“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?
I try to push these thoughts away from me as I make a cup of green tea. But I wish it were coffee instead. I'm so weary of Mom's healthy style of living. Maybe I should dig through my stuff and find my coffeepot. Then I could sneak it up to my room and enjoy it, my own personal contraband. But why bother? Don't I plan to move on and get out of here? I can't live with my mommy forever. But how do you move out when your bank account looks like mine? Oh, my life is so depressing. It's like a black hole that keeps getting deeper.
Certain that I'm not going to get the marketing job at the ski lodge, I peruse the classified ads again, but that scene is pretty much the same as before. November is not the best time of year to get a job in this town. Maybe I should go back to the city. But where would I live? This makes me think of Will. I wonder how he's doing and which restaurant he actually works for. I think about my old studio apartment with a longing that surprises me. I was so eager to get away from that place, and suddenly I would give anything to go back. Not that I miss the city. I miss having a life. I miss having my own space, even if it was small. I miss having a reason to get up in the morning.
I try to remember last weeks resolve not to obsess over my life—or rather the lack of one. I remember how I was trying to trust God to lead me where I need to go. I also remember Bridget's encouragement and her saying that God has something special for me—something that will be fulfilling and just right for me. I'm still amazed that she's making a living with her art. I'm also a bit jealous. And it bugs me that I feel that way.
Telling myself to get over it, I get dressed and walk to town. My plan is to work out at the fitness center, get some real coffee, then go to see Bridgets art at the Blue Pond Gallery. That's like having a life. Anyway it's better than staying in my sweats, hanging out in my mom's house, and having a big old pity party.
So after my workout and coffee, I wander over to the Blue Pond and am impressed with the quality of Bridget's art—not to mention the prices. Once again, I feel jealous. How is it that everyone but me seems to have a handle on life? How do they figure these things out? More than ever I feel lost as I walk through the gallery, looking at the various pieces on display and wondering if I'll ever find myself and where I fit in. Just as I'm about to leave, Bridget comes in with what appears to be a covered canvas in her hands.
“Hey, Cassidy.” She smiles as she sets the parcel down and leans it against the counter. “I'm just dropping off a new painting.”
“Cool. Your other pieces are so awesome. You're really good.”
“Thanks.” She waves at the woman working on something in the back. “Hey, Sheila, here's that new landscape I promised.”
“Want to put it behind the counter for me?” calls the woman.
“No problem.” Bridget slips it back there and turns to me. “What are you up to today?”
I shrug. “Not much.”
“No word on that job?”
“No.”
“Want to get coffee?”
I nod without telling her that I just had coffee. It's not like a second cup is going to hurt.
“You seem down,” she says as we carry our lattes to a table.
“I guess I'm a little discouraged.” Then I admit that I feel lost. Seeing her success, while encouraging on one level, is kind of depressing on another. “I mean, I'm so happy for you,” I continue, “but I think I'm never going to get to a place like that—doing what I really love and making a living at it. It seems like an impossible dream.”
“What do you really love?” she asks, then takes a slow sip.
I consider this. “I'm not even sure.”
“Someone once told me that if you think back to when you were about ten years old and what you loved doing then, it will be a clue as to what you'd love to do as an adult.”
I try to remember what I liked to do when I was ten. At first nothing comes to mind. Then I remember the lemonade stand and smile.
“Aha,” says Bridget. “You thought of something, didn't you?”
“Yeah, but I think I was actually eleven.”
“Ten, eleven—I don't think it matters.”
“Well, I don't think it'd work nowadays anyway.” I cringe to imagine myself setting up a lemonade stand on Main Street.
“What was it? What did you love doing?”
I laugh. “It was a lemonade stand.”
“Uh-huh?”
“I designed the stand myself and made my own lemonade from scratch, but it wasn't doing too well, so I added brownies to the menu. Then I started selling beaded necklaces too. By the end of the summer, I'd made quite a bit of money, and it was really fun. I would've done it again, but I entered junior high then, and it seemed a little juvenile.”
“So you're a businesswoman at heart?”
“I don't know. Maybe I'm really a marketing person after all.”
“What did you love most about your lemonade stand?”
“I think it was having a kind of control, you know? Running my own business, calling the shots, figuring out what worked, and making it work better. That was fun.”
“So what if you started your own business again?”
“How?”
“I don't know.”
“It sounds fun, but the truth is, I wouldn't know where to begin. It sounds like an impossible dream.”
“Maybe you just need to dream bigger, Cassidy.”
My cell phone rings. “I should get this,” I tell her without admitting what a rarity it is to get a phone call.
“Cassidy Cantrell?” It's a woman's voice, official sounding.
“Yfes?”
“This is Marge at Black Bear Butte. Mr. Goldberg asked me to call you.”
Okay, I know what's coming, and I brace myself for yet more rejection. I just hope I don't start blubbering in front of Bridget.
“Mr. Goldberg wants you to know that he'd like to offer you the position.”
“Really?” Okay, I'm sure I sound totally shocked and not terribly professional. But I just find this very hard to believe.
“Yes. He'd like you to come in this afternoon if you can. He wants to go over some things, and of course there's paperwork to fill out.”
So we arrange for me to come at four, and then I hang up and look at Bridget with amazement. “I got the job,” I tell her.
She gives me a high-five. “Well, that's kind of like running a lemonade stand,” she says. “A really big one.”
I laugh. “Yeah, with lots of ice.”
“And Ross Goldbergs not too hard to look at.” She winks at me.
“He's going to be my boss,” I point out, although I can't disagree with her. “I think it'll be wise to keep some professional distance, if you know what I mean.”
“Well, why don't you arrange for your boss to meet your friend then?”
“You haven't met him?”
“Not officially.”
“Well, give me time. I'll see what I can do.” The truth is, I'm so stunned I actually got the job that it's all I can think about. What on earth caused him to change his mind? Not that I knew he'd made up his mind. But it sure seemed like a lost cause to me! Maybe it's just a God thing.
Whatever it is, I decide not to obsess over it as Mom drives me out to the lodge at a quarter till four. Okay, it's a little embarrassing having your mommy drive you to your new workplace, but it's better than hitching. And she promises to wait in the car.
“You sure you won't get too cold out here?” I ask.
“I'm fine,” she assures me. “I have paperwork to go over, and I'll turn the engine on if I need to warm up.”
“I don't think I'll be long,” I say.
I feel pretty nervous as I approach Marge's desk. I'm sure she remembers my snooping episode. But she just looks up and smiles, saying, “I'll tell Mr. Goldberg you're here.” I thank her and wait, and soon I am seated across from him again. I so want to ask if he knows about what I did, and yet I'm determined to act more mature this time.
. He slides a paper across to me. “This is what we're prepared to offer,” he tells me. “I know it's not as much as you were making in Seattle. But at least there's room to grow.”
I take time to look over the offer, although I'm not sure I care much about the details. Right now I just really need a job. Even so, I don't want to appear too eager. And I don't want to stick my foot in my mouth and say something childish or regrettable. The salary is a little less than at my former job, but the benefits package is actually better. Finally I nod, and using my most grownup, business-type voice, I say, “This looks acceptable to me.” He smiles and extends his hand. “So you'll take it then?” I nod as I shake his hand. “I can't wait to begin, Mr. Goldberg.” “For starters, please just call me Ross. Marge is a little old-fashioned and insists on the Mister. But I try to get everyone else to lighten up a little.”
“Okay, Ross. I'm looking forward to working with you.” He smiles. “I'll ask Marge to show you to your office, and you can start as soon as you're ready. As far as I'm concerned, tomorrow isn't a day too soon.” I can't wait.
'm amazed at how easily I slip into my new marketing role at Black Bear Butte. I have my own corner office at the resort, and by midweek I feel like I've got a real plan to begin executing. Mom lets me borrow her car for the first couple of days, and I drop her off at work on my way to the resort. But by Thursday morning I can tell she's having second thoughts about this little arrangement.
“How about I drive you to work today?” she says as she rinses her tea mug. “I need my car to show a house that's out of town.”
“I know it's an inconvenience sharing your car.”
“But you need a way to get to your job,” she points out.
“I don't have much left in my savings,” I admit, “but it might be enough for a down payment on a car, if it was a cheap one.”
“A Realtor at my office has an old Subaru that belonged to her daughter before she went off to college. Anyway, she'd like to get it out of her driveway. It's not much, but it runs, and she only wants fifteen hundred dollars for it. Plus it already has snow tires.”
“Wow, I could almost afford that.”
“I could help you with the rest.” Mom looks hopeful, and I can tell she's missing her sleek silver car, which I've been enjoying immensely. “How about if I arrange for us to look at it after work today?” she suggests. “I can pick you up and take you over to check it out.”
So it is that I'm driving an old Subaru to work on Friday. With its dented left fender and scaly paint, its nothing like my moms pretty car, but it runs okay, and the CD player works. Life could be worse.
“I think I'll have a game plan to show you on Monday,” I announce to Ross as I pack my things to go home. He's been out of town the past couple of days and stopped by my office to see how things are progressing.
“Really?” He looks suitably impressed. “That soon?”
“Well, there's no time to waste,” L point out as I slip some folders into my briefcase. “Ski season is just around the corner, and we need to get the word out ASAP.”
He nods. “I couldn't agree more, but I don't want this to feel or look like a rush job, Cas
sidy. I want a quality campaign, something we can all be proud of.”
“I know that.” I nod as I close my laptop. “That's what I want too.
He smiles as he leans against the doorframe to my office. “I can't wait to see it.”
“I think you'll be pleased,” I say. Of course, I won't tell him that I plan to work on it all weekend. Let him think I'm Supergirl.
“So do you have big plans for the weekend?” he asks.
I shrug. “Not really.”
“Not even going to the art walk in town tomorrow night?”
“Oh, I saw the poster,” I say. “But I guess I forgot about it.”
“I thought I might go,” he says. “Just to absorb a little of the local culture.”
I nod. “That's probably good.”
“You should come too,” he says.
Now, I'm not sure what he means by “you should come.” Is that supposed to be an invitation? No, of course not. “Yes, I should probably absorb some local culture too,” I say.
“You want to join me then?” He actually looks hopeful, and I feel shocked. Is Ross Goldberg asking me out?
“I, uh, I don't know.”
“It doesn't have to be like a date,” he says quickly. “More like two business associates just doing something together.”
I smile at him. “That sounds great.”
“Shall I pick you up then?”
I blink. The idea of Ross Goldberg picking me up at my mom's house is pretty weird. It wasn't long ago that he was picking her up, although her involvement with Todd seems to have taken priority over Ross. “Sure,” I say as I stand and pick up my briefcase.
“The walk is from five to seven,” he says. “Maybe we could grab a bite to eat somewhere along the way.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “I still haven't mastered the art of cooking. I tend to eat out most of the time, and it's not much fun to eat alone.”
“Sounds great,” I say as I get my coat.
“See you tomorrow night then.” He gives me a nod, then turns away and heads back to his office.
I walk to my car, wondering what just happened. Ross said its just two business associates doing something together, but I wonder if it could be something more. I can't help but be flattered by this unexpected attention. Still, I've always had a strict policy about dating fellow employees. Of course, Ross isn't an employee. He's the boss. He owns the place. Even so, I probably need to be careful.
These Boots Weren't Made for Walking Page 14
