These Boots Weren't Made for Walking

by Melody Carlson

  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?

  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 l
ike 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.”