These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (31 page)

“Do you think less of me now?”

I shake my head. “No, I actually respect you even more for telling me.”

“No one really knows about it. I trust that you'll respect that.”

“Of course. You can trust me.”

We dance to a couple more songs, and I try to figure out what his confession means. Is he trying to get closer to me—or push me away? I'm not sure that it matters. I decide I will receive it at face value. I will receive it as the friend I continue to tell him and everyone else that I am.

The newlyweds slip away before midnight, but the rest of us stick around to see the New Year in. And when midnight strikes, I'm not that surprised that Ross kisses me. This time on the lips. Just because I'm curious, I kiss him back.

There are no fireworks. Despite the party poppers exploding and bells ringing and horns blowing, all is quiet inside me. I know without a doubt that Ross is not the one.

“You seem sad,” he says as he drives me home.

“I guess I'm sort of tired and confused,” I admit.

“Was I wrong to kiss you?” he asks as he pulls in front of Mom's house.

“No, not really.” I turn and face him now, telling myself that it's time to act like a grownup. No games. No stringing this out for the sake of egos—not his or mine. Even if it puts my job in jeopardy,
I need to be honest and clear. “I think I needed you to kiss me tonight,” I say slowly. “I think it helped to settle what I sort of already knew.”

“That we should only be friends?”

I nod, hopeful. “Yes. Is that what you felt too?”

“I wasnt sure, but it crossed my mind tonight. I have felt an attraction to you, Cassidy. I have for some time now.” He actually smiles. “It gave me hope. I thought maybe I was ready to get back into the dating game, that maybe I could get serious about a woman again.”

“And you can,” I tell him. “It just won't be me.”

He nods. “I can respect that.”

“Do I still have a job?”

He laughs now. “Of course. I'm not about to let my best marketing woman go.”

Suddenly I remember something Bridget said last week. “I probably shouldn't even say this, Ross.

“Yes?”

“Well, I happen to know someone who thinks you're quite a guy-”

“Not your mom?”

I laugh. “No. Although I think she and Todd might be cooling it.”

“Who then?”

“Bridget Ferrington.”

He looks surprised. “Are you serious?”

“Totally. She's made it clear to me that she'd like to get to know you better. She thinks you're pretty cool. Probably even cooler after you bought her mural.”

“Really?”

Okay, I can see the wheels turning in his head now. So much so that I almost feel jealous. But not quite.

“You should give her a call.”

“Really? Bridget is interested in an old dude like me?”

“Hey, Bridget is the same age as me,” I remind him.

“I know.” He nods. “But you're mature for your age, Cassie.”

“I hope that's a compliment.”

It IS.

“Well, why don't you call Bridget then? Tell her you guys have my stamp of approval—not that you need it.”

“Thanks, Cassie. I'll give that some serious consideration.”

“See you on Monday.”

“And Happy New Year!”

“Yeah, that's right. Happy New Year to you too.”

y the middle of January, Bridget and Ross have become a fairly serious item in this town. Of course, everyone assumes this is because Ross dumped me for her. Although it hurts my pride more than I care to admit, I'm so relieved to be out of the uncertainty of the relationship that I don't really mind. Sometimes, just to throw the gossipers off, we all three have dinner together and really yuk it up.

“I'll bet they think I'm dating both of you,” Ross said the other night.

“I'm really not into that kind of thing,” I tell him.

“Me neither,” says Bridget, turning her nose up.

As this chilly January wears on, loneliness sets in, and I almost resent having given up Ross. Okay, I realize that's incredibly immature, not to mention selfish, but it's the sad and embarrassing truth. It was nice having someone to go to dinner with, someone who treated me special. And, although Mom and Todd are history, she's now dating Mike Reynolds, a respectable widower who owns the newspaper.

Business at the lodge remains consistent, and the snow is still
better than average, but even so I keep getting this feeling that my usefulness at Black Bear Butte is wearing thin. There are only so many things you can do to a marketing campaign once it's solidly launched. Especially when the season is halfway through. I even mention this concern to Ross, but he doesn't agree with me. He assures me there's still much to be done. But I worry that he might be keeping me on as a charity case.

Then one afternoon in early February, shordy after I get home and kick off my shoes and put up my feet, Will calls. I can feel my heart flutter just to hear his voice. But I'm worried that he sounds a little sad or maybe very serious.

“My dad passed away last week,” he eventually tells me. “The funeral was today, and I guess I'm a little blue.” I'm so sorry.

“We knew it was coming. He got lots worse during the holidays. I actually moved back home shordy after Christmas, just to help out. He went downhill quickly, and it was pretty overwhelming for my mom. My parents were fairly old when they finally had me, and I'm an only child.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Yeah. My mom's a lot older than your mom. She's in her seventies and pretty worn out from everything.”

“It's great that you can be there for her—and were there for your dad before he passed on.”

“Yeah, I'm glad I came. It gave my dad and me a chance to talk. At least at first, when he was well enough. But the past couple of
weeks have been pretty quiet. He was mostly knocked out by the pain medication. He wanted to have his final days at home.”

“But he went peacefully?”

“Yeah, he really did.”

“So did you quit your job at Terrazzo de Giordano?”

“Oh, they told me it was mine if I came back. But I gave up the apartment in the city” He sighs. “Our apartment.”

This actually makes me laugh. “Well, it's not like we really
shared
it, Will.”

“We sort of shared it.”

“Okay.” I try not to imagine what it would be like to share an apartment with Will—I mean, after a wedding.

“So, how are you doing?”

I sigh and wonder what the honest answer to this would be. “I don't know,” I finally admit.

“What's wrong, Cassie?”

“I'm not sure. I guess I feel a little restless or something.”

“Are you still dating Ross?”

“How did you know about that?” I ask. “I mean, I wasn't really dating him, not as in seriously.”

“Your mom mentioned it. And I could sort of tell. Remember how I mentioned that I thought he was into you.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, no, I broke it off. We were together at my sister's wedding on New Year's Eve, and I could just tell it was all wrong for me. So I told him.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and now he's actually dating a good friend of mine. They are totally great together.”

“And you're okay with that?”

“Do you mean is that why I'm feeling a little out of sorts?” I guess.

“No, not at all. I think I'm a litde lonely. But it's more than that, Will. I mean, I do like my job, and I like this town and everything. But I feel as if there's something more for me. I just can't put my finger on it.”

“I know what you mean.”

We talk some more about the kinds of lives we wish we were living. And it's amazing how we really want some of the same things. We both want satisfying jobs that engage us creatively. But we don't want our jobs to be the central focus of our lives. Will is worried that owning a restaurant, although it sounds exciting, could be too demanding. Plus, we both want to get more involved in recreational activities, and we both like the outdoors and want to do some traveling. After about an hour, I start to worry. This conversation almost seems to be going too far, getting too deep. Not that we're talking about anything sexual—it's nothing like that. But it's more like my heart is getting way too involved, like my soul keeps trying to connect to this man. And I find that a little scary. I worry that I'm just desperate. Or, even worse, that I'm imagining he's saying things that he really is not.

“Well, I should probably go,” he says. “I promised my mom I'd make dinner tonight. A lot of her friends have been bringing
casseroles and those sorts of things lately, and she and I are both craving a nice steak and green salad.”

“Sounds yummy,” I say as I consider my own lackluster prospect of canned soup again.

“You take care, okay?”

“Ifeah, you too.”

After I hang up, I start to cry. I tell myself it's just PMS as I wipe my tears on a dishtowel. Or a little pity party. I heat my soup, read the newspaper with Felix in my lap, watch the Food Network, and call it a night.

The next evening after I get home from work, Will calls again. This time we talk even longer, and when we hang up, I don't cry. Then he calls the next night. And the next and the next. I can't imagine what his phone bill is going to be, but I have a feeling his mother won't care. She seems so happy to have him staying with her. And based on some things he's barely mentioned, I have a suspicion that his family has money. I don't know why I find this so surprising. I guess it's because I still have that first loser-dude image of Will indelibly stamped on my mind. It's highly prejudicial, and it was really a wrong impression. But the idea of his parents being well-off doesn't quite fit. Still, as he tells me more about his dad, who was an aeronautic engineer for NASA before he retired, and his mother, who started an interior design shop in the sixties and just retired from it about ten years ago, I realize there's a lot I don't know about this guy.

“I used to think I was born about two decades too late,” he tells
me one night a couple of weeks after his dad's funeral. “I mean, not only were my parents in their forties when I came along, but I had the spirit of a flower child.” He laughs. “Back in middle school when everyone else was dressing like yuppies, I wanted to be a hippie.”

“Did you smoke grass?”

“Of course.”

“A real rebel boy”

“You bet.”

“But you're not now?”

“Well, I'm drug free.” He chuckles. “But I'm still a bit of a rebel, I think, and a free spirit. I don't see myself ever falling into the money-is-everything trap. At least I hope not.”

“How's your mom getting along?” I ask.

“Better. She's actually talking about getting a condo in Florida with one of her girlfriends. She always wanted to be a snowbird, but my dad liked the winters.”

“She should do that,” I say. “Florida actually sounds delightful to me right now.” Then I tell him about our record-breaking lows this week and how it affected business on the slopes. “It was so dead out there that I tried skling yesterday and nearly froze my nose off.”

“Well, don't do that,” he says. “You have a cute nose.”

“Thanks.” I smile. “But we're hoping it'll warm up a little before the Presidents’ Day weekend, since that's usually pretty busy.”

“Do you work tomorrow?” he asks unexpectedly.

“Yeah, sure,” I tell him. “Why?”

“I just wondered since its sort of a holiday.”

Then I remember what I'd been trying to forget. “Valentine's Day?” I laugh. “Well, Ross might close the lodge for Thanksgiving and Christmas, but Valentine's Day does not fall into that category. In fact, next year he plans to have the lodge open for all holidays. He's thinking that some people don't have families or things to do, and the slope is a great getaway for them.”

“Yeah, I've even been thinking about getting but the old board and waxing it/’

“I didn't know you were a boarder,” I say.

He laughs. “I'm a rebel, remember. You don't think I'd be a skier, do you?”

“You should bring your board up here,” I tell him. “Maybe I'll race you down.”

“Last time I saw you skling was a little scary, Cassie.”

“Hey, I'm much better when I'm not wearing a bear suit.”

“Well, I might just take you up on that little challenge,” he says.