How about you, Cassidy?” she asks. “What do you do?”

Without going into much detail, I give her the nutshell version
of my education and work history, and without thinking, I tell her that I applied for a marketing job at Black Bear Butte.

“They could use some marketing help,” she says. “They've put so much into that place, and yet the ski traffic last year was worse than ever.”

“You can't even blame it on the snow,” adds Gary. “We had tons of snow. I remember because I was backed up for plowing most of the time.”

“I probably won't get the job,” I say, wishing I hadn't admitted that I applied. When will I learn to keep my big mouth shut?

“Why not?” asks Bridget.

“Oh, I don't know. Just a feeling.”

“Well, then there will be something better. How about your art?” she asks. “Do you still do it?”

This makes me laugh. “My art?”

“Yes. You were good.”

“Well, thanks. I guess I never took it seriously.”

“So you don't even dabble?”

“Nope. Guess I've been stuck in the corporate world too long.”

“You're not stuck anymore.”

“That's for sure,” says Gary.

“But when it comes to art…” I just shake my head. “Good grief, I wouldn't even know where to begin.”

“Well, maybe marketing provides you a creative outlet,” she says.

I consider this. “Maybe.”

Just then someone calls out to Gary, and Bridget takes the opportunity to quietly ask me if I want to get out of here and get some coffee. “Yes,” I say, trying not to sound too eager. Then I confess my current earless state, and she offers me a ride.

“It's not that I don't like Gary,” she says as we drive away.

“I know,” I admit. “He's a nice guy and all.”

“And as a Christian, I know I should love him…” She giggles. “But sometimes he makes me want to scream.”

“I can't wait to see your art at Blue Pond,” I say. “That's great that you're making it with your art. Very impressive.”

“I'd offer to take you there, but they're closed on Sundays during the off-season.”

We find a quiet table at the coffeehouse, and Bridget tells me about a failed marriage and several messy affairs and how she finally became so desperate that she took her grandmother's advice and cried out for God. “It was so amazing,” she says. “It's like he answered. I don't mean audibly, but suddenly things began to change. I got back into my art and felt like I should move back to Black Bear. It's been about three years now, and I'm extremely happy.”

“Wow, that's so cool.”

“I still have down days, but not like before. It's like I have a purpose now. And I really love this church. I go to a home group on Wednesday nights. You might like it too.”

“Does Gary go?” I know it's terrible. But the idea of being cornered by this guy at a home group is a little scary.

“No, I think he goes to a different one.”

I nod. “Hmm.”

We talk some more, and it occurs to me that of all the people I've gotten reacquainted with in Black Bear, Bridget seems the most interesting. As she drives me home, she tells me about a landscape she's been working on. “It's more like a mural really, and I have no idea what I'll do with it. It's too huge to go in Blue Pond, and because it's more of a Western theme, I can't send it to my rep.” She laughs. “Like I can send it anywhere. For all I know, it may simply be for me. It fills an entire wall of my living room.”

“Sounds cool.”

“It's big anyway.” She's pulling up in front of my mom's house.

“Well, if it's true that size matters…” I pause as I notice the familiar red Jeep in my mom's driveway, with a familiar guy leaning against it.

“Is that Todd Michaels?” she asks as she peers out the window.

“Yeah.”

“Are you dating
hiwR
I mean, it's none of my business, but he is so hot, Cassidy. We're friends and all, but he's never asked me out.”

“No,” I say the words slowly, “I am not dating him.”

“Then why is he here?”

“Well, he's sort of dating my mom.”

“Your mom?” She laughs. “Are you kidding?”

“I wish I were.”

“No way. Your mom?”

“Yes.”

“That's just so kinky.”

“Tell me about it.”

As we sit there gawking at Todd from behind Bridget's tinted windows, my mom comes out the front door.

“Who's that?”

“That's my mom.”

“No way!” Bridget leans over to see better. “I've seen her around town, but I thought she was new to the area. That's really your mom?”

“That's really my mom.” I can feel my cheeks getting flushed now. And it figures that Mom is wearing her tight jeans and a little denim vest with rhinestones on it, plus those silly high-heeled cowboy boots. It's like she thinks she's Britney Spears.

“Wow.”

“She's a cougar,” I say quiedy, almost under my breath, then wish I hadn't.

“What?”

“Sorry, I shouldn't say that.”

“Did you just say she's a cougar?” Bridget is still leaning over and peering at the two of them. Totally oblivious to our presence, they get into Todd's Jeep. “What does that mean?”

“It's just a stupid term for older women who prey on younger men. And to be fair, Todd was the one who originally talked my mom into going out with him. Although she did give him the impression that she was younger.”

“I'll say.” We both watch as the Jeep drives away.

“I just don't know why she's still going out with him,” I say, hearing the longing in my voice.

“Well, I know why. Todd is a hot guy. And your moms not blind. But how old is she anyway? I mean even if she was only seventeen when she had you, she'd still be like forty-some—”

“Try fifty-five,” I say, feeling like a tattletale. “And, as she says, still alive.”

“That's obvious.” She shakes her head. “Wow, fifty-five. I hope I look that good when I'm her age. Not that I'd be a cougar.” She laughs. “Although you never know.

I consider telling Bridget the rest of Mom's story, about how Dad dumped her for a younger woman and how Mom was overweight and frumpy and depressed, but I don't really see the point. Instead, I thank her for the lift and promise to be in touch.

“I'll be praying for you about the job thing,” she tells me as I get out.

“Thanks.”

“And if you don't get it, that only means God has something better in mind for you. Don't forget that!”

I thank her again, then walk up to the house. I know I shouldn't feel like this, but right now I'm exasperated with my mom. I am embarrassed by the way she's acting. So she's going through some kind of a phase. I wish she would get over it and start acting her age!

I try not to fume about my cougar mother as I feed Felix. Why can't she be a regular middle-aged mom—the kind I need right
now? She should be home making cookies, watching the Home Shopping Network, and wanting to know how my life is going. Instead she's running around like a teenager, riding in Todd's Jeep and wearing tight jeans and little T-shirts. It just doesn't seem right.

I begin to wonder if this thing between Todd and her is more serious than I'd thought. I realize that some older women actually marry younger men. Look at Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher. From what I've heard, they're pretty happy. Maybe I need to get used to this.

But when it's after eleven and they're still not back, I actually start to feel angry. I mean, Black Bear is a small town, and it's a Sunday night, for Pete's sake. Absolutely nothing is open at this hour! Well, besides some of the little ski motels. That thought totally grosses me out. I mean, it's one thing for them to date and act ridiculous, but what if they start sleeping together? Would Mom do that? What if Mom wants to invite him to spend the night here sometimes? Maybe she already has. Maybe he'd be here right now if I hadn't moved back home.

Does she feel like I'm intruding on her space? What if I'm the only thing keeping her from doing—well, who knows what? I refuse to think about that. I turn off the lights and stomp off to my room. So what if Mom wants to make a fool of herself and a mess of her life! It's really not my business. I'm not responsible for her. And there's no reason I should wait up for her either. I mean, who is the parent here?

I get ready for bed, scrubbing my face much too vigorously. I
decide she really is a cougar. She's taking advantage of Todd, having her stupid little fling to make her feel young again. That thought makes me feel sick. More than anything, I wish I could get out of here. I need to get back on my feet again. As impossible as it seems, I need to find a place of my own.

Not wanting to see my mom's guilty face, I sleep in the next morning. I heard her tiptoeing up the stairs very late last night. I almost charged out of my room to accuse her—of what? Instead I just fumed and fixmed until I finally fell asleep. And I knew better than to talk to her this morning. I knew I would probably lose it, probably say things I'd regret, probably make her cry again.

By the time I get up, she is long gone. I'm sure she looked cute and perky as she headed off to sell a house or something. I'm also sure that everyone who knows her is well aware of what's going on with her and Todd. Is it possible people make jokes about her behind her back? What if she's the laughingstock of the town?