Bootscootin' Blahniks

by D. D. Scott

“I knew there was a catch to being your confidant.” Roxy swung the straps of her bag onto her shoulder while Kat signed her charge slip.

  “That way, we’ll be ready for Damian. He’s coming in to look things over Friday afternoon. Then we’ll call the Belle Meade girls back to set a date for the gala.” Kat rose from the booth but then reached back for the edge of the table. She took a minute to steady herself and catch her breath.

  Roxy latched onto Kat’s arm with a protective grasp she was unprepared to examine. How could one day have crushed the ice between them?

  “There, there. I’m not an invalid yet.” Kat patted Roxy’s hand like a mother coddling a wayward child. “I just get a little dizzy when I move too fast.”

  “Then maybe you should slow down,” Roxy hissed in a haughty whisper.

  “Well played, my dear.” Kat took Roxy’s elbow, power-pinching the skin to bone, as if she were handling the same unruly child in an attempt to squelch an ugly public scene.

  “Smile, Dear. People are watching.” Kat led Roxy through the crowded restaurant.

  “Let’s hope so.” Roxy raised her brows and ever so regally tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “That’s my girl.” Kat winked as she stepped out the door.

  Roxy exited behind her in the most dignified limp her ankle wrap would allow.

  Holistic healing. That’s what spa therapy was all about, Roxy thought, as she soaked in her Jacuzzi tub later that evening. And damn did she need a nice long soak.

  Her mother’s masseuse had taught Roxy as a young girl that certain remedies were used specifically to tame a woman’s inner bitch. Evidently the same formulas didn’t work to whittle away worrywarts.

  No product Roxy had for her home-remedy spa treatment relieved the tension she’d taken-on tonight or calmed her mind or enlivened her spirit. In the aftermath of Kat’s admission of heart trouble, Roxy was an emotionally disheveled disaster. Even her homemade cucumber mask failed to draw out her anxiety-amplified imperfections.

  She’d dumped oatmeal, lavender and sea salts into her bath. And used every avocado, lemon and honey body scrub she’d excavated from her bathroom cabinet. Despite the mocha hazelnut candles she’d lit and placed around the tub and the spring water she’d infused with fresh fruit slices, rejuvenation rejected her. As if she was the one in need of a stress test, her heart palpitated with wild fluctuations.

  Unable to relax after her bath, she abandoned the idea of sleep all together. She slipped her feet into her sequined oriental silk slippers, tied the sash on the gorgeous cobalt blue kimono her father had brought her from Korea and padded across her bedroom. With each step, she tried to force her body to silence the turmoil bubbling under the surface of her skin.

  She despised secrets. Probably because she’d kept too many growing up a Vaughn. Starting that path in Nashville was treacherous ground she wasn’t sure she could walk.

  Unlatching the French doors leading off her suite, she stepped out onto her balcony. The warm southern night wrapped around her, caressing her restless spirit. Breathing in spring azaleas and solitude, Roxy let her soul listen for the answers it needed.

  She’d called fear by its rightful name and moved out of Manhattan. A place she’d been too afraid to live her dreams. A place where she’d been stymied by the secrets she was expected to keep. A place filled with the crazymakers and wet blankets Julia Cameron taught were blocks to an artist’s creative power.

  Raised on the mantra ‘what will the neighbors think,’ Roxy hadn’t, until recently, made peace with her inner artist child. Her wise but unruly alter ego now screamed ‘fuck the neighbors.’ And ’til tonight, she’d been listening.

  Business thrived on solid ground. So her father preached. A perceived or actual crack in the foundation could crumble a house at any time, he’d always reminded her. Case in point…only secrets had insured the stability and survival of the Vaughn’s upper east-side condominium and the family within its hallowed walls.

  Her parents covered up the family cracks, plastering the truth with feigned perfection to keep their home at the top of the social order.

  Roxy moved her hands up and down her chilled arms, hoping the external friction would dissolve the goose bumps originating from deep within her tortured soul.

  Kat had been dangerously accurate in her assumption Roxy knew the importance of and how to keep-up healthy and happy appearances. But that didn’t mean she liked it. Roxy knew the artist’s way and recognized a block when it presented itself…professionally at least. Kat was just as blocked as she was. And if she weren’t careful, she’d end up alone, like Roxy, to face her fears.

  Zayne deserved the truth. Lying to him, even in thought, twisted Roxy’s insides. He deserved better. He may irritate her more than she could appreciate or find amusing, but he’d never betray her. He was honest and annoyingly upfront and more honorable than any human being she knew with a Y chromosome.

  Maybe she could hint at his mom’s poor health, subtly encouraging him to figure out the details on his own. He had gotten on her about her eating and trying to work both Raeve and the saloon. So he was astute enough to know something wasn’t gelling, Roxy schemed. Yes. That’s exactly what she’d do. Starting when she saw him for dance practice Wednesday evening.

  She’d spent enough time with therapists. She knew their methods as well as she knew how to fit fabric to a model. She’d just push Zayne in the direction he needed to go to discover the truth.

  Little nudges of knowledge. Tiny, tailored tucks, all but invisible. Subtle thoughts and questions he could build on. Hell. She might even show him pictures, kind of like a Rorschach test for cowboys. He was smart. He’d catch on. If not, Roxy would knock the sense into him brick-by-brick.

  Three weeks from Friday, she’d also have back-up, she thought. Audrey and Jules were due in town for the summer. Thinking about their arrival brought a smile in the midst of her anxiety hayride. She’d missed them more than she’d thought she would. And apparently, according to Kat’s not-so-pleasant reminder, it showed that Roxy traveled posse-less in Nashville.

  Roxy wasn’t any good at the acquaintance thing so hadn’t bothered getting to know the new people she’d met, except for the McDonalds. Acquaintances meant more nosy neighbors whose thinking patterns became additional burdens to overcome. Roxy only needed Audrey and Jules, who’d stopped judging her in eighth grade when she’d taken their defense and told off York Prep It-Girl Sierra Hampton Meiers.

  Sierra — using her family’s cash flow to establish her worth to society — was a girl who’d never be more than her “girl money”. She’d forever be playing-up her looks, focused on the boy toy gracing her arm, instead of picking up a dinner check to assert her buying power. Everything in her life, including her men, would always be charged to her daddy.

  Of course it had taken Roxy a whole summer of therapy to be taught that the Girl Money concept should be considered empowering for an It-Girl of her economic status. Luckily, Roxy had always bucked the ‘shoulds’ of any discipline.

  Roxy had adapted the tools she received on five hundred dollar-per-hour couches, using them to rectify the social ills she and her friends suffered at the hands of the likes of Sierra Hampton Meiers. Together, the three of them pledged against their private collection Gucci bags to find their mental, physical and spiritual wealth independent of their Girl Money. Although they still planned to keep their couture bags.

  Fifteen years later here’s what Roxy figured she had to show for way too many billable hours on a couch. Her mental health was questionable. Her physical condition bordered on curvaceous and cunning. And her spiritual wealth…well, let’s just say in order to keep her inner bitch at bay, she had to figure out a way to patronize and accept a class of women she’d been born into without becoming them. How could she dress these women but stay true to herself? No couch she’d sat on had an answer for that. And if she wanted mass market appeal for her Accessible Accessories, she needed high-profile, celebrity
endorsements first.

  Kat, though, walked that line rather well. She had Nashville society at her feet but still ruled her empire with heart. Thanks to her example, Roxy was hanging onto a dash of hope that she had it in her as well. If Roxy could dig deep enough to unbury the right attitude and approach, she could make it in Music City.

  Maybe Kat’s confidence had something to do with her shoe collection. She wore nothing but boots or sensible, but stylish heels. Maybe Roxy was too far off the ground to get where she wanted to go in life.

  Pawing at her legs, begging for an invitation, Dipstick pulled Roxy away from her thoughts.

  “C’mere, boy.” She coaxed him onto her lap and buried her forehead against his warm, wiggly body. “What’s wrong with me? Who am I?”

  Dipstick licked her nose, cuddled into her chest then wedged his behind into her lower abdomen and tucked his head just under her chin and into the bend of her neck.

  If only the rest of the world thought Roxy was as wonderful as her dogs did.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As the front tires of Zayne’s beat-up truck hit the gravel lane leading to the McDonald farm, Roxy’s boot slipped off the accelerator. Overcompensating, she slammed on the brakes and fishtailed.

  Driving in cowboy boots, let alone driving a pick-up were new experiences. Used to punching the pedal of her Mercedes with the small soles of her stilettos, she was having a difficult time transitioning to the massive heels of her boots and the power they packed to the squirrely truck’s floorboard.

  She’d just have to keep practicing. Something she didn’t mind a bit. Driving one of these beasts, she was livin’ her dream. And wouldn’t Audrey and Jules get a kick out of riding in a big ‘ole farm truck? She was turning into a for real country Carrie Bradshaw, Roxy thought, loving every moment of the transition.

  Having burnt all the fuel she’d pumped into whatever part needed it, Zayne’s truck coasted forward until it came to a complete stop. Immobilized by the view, she didn’t have the presence of mind to tap the gas pedal.

  She leaned back against the split, cracked and badly patched leather of her seat, careful not to ruin the back of her hair on the headrest.

  What would it have been like to be raised by a woman like Kat whose creative touch never stopped, even at fencerows? A real trip, she imagined. But a journey she’d loved to have been a part of. A journey marked by potted tomato plants precisely positioned between each section of fence lining the McDonald farm’s entrance.

  Could tomatoes grow in pots? Guess so. ‘Course that was assuming the clusters of green balls hanging amidst the tiny yellow blooms were tomatoes. Tomatoes 101 hadn’t been offered at the prep schools Roxy attended.

  Taking a quick count, she estimated about twenty moss-like pots on each side of the lane. And who knew how many more wound around the bend in the road a ways in front of her. As the plants’ fuzzy leaves reached toward the sun, wooden trellises — perhaps handmade — but definitely not the plastic or cheap iron Wal-Mart variety — staked the climbing vines in each pot.

  For a minute, Roxy felt like she may be daydreaming, perhaps dozing off while skimming a coffee table book highlighting the most scenic farms in America. She’d never seen this kind of natural beauty, a result of human hands mixing with Mother Nature. It warmed her like the leaves basking in the late day sun.

  In the pots, hugging the base of each trellis, cherry red impatiens mixed in with deeper red, ruby-like, geraniums. Petals in the same hues but of unknown varieties tumbled over the tops of clay pots decoratively placed around each trellis. Tall spikes and pluming ferns added height and perfect splotches of green to break up the rousing reds.

  Kat believed in making an entrance. That was damn evident. No wonder she’d approved of the wisteria Roxy had painstakingly trained onto the arbors marking the supply store’s rear doors.

  Roxy’s foot hit the gas pedal a little too hard, lightly spinning the tires as she drove toward the house. As far as she could see, the ground had been broken and piled up into perfectly aligned black-brown hills. She cut the air conditioning and cranked down her window, breathing in the country freshness. The scent of the rich earth, mounded in rows on both sides of the road, inundated her nose.

  She may not know how to garner life from the raw earth, but just put her in charge of the scarecrow. She’d have him dapper and draped to kill before sunset. Were scarecrows used on tomato farms? Or was that just in the cornfields bordering the yellow brick road?

  Rounding a small bend, she passed a lemon yellow barn trimmed in white, then two more in the same color scheme although not as big. Three greenhouses — the expensive glass kind, not the plastic-covered pop-ups — followed.

  At the end of the lane, she circled in front of a sprawling ranch-style villa. It belonged as a set piece in a major motion picture not on a Tennessee tomato farm.

  The home’s pale yellow stucco screamed Tuscany, as did the low cobblestone wall spanning the front lawn. The only details the property lacked from its Italian counterpart were a second story with a view of the Mediterranean.

  How could something this charmingly European exist in Tennessee? Who knew you didn’t have to go on holiday to find a Mediterranean paradise?

  Delicate white curtains blew outside open, shuttered windows. She imagined tile floors, lion head fountains, arbored roses and terraced courtyards. As she opened the truck door and scooted out from behind the wheel, she could almost taste sangria.

  The home catapulted Roxy right out of boot country and into Tuscan poppy fields. She’d never felt so Frances Mayes but under a Tennessee sun.

  Pausing to gather her over-stimulated muse before she opened the gate to Zayne’s world, Roxy adjusted her custom-cut pink leather jeans. She tugged the hem down to cover the top of her pink, ostrich skin boots.

  Grinding the boots’ soles into the soft dirt, she applied extra pressure to her left foot testing the boot’s fit, glad to discover it held her bad ankle snug. Having beat the worst of the pain by midday yesterday, she still babied her injury, trying to ignore the occasional dull throb it packed into her foot.

  Regardless of their comfort level, which she was pleased to note was unexpectedly wonderful, Roxy had to wear the boots. A gift from Kat, they were perfect for serious bootscootin’. Perfect too because Zayne would have a cow over the nontraditional color.

  Roxy may dream about thriving here and adopting a surrogate family like Zayne’s, but she’d do it with her own style. She just hoped her definition of style and graciousness would earn both his and his family’s affection. Growing up on Manhattans’ A List hadn’t exactly taught her how to cultivate close friends. She was bred for cocktail party functionality, not heartfelt, lasting connections.

  She slung her pink canvas Prada bag over her shoulder, loving the clinks and jingles the baubles on the handles made colliding with her belt.

  Tonight would be a great endurance test for her signature Buckles Me Baby prototype. She’d see if the fasteners she’d chosen could handle two-stepping. Hopefully better than her jacket did last Saturday night.

  Undoing one more pearlized button on her bubble-gum pink, fitted western blouse, Roxy relaxed the soft cotton fabric, flaring it out right above the ‘v’ of her breasts. She may not bootscoot to Zayne’s satisfaction but she’d provide plenty of eye candy.

  Stepping through the wall’s wooden gate, she followed the crushed stone path to the front door, hoping he would like what waited for him on his porch.

  She knocked once, waited less than a reasonable amount of time, but longer than she wanted to, then again tapped her knuckles against the solid oak.

  Zayne opened the door. Without saying a single word, he moved his warm, dark eyes down her body, causing time as Roxy knew it to stop. With a devil-take-all grin, he confirmed his approval.

  “Hi,” she said, fumbling with her keys but feeling lucky she remembered an acceptable greeting.

  Shirtless, clad in the best-fit jeans she’d seen on a man
, Zayne’s taut muscles were beaded with droplets of water evidently missed by his bath towel.

  To keep from touching him, Roxy clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms. Feeling like her belt had just tightened itself another notch, she drew her hands over her trembling stomach.

  The man made her crazy. Every hormone she had crashed against her mind.

  Just out of the shower and pre-occupied thinking about the night ahead of him, Zayne answered the door forgetting to finish drying off. The pink bombshell waiting for him stopped the cold draft rushing over his damp skin. A heated thrill replaced the chill from the early evening air.

  Hoping to shake himself back into reality, Zayne sized up his new dance partner while he towel-dried his hair. Numb, all rational thoughts suspended, he opted to drip dry. Hello, my little pink sweet tart.

  Not one damn cowgirl he’d ever seen wore pink leather jeans. And damn if Roxy didn’t have pink boots to match. But then again, Roxy was no cowgirl. She was a siren in western wear.

  Zayne couldn’t block out her body’s sweet, silent whisper to surrender his sail. His sail popped all right. He shook out his tingling arm and lowered his towel to cover his bulging clipper.

  Recalling he’d been taught manners, he tried to form words in his mouth. “Hungry?”

  What the…? How about ‘come on in’, Dumb Ass?

  Roxy giggled, choking back a full laugh, although her mischievous eyes carried her humor at Zayne’s expense. Hell, she was enjoying his torture.

  “May I come in?” She waited a beat, tapping her toe and shifting her gorgeous body to one hip. “Or are we dining and dancing out here?”

  He’d still forgotten to invite her in.

  “Yeah. Yeah. No. I mean, yes, come in. No, we’re not eating out or dancing in,” Zayne said, trying to determine if he’d gotten the prepositions in the correct spots.

  “I think I understood that.” Roxy moved past him, into his home and into his heart.

  “Sometimes, Zayne, I don’t think you speak English.”