These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (20 page)

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, Cassidy. 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.”