These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (27 page)

earching for some kind of painkiller, I go through my mom's downstairs medicine cabinet and find an old prescription of Tylenol 3. It must be left over from when I came home to have my wisdom teeth out a few years ago. Even if it's past the expiration date, I decide to take two. Then I fill a Ziploc bag with ice, wrap it in a dishtowel, and make my way to the sunroom sofa. I unwrap the constricting bandage and situate the ice, then lean back and wait for the pain to go away.

“Cassie?” says my mom from somewhere above me.

I open my eyes, then blink, thinking maybe I'm dreaming as I see Mom holding what seem to be a pair of aluminum crutches and a bouquet of pink roses. “Huh?”

“What's going on?”

Still groggy, I try to remember. “Oh yeah,” I say, pointing to my swollen knee. “I took a tumble on the bunny slope.”

“On the bunny slope?” She looks skeptical.

“It's a long story.”

“Well, I found these on the porch. I'm guessing they must be for you.”

“Will,” I say, suddenly remembering his mercy trip. “I must ve been asleep. What time is it anyway?”

“Its after midnight,” she says.

“Whoa,” I sit up now. “I took two of your Tylenol 3 pills.”

She laughs. “Good grief, that was from Cammie's wisdom teeth. They must be old by now. Did they even work?”

“Apparently.”

“Well, maybe you should sleep down here tonight. Can I get you anything?”

I take advantage of my crippled state, allowing my mom to bring me some water and blankets and pillows. Finally she sets the pink roses, nicely arranged in a vase, on the coffee table before me.

“Thanks, Mom.”

She also sets the bottle of pain medication on the table next to my water. “It says you can take two every four to six hours. And, judging by the size of the swelling, you might need to.”

I thank her again and now feel bad for having been so down on her tonight, at least in my mind. “Did you have a nice evening with Todd?” I ask, hoping that I sound sincere and not patronizing.

She looks surprised. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

I sigh. “Good.”

“And who is this Will fellow? I don't believe I've met him.”

“He's a friend from the city. He just happened to show up when I hurt my knee. He made a run to Ferris, I'm guessing to Wal-Mart, to pick up these crutches.”

“That was nice.” She points to the roses. “Those are nice too.”

“He's a nice guy.

She frowns slighdy. “So what's going on with you and Ross these days?”

“Me and Ross?” I shrug. “As I keep telling everyone, we're friends and co-workers, and that's about it.”

“I wouldn't be so sure, Cassie. Folks in town seem to assume that you guys are an item.”

Now I'm not sure how to react. The tone of her voice sounds slightly disapproving, like she's judging me, and I have no idea why. And it makes me mad. “So do the folks in town assume that you and Todd are an item too?”

She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Well, I just thought you should know, Gassie. I wasn't trying to pick a fight with you.”

“I'm not fighting,” I say defensively.

“It's late,” she says. “Good night.”

I take two more pain pills and wonder about the little exchange between Mom and me just now. Does she feel like we're in some sort of competition? Or is she just being a nosy mother? Or maybe she's still interested in Ross. If that's the case, why is she still going out with Todd? Is it possible she's trying to appear younger, for Ross's benefit, by stringing Todd along in their crazy dating game? And, if that's the case, which seems nuts, doesn't she realize that it only makes her look cheap and slutty?

“She's in the sunroom,” I hear my mother saying as I wake up again.

Who is she talking to? And what time is it? I fumble for my
watch, squinting to read the dial. Its almost nine, but I'm still groggy from those last pain pills I took a couple of hours ago.

“Hey, Cassie,” says Will as he comes into the sunroom with a large brown bag, which looks like it might contain groceries.

I sit up and pull the blanket around me, wondering if I have dried saliva on my chin or maybe eye buggers or bed head or raccoon eyes from smudged mascara. “Will?” I say as if I don't quite remember him. “What are you doing here?”

He grins. “Making you breakfast… if you don't mind.”

“Breakfast?” I shake my head as if I'm trying to grasp the concept of food eaten in the morning.

“Yeah. I figured you wouldn't be up and about yet. I thought I could fix you some breakfast.” He nods over his shoulder. “And your mom too, if that's okay.”

“It's okay by me,” calls my mom in a slightly flirty voice. “I adore a man who cooks.”

He nods. “Cool. I'll just make myself at home then.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say as I swing my legs over the edge of the couch and fumble for the crutches.

“Let me help you adjust those,” he says, coming to my side. “Stand up straight now.” Then he actually puts his hands under my armpits, and I cannot imagine how nasty I must smell since I haven't showered since my tumbling-bear incident. Judging by the dead-animal taste in my mouth, my breath might be fatal. I try not to breathe as he adjusts the height of the crutches, then snaps them into place.

“How's that?”

I nod, worried that I might pass out from lack of oxygen. “Perfect,” I say. Then I try to make my way out of the sunroom. “Look, I can walk,” I call over my shoulder. “Now lets see if I can take a shower.”

“Be careful on those stairs,” calls Mom. Of course she's all dressed, looking cute and perky in her jeans and hoodie. I can only imagine what Will must be thinking—like
This is the mom? Whoa.

“I better help you,” says Will, still behind me.

“I'm okay,” I assure him, thinking I do not want him to see or smell me like this.

“Let's just make sure you get upstairs okay,” he says, his hand gently resting in the small of my back.

It does prove tricky. Will explains how to place the crutches and how to lift my weight, and I do nearly lose my balance a couple of times. “See,” he says when we reach the top. “It takes a little practice. Make sure you yell when you're ready to come back down. Breakfast will be ready in about an hour. Does that work for you?”

“Sounds perfect,” I tell him as I hobble toward my bedroom. Normally it wouldn't take me an hour to shower and dress, but working with my new handicap, I think it just might today. Plus, I figure I need to put some care into my appearance today. It's humiliating enough to have been seen by Will in my current condition, not to mention yesterday's bear routine. I'd like him to see me looking better today.

It does take most of an hour for the transformation, but when
I'm done, I think it was worth it. And when I call down the stairs for Will's assistance, I think he might even appreciate the improvement in my personal hygiene.

“Looking good,” he says as he scampers up the stairs to help me. He gives me some pointers, then goes backward down the stairs ahead of me. I imagine myself tumbling forward, flattening him, and possibly killing us both. But somehow I manage to get all the way down without a hitch.

“Way to go,” he says as we walk toward the kitchen. “You're already a pro at this.”

“Smells good down here,” I say.

“You should see what this guy has put together,” says Mom. “Blintzes and crepes and fresh fruit, and let me tell you, I'm impressed.”

“But it's not your usual high-fiber granola and soy milk,” I remind her in a teasing tone. “However will you manage?”

“Sometimes you have to make sacrifices.”

“Wow,” I say when I see the table all set and looking like a spread for a culinary magazine. “This looks awesome.” I glance at Mom. “Yeah,
some
sacrifice.”

“Will even talked me into pulling out my old coffee maker,” says Mom as we sit down.

“Real
coffee?” I say hopefully.

“Here you go,” says Will as he places a steaming cup in front of me. “Cream?”

“Real
cream?” I gaze up at Will and wonder if I'm falling in love with this guy, or is it simply my stomach doing the thinking?

He laughs. “You sound as if you've been seriously deprived.”

“Oh, I have,” I assure him. “Mom has a strict regimen here. Things like cream and coffee and basically anything that tastes even slighdy good are totally prohibited.”

“Not today,” says Will as he passes the cheese blintzes to me.

“Will tells me he's a professional chef,” says Mom as we eat. “I told him I'd love to hire him to help with Cammies wedding brunch.”

“And I told her I'd love to come, but I seriously doubt I can get New Year's Eve off at the restaurant.”

“Didn't you already hire the caterers?” I ask with a melt-in-your-mouth morsel of crepe still in my mouth.

“Yes, but they won't do anything as good as this.”

“Obviously,” I say, winking at Will.

“I don't usually get to fix brunch,” he explains. “So it's fun for a change.”

“You usually cook Italian then?” asks Mom.

“I do for now.”

“Do you have other plans?” she asks.

“Well, I won't stay at Terrazzo forever, that's for sure.”

“What would you like to do?” I ask, holding a bite of crepe in midair.

He seems to consider this. “Well, my dream used to be to have
my own restaurant someday. Although I see that can be pretty demanding. At least it is at Terrazzo. The owner keeps complaining that he never gets a vacation. So maybe I'd do something different.”

“What would it be?”

“I'm not sure. I'd want it to be something with a wide base of appeal. Not necessarily anything like haute cuisine since that can be a bit trendy, as in here today and gone tomorrow. I love making desserts, but I'm not sure that's enough to make a business out of.”

“Well, there's always room for a good restaurant in Black Bear,” says Mom. “You should consider setting it up here.”

“I wish…” Then he shakes his head. “It'll probably be a few years before I save up enough for the kind of place I'd like to start.” He chuckles. “As if I even know what that would be.”

“Don't wait too long,” says Mom as she helps herself to another blintz. “Our little town might look sleepy, but we're growing fast.”

Will laughs. “Well, that litde grocery store of yours looked pretty sleepy to me. It was a challenge to find the ingredients I needed this morning.”

“I'll bet.” I nod. “I keep telling the manager that the store needs to expand.”

“Everyone's been telling them that for years,” says Mom.

We talk more about our small town's future and what kinds of businesses we'd like to see here. But my knee is starting to throb again, and it seems that Mom is pretty much dominating the conversation, which I'm beginning to resent. Can't she see how ridiculous
she looks, leaning over the table in her too-tight T-shirt that exposes way too much skin as she gives Will those big blue eyes?

“Excuse me,” I say, suddenly standing and reaching for my crutches. “My knee is hurting. I think I'll go find some Advil.”

“What are you going to do about that knee?” asks Will.

“We don't have any emergency medical facilities here in Black Bear,” says my mom, “although we're trying to get something.”

“How about in Ferris?” he asks. “That's a fairly large town.”

“They have a hospital,” I say, thinking I probably don't need to go there.

“Why don't I drive you over?” he suggests.

“Oh, I don't think it's necessary,” I protest. “It's probably just a sprain.”

“The medic said you might have torn some ligaments,” he persists. “Wouldn't you rather take care of it now instead of putting it off until Monday?”

“But it might feel better on Monday,” I say, sounding like a five-year-old.

Will doesn't accept my rationale. So, after cleaning up the brunch things, he insists on driving me to Ferris, where he patiently waits for me to get checked and x-rayed. I feel rather silly when the doctor proclaims my knee to be “most likely a bad sprain.” Like I didrft know that. Still, she writes a new prescription for pain meds, which might be worthwhile, and tells me that my home treatment was just what the doctor would've ordered. “If it doesn't improve or gets worse, you might consider arthroscopic surgery.” Then she
gives me the business card of a sports physician and wraps my knee in a more substantial bandage. “This will support the joint without cutting off your blood supply,” she explains.

I clomp back out to the waiting area and tell Will my less-than-exciting prognosis, apologizing for what was probably a waste of his time, but he insists it was worth it and seems genuinely glad it's not serious. By the time we're back home, he explains that he needs to return to the city now. “I'm working tonight. If I leave now, I should get there just in time.”

“Thanks for everything,” I tell him.

He smiles. “Just consider it my little payback to you for helping me last October.”

I shake my head. “I think I must owe you big time now.”

He hugs me. “Let's not keep score, okay? And take care of that knee. No more Black Bear stunt maneuvers down the mountain.”

“That's for sure.”

I stand by the front window, watching him back out and drive away. For some unexplainable reason, it feels like a small part of my soul is going with him, and I'm actually tearing up. I'm probably just worn out from my knee injury. Still, I wonder if I'll ever see him again. Is this the end of an odd little relationship? All accounts settled? Not that we're keeping score.