These Boots Weren't Made for Walking

by Melody Carlson

  As usual, I go to the fitness club after work. I do my regular workout plus an extra fifteen minutes of swimming. And as I'm getting dressed, I think I can see a slight improvement. I'm not nearly as svelte as my fitness-obsessed mom, but I'm not quite as flabby and out of shape as I was two weeks ago. I wasn't totally winded after doing the cross-trainer either.

  Once again, Mom is going out with Todd tonight. They're just getting into her car as I get home. She tells me they're heading over to Keller for dinner and a new-release movie. I tell them to have fun and to drive safely. “There's supposed to be freezing rain to-night,” I warn, feeling like the parent once again.

  Then I go inside, and after heating and eating another low-cal frozen entree, I go straight to work. Ross's concerns about this campaign not looking thrown together have me worried. I will put everything it takes into making this plan slick and cool and compelling. I work until well past midnight, noticing that Mom and Todd are still not home. I tell myself not to think about it. It's none of my business. Besides, I have a date tomorrow. Okay, not a date. But I don't have to tell Mom that. I wonder how she'll feel when she finds out that I'm going out with one of her male friends. Will she be jealous of me for a change? Probably not. As Ross said, it's just two business associates doing something together. Big deal.

  I work nearly all day Saturday too, taking only one midday break for a walk to clear my head. The weather is really snapping cold now, and the low-hanging clouds make it look like it could snow. While snow would be great news for the lodge, I hope it will hold off until after the art walk.

  Although I'm not going on a date, I take my time getting ready. I try on several outfits and finally decide on a caramel-colored DKNY cashmere turtleneck sweater and my favorite jeans, which despite having been in the dryer too long are fitting a litde bit loose now, and that actually makes me feel thinner. I consider wearing my Valentino boots to make me look taller, then choose practicality, going with my lower-heeled Franco Sartos, also a caramel color, which looks perfect with the sweater. Not bad, I think as I check myself out in the mirror.

  “You look nice,” says Mom after we nearly collide in the hallway. “Going out tonight?”

  “Just to the art walk,” I say as I wrap a mossy green knit scarf around my neck. “It's supposed to be cold.”

  “Are you going with someone?” she asks.

  “Just Ross,” I say casually.

  I see her brows lifting. “Ross Goldberg?”

  “Yeah. We thought it would be fun to check out the local art scene.”

  “You're dating Ross?”

  I smile. “It's not really a date, Mom. Just friends hanging together, you know. We might get a bite to eat. No big deal.”

  “Oh.” But as she says this, I sense she's not pleased. Could she be jealous after all?

  “Are you and Todd going out?” I ask.

  “Not tonight,” she says a little too quickly.

  “Oh.”

  “Those late nights can be a litde tiring,” she admits. “I told Todd I needed a night to recuperate.”

  I nod, suppressing the desire to remind her of her age and how older folks should take it a litde easier. “Have a good evening,” I call as I head down the stairs, hearing my mom's footsteps coming right behind me. She hovers at the foot of the stairs as I peek out the front window just in time to see Ross's black BMW pull into the driveway. Then I slip on my Ralph Lauren brown wool car coat and pick up my purse.

  “Have fun,” says Mom in an uncertain voice.

  “Thanks!” I call back as I open the front door. It's so great to be the one going out tonight! I suppose I'm feeling a little bit smug.

  The art walk isn't terribly impressive. Most of the work being shown in the regular businesses is by high-school students, and although it's pretty good for their age group, it's not like what you'd see in the city. The galleries are a bit better, and it's fun to watch the artists actually at work. We save Blue Pond, Black Bears premier gallery, for last. Of course, the featured artist there is Bridget.

  Ross and I partake of the complimentary cheese and wine, then watch as Bridget dabs at a landscape of a mountain lake surrounded by autumn foliage.

  “Thafs an interesting style,” comments Ross, “sort of traditional with an impressionistic touch.”

  Bridget laughs. “I've never heard it put quite like that, but I guess that works.” I remember my promise to officially introduce them and decide there's no time like the present. Even so, I feel a little reluctant. I mean, Bridget is gorgeous. She's an established artist. And I know that she already admifes Ross—a lot. But she's cool with the introduction, and then she explains that some of her other pieces, the ones shown back East, are much more contemporary. But I can feel her eying me as she talks to Ross, as if she's trying to figure out if we're an item. She probably wants to know what her chances with him might be. I figure I can straighten her out tomorrow at church.

  Another couple comes to talk to Bridget. They talk as though they might like to commission a piece for their home, so Ross and I use this opportunity to move on. I wave to Bridget as we head for the door, but I can still see the questions in her eyes.

  “Hungry?” he asks as we go back outside.

  “Starving,” I admit, which is true since I skipped lunch.

  “Good.” He glances at his watch. “I actually made us a reservation.”

  “A reservation?”

  He grins. “Yep. Have you heard about the new restaurant?”

  “We have a new restaurant?”

  “Yes. Its called Petit Ours Noir.”

  “Little Black Bear?”

  “Oui. Your French is tres bien?

  “Merci!” I laugh. “I took three years in high school, but I'm pretty rusty now.”

  “Well, maybe you can help me read the menu then. I've never taken French. All I know is from a little handbook. The last time I was in southern France, I made a complete fool of myself.”

  “I'm sure I'm not much better.”

  “The restaurant is in the old McNulty mansion on Tamarack Street.”

  “I noticed some nice renovations there, but I didn't realize it was for a restaurant.”

  “Yes, the owner has been keeping it under wraps, but he's my old buddy Alex Morgan. The restaurant is not officially open until next week, but he invited friends to come in and try it out this weekend. To get the kinks out. The restaurant is on the first floor, and Alex and his wife, Elise, who is the chef, live upstairs.”

  “This sounds like fun,” I. say, pulling my scarf more snugly around my neck.

  “Well, I've tasted Elise's cooking before,” says Ross. “She trained in Paris, and she's fantastic.”

  He pushes open an ornately carved wooden door. The name of the restaurant is etched in the center of its oval beveled-glass panel. “Very chic,” I say as we go into the warm foyer.

  “Ross,” says a man who comes over and shakes his hand, then hugs him, “so glad you made it.”

  Then Ross introduces me to Alex, who takes our coats and escorts us to the main dining area, where only a few tables are occupied. I take in the beautifully restored wooden floors, oriental carpets, and a welcoming gas fire in the large, ornate fireplace. Then Alex seats us near the fire at a small table complete with white linen and fine silver. I can tell this place isn't going to be cheap. Alex tells us that tonights menu is somewhat limited and then goes over the features. If this list is limited, I can't imagine what they'll be serving a week from now.

  We both decide to have the beef entree, which is tenderloin beef medallions and chanterelles in burgundy sauce. Ross orders a bottle of Pinot Noir to go with it.

  “I feel like I should've dressed up,” I say after Alex departs.

  “No, you look fine,” says Ross. “This is a casual evening.” He waves to a nice-looking middle-aged couple, who look vaguely familiar, and then to a younger couple who, like me, are both wearing jeans. Then he tells me who the other diners are. As he goes over t
he names, which I recognize, I realize they are the who's who of Black Bear.

  “Impressive,” I say.

  “I hope they'll be impressed.”

  “How do you know Alex and Elise?”

  “I went to college with Alex/’ Then he explains how his deceased wife, Gwen, introduced Elise to Alex, and how the couples became good friends over the years. I can see the sadness in his eyes as he talks about some of the trips they took together.

  “How long has your wife… been gone?” I realize this is none of my business, but I'm curious.

  “It'll be four years in the spring.”

  “I can tell you really loved her.”

  “You can tell?” He looks surprised.

  “When you were talking about her and your friends, I could see it in your eyes.”

  He nods. “I've been told it should get better with time, but I still miss her.” He sighs and takes a sip of wine. “I haven't really gotten back into dating yet.”

  This surprises me since I thought he'd gone out with my mom. He seems to read my mind.

  “Oh, I've put on the appearance of dating. I've taken women to dinner. Even tonight, I'm sure some will assume this is a date.”

  I nod, thinking, Yeah, I could almost make that assumption myself.

  “I guess it's pride, you know, wanting to look like I'm back in the swing of things. But the truth is, I'm not ready to seriously date anyone.”

  “So you and my mom weren't…”

  He chuckles. “Audra's a wonderful person, but, no, we weren't really dating. She's fun to sit with during those boring chamber meetings, and sometimes we grab a meal together. But that's all.”

  I try to remember my mom's take on this. It seems to me she thought Ross was serious. She thought he was really into her. I suppose I thought he was too.

  “After Gwen died, I put all my energies into Nathan's high-school years and renovating Black Bear Butte. Then renovations were complete, and Nathan got accepted at the Air Force Academy last year, and now I'm getting used to a change of pace.” He holds up his hands. “I guess I feel a little lost.”

  “I know how you feel,” I admit. Then I tell him a bit about my own situation and how I've been trying to find where I fit.

  “Well, it looks as though you're going to fit into the resort just fine. I can't wait to see what you've put together for the new marketing plan.”

  For the rest of the evening, I tell him a little about some of my ideas. Oh, I don't give it all away—just enough to whet his appetite. By Monday, when he sees the whole thing laid out before him, he'll be impressed. I hope.

  “That might ve been the best meal I've ever had/’ I tell Alex as we're putting our coats on and preparing to leave. I don't like sounding all schmoozy, but its the honest truth.

  He's beaming. “I can't wait to tell Elise.”

  “I have to agree with Cassidy,” says Ross. “That was absolutely fantastic. Give my regards to the chef.” He winks.

  “She'd come out, but she spilled beet juice down her front,” says Alex. “She doesn't want to make a bad impression.”

  “Well, next time then,” says Ross as he shakes Alex's hand. “And congratulations on what should be a great success.”

  As Ross drives me home, I think about how I could get used to being with a guy like this. He's got polish, manners, money, experience… What more could a girl want?

  “Thanks for a great evening,” I say as he pulls into the driveway.

  “Thank you for joining me.”

  “And I love that it wasn't a date.”

  His smile looks relieved. “Really?”

  “Sure. It's lots more relaxing that way. It's just like hanging with a friend.” I point to his windshield. “Hey, it's starting to snow!”

  “Perfect,” he says. “Now if it will just come down hard for a whole week, maybe we can open by Thanksgiving.”

  “I know I'm praying for snow,” I say as I reach for the door handle. “See ya on Monday.”

  “Can't wait to see that marketing plan!” he calls out before I close the car door.

  I look up at the swirling snowflakes, illuminated by the streetlight, as I walk toward the house. And I do pray that it continues. But as I pray, I wonder if I'm only thinking of the snow.

  y marketing plan is a hit! Ross is totally jazzed as he tells me Monday afternoon to begin implementing it immediately. He wants to pull out all the stops. “This could be Black Bear Butte's best year ever,” he says as he looks over my presentation again. Then he nods to the big window. Outside the blanket of white grows deeper by the minute. “And if this keeps up, we'll be open before Thanksgiving.”

  “Then I'd better get busy,” I say. “I've got a lot to do, lots of phone calls to make.”

  “Go for it.”

  “And I'll need to go to the city to set up some things with the designers.”

  “As I said, go for it.”

  I smile at him. “This is so fun.”

  He laughs. “That's what I like—a woman who enjoys her work.”

  I do enjoy myself as I make phone calls and set things up. It's fun having this kind of control—almost like my old lemonade stand—and as I pull things together and get all the pieces in place, I think maybe this is what I was meant to do. Maybe I've finally found my niche in life.

  The snow continues, and by the time I leave for the city Wednesday morning, the mountain has accumulated thirty-one inches of new snow. I feel exhilarated even as I drive through the dismal rain, knowing that rain down here means snow up there. My enthusiasm seems to be contagious as I meet with the graphic designers and ad people. At first they were shaking their heads and telling me it couldn't be done, but after a few more phone calls (and some silent prayers on my part), it begins to look like my marketing campaign might actually launch by the first week of December.

  “You guys started this pretty late,” says my favorite designer as he adjusts his calendar to schedule our project.

  “I suppose it's late for this year,” I admit. “But it's early for next year.

  He chuckles. “You've always been one of those glass-half-full kind of girls, haven't you, Cassidy?”

  “Don't I wish. Trust me, I've had my negative moments. Not that long ago either.”

  Somehow we work out the details and scheduling challenges, and I finish up my appointments around four. As I'm getting ready to head out of town, I decide to swing by my old apartment. I'm not even sure why. Maybe it's for old times’ sake. Or maybe I'm curious as to how things have gone with Will. As I turn down the street, I wonder if that job he got made it possible for him to stay in my apartment. Or has he moved on? I'm surprised to feel a little sad that he never returned my call, and I second-guess my spontaneity. In the end, I don't really plan on stopping, but when I spot an empty space right in front, something that rarely happened when I lived there, I decide its an opportunity. I park my old Su-baru and get out. The rain has let up, but its still overcast and gloomy. A wet day in the city used to depress me, but I remind myself again of the snow on the mountain. I'll bet another ten inches fell today.

  As I go up the stairs, I start to feel irrationally nervous. What am I doing here? And do I really plan on knocking on my old apartment door? This is crazy. As I think back, my whole experience with Will was pretty odd. I mean, the short time we spent together was so strange and surreal. What was it—two days? three? And yet I felt so close to him then. Its like we connected. How weird is that?

  I pause at the top of the stairs, rationalizing that what happened then was simply the result of two desperate people thrown together by another persons greed. Monica had hurt us both. We were vulnerable. We were brokenhearted, down on our luck, kicked in the teeth by life, and looking for a morsel of sympathy wherever we could find it. Why not just let it go? My life has moved on. Why come back here and wallow in old memories?

  I stand on the landing and stare at the door of Monica's old apartment and wonder what has become of her. Is it possibl
e that she's returned? What jf she and Will are back together? Maybe even living in my old apartment, yukking it up about how they pulled one over on me. This thought makes me feel sick, and I realize its nuts for me to be here. I'll go back downstairs, get in my car, and pretend I didn't stop by. What if I actually saw Monica Johnson right now? Who knows what I might do? I'm sure it wouldn't be pretty.

  “He's not here,” says a gruff voice from the hallway behind me.

  I turn to see old Mr. Snyder leaning on a push broom and looking just the same as ever in his old, yellowed T-shirt topped with an unbuttoned, faded, plaid flannel shirt, tails hanging out. I wonder how long he's been standing there watching me. For whatever reason, I feel embarrassed.

  “Oh, hello,” I tell him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean if you're looking for Will Sorensen, he's not here.”

  “Did he move out?”

  “No, I mean he's not here ‘cause he's at work.”

  “And where would that be?”

  “He's a cook over at that Italian restaurant—that Terrazio place.”

  “Do you mean Terrazzo de Giordano?” I ask in surprise.

  “That sounds about right. It's that fancy-schmancy place over on First Avenue.” He rolls his eyes. “Little too rich for my blood, but at least it pays the rent.”

  “That's great.” I feel an unexpected thrill of happiness for Will. That's quite a place. Good for him.

  “Ya want me to tell Will you stopped by?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Tell him hello for me.”

  He seems to study me, softening just a little. “And you're doing okay too?”

  “Yes.” I smile at him. “I'm still living at home with my mom in Black Bear. But I got a good job, and things are looking up.”

  He nods, then returns to his sweeping.

  Although it makes no sense, I decide to take First Avenue on my way out of town, slowly cruising by Terrazzo de Giordano. I've eaten there only once, but it's an impressive restaurant, both on the outside and within. I try to imagine Will working in the kitchen there, and I hope he's happy. I hope his life has really turned around. I'm tempted to stop in and say hello, maybe even order something light on the menu. But for some reason I can't. Even so, I think about Will as I drive away. I remember that dinner he made for us and that amazing evening we spent together. It still seems surreal— sweedy yet disturbingly weird. And something that's best forgotten.