Hot Legs

by Susan Johnson

  Although she was finding it more difficult to coordinate her daughters’ lives since she and her husband had sold the family farm to developers. More wealthy now than they’d ever imagined, they spent six months of the year in Florida. It wasn’t that she didn’t try to give orders or suggestions or practical advice, as she called it, but her authority was considerably diminished by distance.

  For which both of her daughters were supremely grateful.

  But now that she was home for the summer, she was making up for lost time.

  “You must tell us what do you do for a living,” she cooed to Drew.

  “I help run my father’s bank.”

  You could practically see the calculator totaling the numbers in Mitzi’s head. “Isn’t that sweet? Helping your father. In our case,” she said, affecting a small stricken look, “neither of the girls wanted to take over the farm. Not that I blame them, of course, with the price of corn lately, but I think Jim would have enjoyed it.”

  Jim had been watching the suburbs move north for ten years, waiting for the price of land to reach his set point, but he knew better than to disagree with his wife’s fiction. “There were times, I suppose,” he said, in lieu of an outright lie.

  Cassie smiled, and he winked at her. She and her father came from the same mold. Tall, slender, fair-skinned, and with classic features, neither were motivated by a busy social schedule. The only quality Cassie had inherited from her mother was her hair color. She got along with her mother, but they were not personality soul mates. Mitzi liked to set things in motion and give them a good shove. Meg was a chip off the old block.

  Cassie and her father were more apt to sit back and watch the action. They participated on occasion, but neither was interested in a full-out marathon every day.

  “How long have you been—um . . . helping your father?” Mitzi sweetly inquired.

  “Since I graduated from college.”

  “Where did you go to school, dear?” Mitzi’s smile was all gracious charm.

  “Harvard.”

  “My goodness. Isn’t that nice? Those Ivy League schools have a very good reputation. Our Cassie and Meg went to Stanford. They wanted more sun when they were young.”

  “I don’t blame them. Minnesota winters can be long.”

  “But now both girls are back home, and we just love it, don’t we, dear?”

  “Couldn’t ask for more,” Jim Hill said on cue. He didn’t fish and golf just for the exercise. Much as he loved his wife—and their thirty-seven-year marriage had been happy—there were times when he needed a break from Mitzi’s management skills.

  “Meg, pass your sister the beef roast,” Mitzi ordered, switching smoothly to her nurturing mother mode. “You look like you could use a good meal, Cassie, dear,” she added, her gaze benevolent yet competent in the feel-good style of a TV ad for Johnson and Johnson where a mother soothes and bandages her child’s knee. “I don’t suppose you’ve been doing any cooking.”

  “Not in Houston, Mom. But the Four Seasons had a good chef.”

  “Obviously, you didn’t make use of him. You’re thin, darling, maybe just a little too thin. Don’t you think so, Meg?”

  “I made blueberry pie for dessert,” Meg said, as if pie were the answer to every nutritional deficiency.

  “My favorite,” Oz murmured.

  Oz didn’t talk much, but then their marriage dynamic was driven by the Mitzi Junior syndrome where his position didn’t require much speech. But he didn’t seem to mind as long as he could watch the football season on TV with a minimum of interruptions.

  Cassie really liked him and his easygoing manner. He was a hands-on dad, too, and could take over and watch the kids without having to ask where their clothes were or when they went to bed or whether one disliked peas and the other carrots. He was involved enough to know. Meg was really lucky.

  That thought brought up Cassie’s own poignant lack of a significant other, and inexplicably her eyes began to fill with tears. Quickly reaching for her wine glass, she took a few swift gulps and tried to distract her mind with the immediate sensations of a very good, full-bodied, velvety Bordeaux swirling down her throat.

  “Tell us about that fancy English collection you worked on,” Meg said.

  Could Meg tell she was near to embarrassing herself? Was she deliberately jogging her out of her sudden melancholy? Cassie didn’t dare look up for a moment until she’d blinked away the wetness in her eyes. “The original Lord Boswick was Chancellor of the Exchequer for Lord Palmerston,” she offered and went on to deliver a thumbnail sketch of the collection and the current owner, finishing with a description of the thirty-thousand-square-foot home Bill Spencer and his family occupied.

  Then her mother began detailing the numerous six- and ten-million-dollar homes she’d seen in Florida, which pretty well got them through dinner and into the blueberry pie and vanilla ice cream that smoothed over Cassie’s hopefully unnoticed awkward moment of near tears.

  Fortunately, there was never any lack of conversation with Mitzi and Meg in the same room—a blessing in Cassie’s current unstable condition, mood wise. She wasn’t capable tonight of any light, vivacious, I’m-your-date-for-the-evening-what-are-your-favorite-books-or-movies kind of conversation. She was more interested in bolting just as soon as she could—no offense to the good-looking, nice, and polite Drew, who seemed to be very mellow about this whole stupid situation.

  But it had really hit her somewhere between dessert and coffee, how she wasn’t responding even slightly to handsome, pleasant Drew, who might just as well have been a wooden statue seated beside her.

  She wasn’t getting a single vibe.

  She didn’t have a scintilla of interest in seeing him again.

  She didn’t even care if he had ten million dollars of his own money in his daddy’s bank. She was completely indifferent to his looks, charm, and status.

  Not that she’d ever been concerned with status.

  But certainly, she’d never been blind to looks and charm.

  Don’t go there, her voice of reason warned. Not even for a second.

  Just stay the hell away.

  Maybe she’d drunk too much wine. Maybe the three cups of coffee so late at night were making her shaky—her psyche included. Or maybe she’d been trying so hard not to think of Bobby that her circuits had tripped and all the power stations holding back those thoughts had shut down.

  What was he doing now, she wondered? What time was it in his current time zone? Was he with a blonde or a brunette, or had he found another redhead? She never questioned the fact that he’d found company—unlike her. He was pursued big time, and she doubted he was running very fast.

  “Cassie! You’re daydreaming again!”

  Meg’s voice brought her back with a start.

  “You must be tired, dear,” her mother murmured. “She’s been working too hard,” she added, giving Drew a small, sad smile. “I know her supervisor—what’s his name again, dear? Arthur, that’s it. Well, he’s not a very nice man, and I don’t mind saying it. Don’t look at me like that, Cassie. He’s been married three times, and who knows if he’ll be stopping at three. He doesn’t seem to realize this isn’t Hollywood. And he insists Cassie get to work early when there’s really no need for anyone to be at their desk at seven o’clock. Can you imagine seven o’clock? With the terrible rush-hour traffic and all. Well, he’s just a dreadful man, and that’s a fact.”

  One of Cassie’s greatest fears was that her mother and Arthur would meet someday because, despite her troublesome meddling, Mitzi had the heart of a lioness when it came to her daughters’ welfare. “He gave me a nice raise, Mom, so he’s not all bad,” Cassie offered in an effort to soothe the wild beast.

  “Well, you deserve one. I’m glad he finally realized it. What with Jay’s well—unpleasantness—and you with that big, empty house and all. A little extra income won’t hurt. Meg tells me you’re divorced, too, Drew. I hope your divorce was more agreeable than poor Cassi
e’s. Although Jay never did strike me as husband material, and I said it more than once.”

  When Drew didn’t reply to such a loaded question, Mitzi prodded. “Are you still on speaking terms with your wife, Drew?”

  “We get along.” His voice was neutral.

  Oz smiled because he knew Drew’s wife, and no one got along with her. She gave orders like a drill sergeant, a fact unknown to Drew until after the marriage.

  “Were you married long?”

  “Six months.”

  Mitzi’s eyes flared wide, and it was obvious to even the most obtuse that she was reconsidering the merits of a man, however rich, if he couldn’t stay married more than six months. Her daughter didn’t need any more heartache. “How interesting,” she said in a tone of voice that was clearly probationary.

  And when you said “How interesting” in Minnesota, it meant you didn’t like it or you probably weren’t going to like it or you thought the particular person, place, or thing was weirder than a three-dollar bill.

  For her part, Cassie found the six months thing intriguing. Not enough to actively pursue, but at least Drew wasn’t the complete perfect, bland image he projected—handsome, pleasant, heir to his daddy’s bank. That six months thing gave him character.

  Her smile projected her approval.

  “She screamed,” he murmured under his breath. “It was a shock.”

  “Good for you,” she murmured back. And she meant it. If she’d had half a brain, she would have dumped Jay the first time he gave her some lame excuse for coming home late. But no, she was willing to forgive and forget. Wasn’t that what a mature, reasonable adult was supposed to do? Was she stupid or what?

  “I hate blind dates,” he whispered.

  “No kidding.”

  “Not tonight, though.”

  “If only.”

  “There’s someone else Meg doesn’t know about?” he said with a grin.

  “Maybe when hell freezes over there might be.”

  His brows rose. “Unrequited love?”

  “It wasn’t love.”

  His smile projected a small heat. “Then let me say, if you ever change your mind, give me a call. Your sister has my number.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. On the other hand, I have a friend who was looking real hard at someone who could have been your twin last night.”

  “I really do hate blind dates.”

  “Think about it. She’s nice. Her name’s Liv, and her number’s S-E-E-S-N-O-W. She likes to ski.”

  “Okay. I’ll think about it.” He suddenly looked up. “We seem to be alone.”

  Cassie had noticed her mother shooing everyone out of the dining room, but she wasn’t about to say stay and embarrass her some more. Apparently, Drew’s money had trumped his brief marriage. “Wanna get out of here?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I’ll say we’re going to a movie. You watch my mom and Meg smile widely like they just picked the winning bachelorette and then we’ll make our escape.”

  “No movie?”

  “Sorry.”

  He grinned. “It was worth a try.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look like the guy on Sex and the City?”

  “Not more than twenty times a day.”

  “Okaaay. Then pretend I’m Samantha, and follow my lead.”

  Cassie was right.

  They were practically pushed out the door by her sister and mother. She told Drew thanks as they walked to their cars and really meant it. Maybe she should feel guilty about skipping out, she thought, unlocking her car. But she didn’t. She felt exhilarated. And the evening hadn’t been all bad, she decided, pulling her car out onto the street. The blueberry pie had been prime.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  IN THE FOLLOWING MONTH, CASSIE KEPT herself as busy as possible. She actually played tennis with Liv, and she hated tennis. She went into the museum on the weekends, when she rarely did. She worked in her gardens until there wasn’t a weed in sight and the flowers were blooming their heads off thanks to her vigilance. Even her temperamental roses were at their peak, the scent and color and riotous growth a testament to her on-the-brink-of-melancholy pampering.

  On occasion, Arthur would make some remark about Bobby just to jerk her chain, but she always ignored him and with their personal dynamic shifted, he didn’t press the point.

  But one day, over lunch in the coffee room, Emma said, “Bobby Serre is back in the States—in Montana. I heard Arthur talking to him—something about an insurance report.”

  It shouldn’t have mattered. Whether Bobby was in Europe or Montana or down the block had no impact on her life. He lived in a different world—one with legions of women clamoring for his body. A world that had nothing to do with her. “I imagine he’s living the good life as usual,” she said, trying not to sound bitter or rejected or dejected. And failing miserably.

  “You could call him, you know. What do you have to lose?”

  “My self-respect. He’s not waiting for a phone call from me.”

  “How do you know? You two seemed to get along pretty well while he was here.”

  “While he was here is the operative phrase. He’s the poster child for that old Bob Dylan song, ‘Like a Rolling Stone.’ ”

  “Montana’s not so far,” Emma said, pressing the point because Cassie had been in the doldrums since Bobby left. “I could get his address. Arthur must have it.”

  “Perfect. So I show up on his doorstep, he opens the door and says, ‘I didn’t order any pizza,’ or ‘The cleaning ladies have already been here,’ the possibility that he’d actually remember me totally erased by the ten thousand females that have passed through his life since May.”

  “And then you say, ‘I’m not wearing any panties,’ ” Emma said with a grin, “and he’ll let you in.”

  Cassie laughed. “The worst thing about that scenario is you’re probably right.”

  “I know I’m right.”

  Cassie grinned. “Personal experience?”

  “Try it. It works every time.”

  “I wish I had the audacity.”

  “Well, if you ever change your mind, let me know. I’ll give you his phone number.”

  * * *

  IN THE SAME general time frame, Bobby Serre was out of phone range, as he’d been for most of the last month. After sitting on his porch for approximately one and a half minutes, he’d called his cousin who lived on a ranch in the valley and asked him if he wanted to hang out in the mountains for a while.

  “How long a while?” Charlie Wolf asked.

  “A week or two.”

  “Or three or four—I know you. My wife will complain. But tell you what. I’ll go with you for a week and see if Marlys sends up one of the kids to get me. If she doesn’t, I’ll stay longer.”

  “Great. How’s tomorrow for you?”

  “Afternoon will do. That’ll give me time to settle things with my foreman . . . and Marlys.”

  “I’ll ride over about four.”

  The men had ridden their ponies up into the Madison Range where they’d spent weeks and months as youths. And when Marlys hadn’t complained, Charlie had stayed another week. But his oldest son came to get him after the second week, and when Charlie got home he told Marlys he hadn’t seen Bobby so bummed out since Cathy Sue Gardener had turned him down for the tenth-grade homecoming dance.

  The fact that Bobby Serre was thinking seriously about a woman was a hot topic of conversation at the Dugout Bar in town. Not that he’d actually mentioned her name, Charlie had said, but he and Bobby had been close since they could walk, and this was the Cathy Sue syndrome all over again. He’d bet his best palomino mustang on it.

  Bobby came down from the mountains toward the end of the month, unshaven and noticeably thinner, his skin even darker from the sun, his hair pulled back in a ponytail, his palms calloused from weeks of riding. He was planning on meeting his folks and brother in Nantucket for the Fourth, he told Charlie. Then he’d probably
go over to France for the rest of the summer. Something about a new manager at his place over there, Charlie told all the regulars at the Dugout Bar. Then conversation shifted to Cathy Sue, who had gone on to Hollywood and was one of those presenters on The Price Is Right. Everyone thought she still looked mighty sharp in a strapless gown.

  THIRTY-NINE

  CASSIE HAD BEEN AVOIDING THINKING about the Fourth. She’d always loved the holiday, ever since she was a kid and her whole family had packed up and gone into their small town—that had since become a suburb—and took part in the festivities. They’d sit on the lawn chairs her father had brought in the back of the pickup truck on a strategically located curb and watch the parade go by: the recycled floats sporting area princesses and queens; the Cub Scouts and Brownies in their uniforms; the Legion ladies and Color Guard, who got a little fatter every year; the clowns from the Shriners in the cities; the local school band in their wool uniforms that made them faint on the really hot Fourth of Julys; the implement dealer’s son driving their hundred-thousand-dollar John Deere with air-conditioning and a TV; the retirees from Green Acres in the horse and buggy; and every pickup truck driver in town who wanted to get into the parade.

  Then, when the parade was over, everyone would walk the few blocks to the town park, where the carnival had been set up, and ride all the rides and eat cotton candy, mini-donuts, grilled corn on the cob, and pork chops on a stick until they almost puked. And the street dance at night was fun for all ages, the adults tolerating the little kids getting in their way on the temporary Second Avenue asphalt dance floor between Maple and Main.

  But Cassie couldn’t get herself in the mood this Fourth. The small town was more or less swallowed up by the suburbs, and everyone was going up to the lake anyway, she told herself, as if that hadn’t been true for the past ten years. But she was looking hard for reasons to stay home, particularly because her mother and sister had been pressing her to come up to the lake. So far, she’d been able to fend off their appeals.