She replied with a thank you and a few chatty remarks, didn’t bother correcting the name of her home town.
An assistant producer at the station where Cassidy read the news and covered the occasional ‘personal interest’ story, informed her that her temporary replacement, Jessica, was working out just fine. Cassidy shouldn’t worry about a thing; why, they’d barely noticed she was gone.
“Great,” Cassidy murmured.
She deleted a dozen sales pitches, stopped on a notice that someone had posted on her wall at the social media site she generally ignored, since it had been engineered by the public relations people at the station. Probably a faithful viewer, she thought, perhaps asking where she’d disappeared to.
She opened the site, found herself looking at a smiling photo Michael, with his arm resting loosely around the slim waist of a tall, well-toned blonde with too many glistening white teeth.
Cassidy squinted, held the tablet about an inch from the tip of her nose. There was no caption, no post. Just the picture.
Something quivered in the pit of Cassidy’s stomach.
She wasn’t the jealous type—Michael had never given her any reason to be—but the image made her uneasy, just the same.
The woman in the picture was probably an old friend, or perhaps a client.
No big deal.
Her cell jangled, startling Cassidy so completely that she nearly dropped the tablet. She groped for the phone, saw Michael’s handsome face on the screen.
She felt relief. And something else that wasn’t so easy to identify.
“Michael,” she said, and she knew she sounded surprised.
He laughed. “Hello, Funny-face,” he replied.
“Who’s the blonde?” The question was out of Cassidy’s mouth before she’d consciously framed the words. Immediately, she was mortified, wanted to hide somewhere, anywhere. Under the bed. Behind the clothes in her closet.
Michael was silent for a long moment. Then, cautiously, he asked, “What blonde?”
“I’m sure she’s—“ Cassidy blurted, her face hot. “I mean, I don’t think—“
“What blonde?” Michael repeated. This time, he didn’t sound cautious, he sounded irritated.
“The one in the photo somebody posted on my page,” Cassidy said, strangely calm now, though her cheeks still throbbed with heat. “Tall? Gorgeous? Wearing a black cocktail dress with a plunging neckline?”
“Cassidy,” Michael said, “what are you talking about?”
She clicked on a couple of links, forwarding the photo. “You tell me,” she said.
He was quiet again, probably scrolling through the emails on his phone.
More than a minute passed before he let out a grim-sounding laugh. “Oh,” he said. “That’s just Angela. She’s on one of my mother’s committees.” A pause. “There was a charity benefit last night, at the club, and Mom introduced us. You know how those events are, Cass—people take random pictures, put them on the internet.”
Just-Angela, Cassidy reflected, was standing so close to Michael that she was practically resting her head on his shoulder.
“Cass?” Michael prompted. “You’re not going to turn into one of those suspicious types, are you?”
“Er—no,” Cassidy said. “No, of course not.”
Say you love me, Michael. Just say you love me and everything will be all right.
“Good,” Michael said. His voice was husky, a little brisk. He sounded peevish, indignant.
Coldly controlled.
Cassidy realized she ought to make the first move, tell Michael she loved him. The only problem was, she couldn’t seem to manage the words.
So she said nothing.
“This conversation is going nowhere,” Michael said, with a lightness that didn’t quite ring true. “Suppose we try this again tomorrow?”
“Right,” Cassidy replied. “Tomorrow.”
A knock sounded at her bedroom door. “I’m supposed to tell you supper’s ready,” called a childish voice.
Henry.
Her spirits immediately rose. “On my way,” she called out.
Michael disconnected then, without saying good-bye.
The door opened a smidge and Henry’s small, freckled face appeared in the crack. “I brought my dog,” he said. “Uncle Duke said it was okay.”
Cassidy set her phone aside, logged off the internet, and tossed her tablet to the foot of her bed, grinning at the boy. “How about introducing us?” she asked.
Henry’s brow furrowed slightly. “But you already know Duke.”
Cassidy laughed, standing up. “I meant the dog, Bucko,” she said.
Henry brightened. “Oh.” He sounded pleased.
Cassidy offered her hand, and Henry took it, shyly but firmly. Then he led her downstairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door.
She saw Duke and Annabelle standing, shoulder to shoulder, at the grill, conferring over the food, chicken, coated in sauce and sizzling deliciously.
She saw G.W., sitting at the nearby picnic table, turning something end over end in one hand while he smiled at something Shelby said.
Shelby, meanwhile, was petting Henry’s dog. Seeing Cassidy, she smiled, bunched one shoulder in a brief shrug, as if to say, what-can-you-do?
“Annabelle invited me,” she said.
“I’m glad,” Cassidy replied, and it was true. She and Shelby had had their tiffs over the years, but the bond between them was strong.
G.W., standing now, gestured for her to have a seat. He looked cowboy-handsome in his jeans and long-sleeved Western shirt, open at the neck. Glancing down, she saw that he’d polished his boots.
Not that that meant anything.
Cassidy hesitated, caught the look of good-natured challenge in Shelby’s eyes, and finally sat down. G.W. did, too, close but not too close.
He smelled of fresh air, soap and spring water, and when his elbow bumped against Cassidy’s, she flinched as if he’d goosed her with a cattle prod. Out of the corner of one eye, she saw his mouth twitch.
Shelby smiled broadly from the other side of the table, looking smug.
Cassidy made a face at her.
Annabelle left Duke’s side and disappeared into the house, gesturing for Henry to accompany her. A few minutes later, the two of them emerged, Annabelle toting a huge stoneware bowl covered in cellophane, while Henry followed proudly behind her, carrying a second, smaller bowl.
Duke speared chicken pieces onto a waiting platter, piled foil-wrapped corn on the cob on another.
“This is my special potato salad,” Annabelle said, plunking down the crockery and peeling away the cellophane.
Henry’s bowl contained heat-and-serve rolls, protected by a checkered dishcloth.
Once everything was on the table, and everyone was seated, Annabelle next to Duke, Henry at Cassidy’s right, Annabelle nudged Duke until he offered a short prayer of thanks.
Plates were filled.
There was some chatter.
“You’ve got a podcast to record tonight, don’t you?” Annabelle asked Duke, once things settled down.
He nodded, indicating with a gesture of one hand that his mouth was full, so he couldn’t answer just yet.
“Are you going to talk about Bigfoot?” Henry asked eagerly.
Duke chewed, swallowed. “Who else?” he countered, with a grin.
“Have you ever seen a Sasquatch, Uncle Duke? For real, I mean?”
“Up close and personal,” Duke answered solemnly, but his eyes were twinkling, the way they always did when he talked about his mysterious monsters.
He’d told Cassidy plenty of stories over the years, and she’d listened, wide-eyed and fascinated, wishing she’d seen them, too, terrified that one day, she would. To this day, she didn’t know if Duke had really encountered such creatures, as he claimed, or if he was just spinning yarns.
To Duke, making up tall tales wasn’t the same thing as lying. He’d probably see it as a public service at bes
t, and a harmless form of entertainment at worst.
One thing was for sure, tens of thousands of people listened to his podcasts and followed his blog. He’d been the one to call a halt to the reality show, not the network; said it kept him away from home too much and, besides, he’d had to wear makeup on camera.
A man can only handle that kind of humiliation for certain length of time, he’d told Cassidy.
Now, Duke did the occasional personal appearance, acted as an ‘expert’ on similar programs to his own, and guided Bigfoot tours in the wooded areas around Flagstaff and in parts of Colorado and Montana, too.
He had “proof”--recordings of bone-chilling shrieks, chest-pounding, barrages of stones striking the walls of some isolated hunting cabin or hastily-assembled lean-to, photographs of huge trees splintered to toothpicks, videos of dozens of boulders rolling down slopes for no explicable reason.
“I hope I see one someday,” Henry said earnestly, swatting at a mosquito.
“Be careful what you wish for, young fella,” Duke counseled, with a merry twinkle dancing in his eyes.
Henry gave a delicious little shudder and sneaked a morsel of barbecued chicken to the dog. Everybody noticed, nobody commented.
“I wouldn’t be scared,” Henry said, squaring his small shoulders.
Cassidy narrowing her eyes at Duke, a silent suggestion that he shut up.
“Maybe you wouldn’t,” Duke said. “I can tell you’re a brave one. Here’s the thing, though—sometimes, it’s smart to be scared.” His gaze slid, just briefly, to Cassidy’s, then moved away again. “This critter, Bigfoot, I mean, keeps to himself, for the most part, and he doesn’t much care for trespassers, not when they’re on his turf. A full-grown Sasquatch might be twelve feet tall, and they’re fast on their feet, too.”
“Duke,” Cassidy said pointedly.
“Does Bigfoot like dogs?” Henry asked, ignoring everybody but Duke. As he spoke, he stroked Chip’s head, resting on his small lap.
“Nope,” Duke replied seriously. “It’s better to keep dogs and Sasquatch apart, I think.”
Henry bent around Cassidy to make eye contact with his father. “Did you ever see a Bigfoot, Dad?” he asked.
“Guess I must have been looking the wrong way every time one showed up,” he said, with a straight face.
Cassidy liked that answer, though she wasn’t sure why.
Henry’s glance swung to Cassidy. “What about you?”
“What about me?” Cassidy teased, wanting to pull the child close and hold him tight for as long as he’d allow.
“Do you believe in Bigfoot?”
Cassidy considered the question. “I don’t not believe,” she answered presently. “I’ve never actually seen one—and, frankly, I hope I never do—but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
While they were talking and eating, that subtle shift happened, and daylight gave way to dusk. Stars began to pop out all over the sky, like the points of silver needles poking through black velvet. The moon was a transparent crescent, riding low over the row of red hills in the distance.
“Getting late,” G.W. remarked, rising from the bench, his empty plate and silverware in hand. “Let’s help with the clean-up, son, and be on our way.”
“I’m not even tired,” Henry complained.
“Well,” G.W. responded, “I am. Get with it, buddy.”
Everybody stood up then, and the clearing away began.
Duke bid the others good-night and disappeared into the detached garage he’d converted to a state-of-the-art recording studio with some of the proceeds from his TV series to conduct his podcast. After a quick edit, he’d be beaming the program to all parts of the planet.
The others bumped into each other in the kitchen, putting away leftovers, washing dishes. Annabelle wrapped generous portions of chicken, potato salad, rolls and corn on the cob for G.W. and Henry to take home.
Henry’s battery ran down, all of a sudden, and he fell asleep on the kitchen floor, resting his head on Chip’s furry back.
G.W. scooped the child up with a tenderness that struck Cassidy to the heart. The dog lumbered to its feet, ever ready to follow his people wherever they happened to be headed.
“You carry the food,” Annabelle told Cassidy briskly, shoving a stack of plastic containers into her hands. “G.W.’s got his hands full, as you can see.”
Cassidy knew she was being set up, but she didn’t bother to argue. She accepted the leftovers and followed G.W. out of the house, being careful not to trip over the dog. Henry, zonked out, didn’t stir in his father’s arms.
G.W. led the little procession to his truck, parked in the gathering darkness, opened the rear door on the passenger side of the extended-cab and eased Henry into his car seat.
The boy opened his eyes briefly, then dropped off again.
It struck Cassidy then, a fierce rush of love for the child. And it didn’t subside.
She waited while G.W. fastened Henry in for the ride home, shut the door, and finally rounded the rig to open the driver’s side. He stepped back, and Chip sprang past him, scrambling across to the other seat.
With a sigh and a half grin, G.W. turned to Cassidy, took the pile of leftovers from her hands.
“Thanks,” he said, very quietly.
Cassidy didn’t trust herself to speak just then, so she merely nodded.
G.W. leaned in to set the containers on the console, turned back to her again.
“This guy you’re about to marry,” he said. “Do you love him, Cassidy?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Not even a squeak.
G.W. smiled again, almost sadly, touched her hair, and withdrew his hand. The night sky, thick with stars, framed him.
Cassidy’s heart clenched, relaxed again.
“It’s real nice to have you back,” he said, in parting.
Then he climbed into the truck, started the engine, flipped on the headlights, and drove away.
Cassidy stood completely still in the wide gravel driveway for longer than she should have, oddly stricken by the encounter. G.W.’s words echoing in her brain.
This guy you’re about to marry. Do you love him, Cassidy?
Did she love Michael? Or had he simply been a substitute for the man she’d never dared to believe she could have?
She hugged herself, tilted her head back. Overhead, the stars blurred.
She wasn’t the least bit surprised when Shelby turned up at her elbow. “You all right, Cass?” she asked gently.
Cassidy nodded, but saying anything still seemed risky. With the back of one hand, she wiped her eyes.
“When you’re ready to talk,” Shelby said, “I’ll be ready to listen.”
Cassidy merely nodded again. A part of her wanted to admit to Shelby that, suddenly, she felt hollow inside every time she thought about Michael. Just a few days before, she had loved her fiancé, with her whole heart, or thought she did.
Now, she wasn’t so sure.
“See you tomorrow,” Shelby told her. Then she walked over to her aging Blazer, climbed in, and left.
Cassidy waved until she knew Shelby couldn’t see her anymore, then turned and went slowly into the house.
Annabelle was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee steaming in front of her. She looked tired—her mascara was smudged and her lipstick had worn away—but she seemed happy, too.
“Spending the night?” Cassidy asked, not unkindly.
“Haven’t decided yet,” Annabelle replied, with a soft smile. “Would it be a problem if I did?”
Cassidy returned the smile, wondering if her eyes were puffy from the tears she’d shed outside. “Not for me,” she replied honestly. She liked Annabelle, wished Duke would just go ahead and marry the woman, already. They weren’t getting any younger, as the saying went, and they obviously loved each other--so what was the hold up?
Early on, she supposed, she’d been the main reason for the delay. As much help as Annabe
lle would have been, especially when Cassidy hit her teens, it would be like Duke to decide the responsibility for his niece was his and his alone.
But Cassidy had been grown up and on her own for a while now. Where she was concerned, Duke was out of excuses.
Annabelle watched her for a moment or so. Then she said, “Shelby’s worried about you, and so’s Duke.”
“I’m fine,” Cassidy said, more weary than irritated.
Annabelle arched one eyebrow, plucked to a line as thin as a pencil mark. “Are you?”
“I’m really tired,” Cassidy said, dodging the question. That much, at least, was true.
On impulse, she crossed to the table, kissed Annabelle lightly on the forehead, and went upstairs.
There were several texts waiting on her phone, all from Michael, all short to the point abruptness.
Cassidy, call me.
Hello? I’m waiting.
Fine. Have it your way.
Etc.
Cassidy didn’t have the energy to respond, so she didn’t try.
Instead, she took a long bath, dried herself off with a towel, brushed her teeth, and slathered her face with moisturizer and her arms and legs with body lotion. Then she put on her nightgown and went to bed.
She was exhausted, but sleep eluded her.
Ironic.
She lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, gnawing on her lower lip.
After an hour or so, she heard Duke come in.
Heard the murmur of voices as he and Annabelle talked.
Sleep, Cassidy ordered herself sternly.
But it was no use.
Finally, she reached for her cell, swiped a finger across the screen to access the icons behind it. Still ignoring the texts from Michael, she brought up an internet radio station instead, tuning in to Duke’s podcast.
Somewhere between a story about a creature he called ‘Dog-man’ and a caller’s account of a ghostly encounter, Cassidy slipped away into sweet, peaceful silence.
Early the next morning, rested and incapable of staying in bed, she rose, dressed, and crept out of the house, headed for the barn.
In the shadowy pre-dawn light, she greeted each of Duke’s horses by name, pausing to stroke their impossibly soft noses and listen to their nickered ‘hellos’.
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