These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (17 page)

I'm sure my face is crimson as I shoot out of there still clutching my bottom. I spot Emma, the forlorn bowling ball, rolling toward the exit. I imagine the double doors turning into pins that she will knock down, with me barreling through right behind her. I rush toward her, still holding the seat of my pants, and call her name.

“What's wrong?” she asks as I practically shove her out the door.

“Can I catch a ride with you?” I ask breathlessly.

She catches her balance and stares at me in wonder as I explain my unfortunate incident in colorful detail. Before long we're both laughing about it.

“I'm guessing you don't want to get something to eat now.”

“I just need to go home,” I say desperately.

“No problem.”

Once I'm safely in my driveway, I thank Emma for the ride, then go straight into the house and make a beeline to the full-length mirror in my room so I can survey the damage—not to the pants so much as to my ego. Is it even possible to still have an ego when your backside looks like this? The baseball pants have a vertical split that runs all the way from the waistband to the crotch. To make matters worse—or maybe not when you consider the coverage I was getting—I'm wearing an ugly pair of light blue granny panties. Why do I even try?

spend all day Sunday lying low, hoping the town will forget about my granny-panties-clad derriere making such an unexpected appearance at the Black Bear Fitness Club Halloween party. My mother assures me that no one even noticed. Yeah, right!

But by Monday I know I need to get serious about my can-do plan. First I call and report the credit-card fraud. This takes longer than I expected and involves filling out some forms, which I arrange to have faxed to my mom. The woman I speak to says that these cases rarely get resolved and that I shouldn't assume that Monica's real last name is Johnson. Duh. Then, despite the pain of almost emptying my checking account and saying good-bye to my severance pay, I pay off the Valentino boots and most of the credit-card bill, telling myself that one way or another Monica Johnson is going to make good on this.

Thinking of Monica reminds me of Will. I wonder how he's doing, whether he got a good restaurant job, and if my little recommendation helped at all. I wonder if he got his cell phone reconnected and am tempted to call the number he gave me, but what would I say? That I've managed to do practically nothing
since I got home? Still, it would be good to hear his voice. Without giving it any more consideration, I punch in his number. To my utter surprise, he answers.

“Uh, Will,” I say, wishing I hadn't done this. “Hey, this is Cassidy.”

“Oh, hi, Cassidy. What's up?”

“Not much. I just wondered how you're doing.”

“Great, actually. But I'm at work right now. Not a good time to talk.”

“So you got a job?”

“I did. Thanks for writing that recommendation.”

“I'm so glad for you.”

“Life going well for you too?”

“Uh, sure. Things are great.”

“It's good to hear your voice. I wish I could talk—”

“That's okay, Will. I'm just glad to know everything worked out for you.”

“Thanks, Cassidy. Catch you later, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I hang up and try not to feel envious that Will has a life. I mean, really, I'm glad. He's a great guy. It's very cool that he has a job. I don't know why I assumed that he'd be like me, stuck in a slump. His life is on track. He's moving on. Well, good for him.

Staring at my sorry bank balance drives home the point: I need to follow Will's example and get a job too. So I set up my laptop computer and printer and update my resume, which is pretty
impressive, if you ask me. Then I pour another cup of coffee and sit down to scour the classifieds in search of something that suits my educational training and experience. But all I find are ads like “wait staff needed for weekends and evenings” or “cashier for convenience market, experienced only” or “money-making opportunity for motivated salespersons,” which smells like telemarketing to me. Finally I fold the newspaper and decide I must try another tack. I get out the skinny local phone book and start to list any businesses that might need a marketing guru, which is what I've decided I am. Of course, my list is pitifully short and not very promising. Eventually I wad it up and toss it into the trash. What was I thinking when I moved back here? How can I possibly make a decent living in a town this size? And I can't keep living with Mom. Not only is it humiliating to have to admit that I live with my mother, but it's frustrating to witness her social life, which is much more highly evolved than mine.

Despite my optimistic can-do plan, I'm afraid that it's useless to attempt to accomplish it in this town. And even if I did get a job here, I still don't have a car to get me back and forth from work once the weather snaps, which it will soon. Oh, Mom would probably loan me the down payment, but what's the point if I end up working at the Dairy Queen or 7-Eleven?

To fight off the gloomy cloud of depression that's settling over me, I decide to at least stick to my regimen of walking. I even consider walking to the fitness center and having a nice long swim, but the idea of seeing someone who saw my behind at the costume
party deters me. I wonder if I'll ever be able to show my face there again. Maybe I should take Penny up on her offer to work out with me. If I stick around, that is, which seems increasingly unlikely.

Its crispy cold outside, but the air is invigorating. I walk briskly, striding down familiar streets and crunching autumn leaves under my feet. I could get used to this rural sort of lifestyle. As much as I tried to convince myself I was a city girl, part of me likes the slower pace here. Still, it's no good without a job. It's even less good without a social life. And it wouldn't hurt to have a boyfriend either! This leads me to think of Todd again, which is totally ridiculous. My chances of winning the lottery are probably better than my chances with him. And so, with all these things against me, I decide that it's poindess to stick around. As soon as I get home, I'll go online and do a national search on one of those job-finding Web sites, and I'll take the best thing that pops up, no matter where it is.

Even as I make this decision, I feel a lump growing in my throat. I feel so lost—more lost than I've ever been in my life. More lost than anyone should be at the age of thirty-one, an age when most people are really starting to get it together. The thirties are supposed to be the decade when your career takes off, the years you become financially stable, maybe even get a BMW or something along those lines. It's a time to buy real estate and settle down with the one you love and start a family. Of course, these sad thoughts are underscored as I walk through a quiet family neighborhood. I see neat little houses with bikes in the yards and moms loading
complaining kids into minivans, and moms walking with strollers toward the litde city park. And I feel so sad, so robbed. Life is so unfair. It's not that I want to be stuck at home with a couple of kids, but it's not that I don't either. Frankly, I don't know what I want. I just know that I don't want this. I don't want
my
life.

As I turn back toward home, I feel tears streaking my face again. I'm having a pity party of one. But it's my business, and if I want to cry, so what? There's no one around to see me. Even if there were, it couldn't be a worse humiliation than I experienced on Halloween.

I feel so desperate that all I want is to give up. I know the only thing that can really help me at times like this is to pray. I also know, despite the confident claim I made to Eric, that I've been pushing God further and further away since my life fell apart. Even though I thought about going to Gary Frye's church yesterday, I couldn't make myself do it. The truth is, I've been secretly mad at God. Maybe I subconsciously thought I could do a better job of putting my life back together than he would. It wasn't like he did such a great job before, when I was following his direction—-at least that's what I thought I was doing. Suddenly I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything except that my life has fallen apart, and I'm falling apart with it.

And so, feeling totally directionless, I decide as I turn the corner toward my house (really my mom's house) to ask God to intervene. I confess to him that I've been mad, that I'm hurting, and that I'm not doing such a great job. If he has a better plan, I ask, won't
he please, please reveal it to me? I don't know what more to say. I know I'm groveling, but I figure God's used to that sort of thing. And maybe he wants us to grovel sometimes. Maybe we get too full of ourselves, and maybe he wants to remind us who's really boss.

It's noon by the time I get home, and Mom's pretty car is in the driveway. I'm not eager for her to see me looking so miserable, since it only seems to frustrate her. So as I go inside, I wipe my wet face and decide I'll tell her that the chilly air made my eyes water and turned my cheeks red.

“Cassie!” She looks happy to see me. “I was hoping I'd find you. You'll never guess what happened.”

“You sold another house?”

“Well, possibly. But that's not what I'm talking about. This has to do with you.”

“What?” I feel a faint flicker of hope.

“I had coffee with Ross Goldberg this morning.” She smiles mysteriously.

“Let me guess,” I offer. “He proposed marriage to you, and he wants to adopt me and give me a million dollars as a—”

“No, silly! But he might want to give you a job.”

“Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes as I remember the selection of low-level jobs at Black Bear Butte. “What, as a lift attendant? Or maybe I can work at the snack bar in the lodge. I can sling a mean bowl of chili.”

“No, not anything like that, Cassie. He needs a marketing consultant. He said he's ready to take the ski resort to the next level.
He's made lots of improvements and wants to see some money coming back in. He thinks he needs a really good marketing campaign, and I told him you might be just the one to do it.”

I feel my eyes light up. “Really?”

“Yes! Isn't that wonderful?”

I nod without speaking, remembering my prayer of moments ago.

“Of course, you'll have to interview with him and—”

“I just printed out my resume,” I tell her.

“Perfect.”

“Uh, was Ross at the party Saturday night?” I ask uncomfortably “I mean, do you think he saw the, uh, spectacle I made of myself?”

She laughs. “Really, sweetie, almost no one noticed. And Ross was not there. He doesn't even belong to the fitness center. He has this great workout room in his home.”

“You've been to his home?”

She looks slightly uncomfortable. “Well, yes. At one point he was thinking of listing it. I think that's the first time I saw it.”

“So you've been there more than once?”

“Well, we're friends, Cassie. You know that.”

“So is it your friendship that made him think up this marketing job?”

“No,” she says, “not at all. We were just chatting, and he mentioned needing to do something. And I told him about your background. He didn't even know.”

“And he really wants to talk to me?”

“Of course.”

“So what do I do? Should I call him or what?”

“Call his assistant.” She pulls a business card out of her jacket pocket. “Her name is Marge, and she'll set it up.”

I hug Mom. “Thanks! This is so cool.”

“And, honey?”

“Yeah?”

“You should probably wear something nice—you know, businesslike. Ross is from the old school. He likes people to look professional.”

I try not to feel insulted. “Mom,” I say in a tone that sounds like I'm fifteen again, “I know how to dress for business. I have a pretty decent professional wardrobe that I haven't even unpacked yet.

“Well, you do have a nice pair of boots,” she admits with a twinkle in her eye.

I scowl at her. “And I have some nice things to go with them.” I don't tell her that those nice things have probably kept me from having a bigger savings account and a car. “Uh, Mom,” I venture, “I'm guessing I'll have to go to Black Bear Butte for the interview, right?”

She nods as she thumbs through the mail.