Cindi Myers - Marriage on Her Mind

He’d been standing by the bar, making fun of the singing when he’d locked eyes with her across the room. She’d looked exhausted and more than a little lost in the midst of the raucous crowd. What man wouldn’t have stepped in to help her?

“Well, I appreciate it, anyway,” Casey said. She rearranged her silverware, avoiding his eyes. Which was a real shame. She had beautiful eyes. The gray of a stormy sky.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the letters that had come for her this morning. “These were in the mail for you,” he said.

She took the letters, frowning when she read the address on the first one—the one from Mr. and Mrs. Charles Jernigan. When she got to the one from Paul Rittinghouse she positively glowered. “You don’t look too thrilled with mail from home,” he said.

She glanced up at him, her cheeks flushed, then folded the envelopes in half and stuffed them into her pocket. “I’m surprised, that’s all. I mean, I just got here.”

“They must have been mailed before you left,” he said.

“You’re probably right.” Her expression brightened, but he had the impression the look was forced. “Heather has been telling me about the Flauschink Polka Ball,” she said.

“I was explaining to her she needs to come up with a costume,” Heather said.

“And I’ve been trying to explain to her I’m not really much for fancy parties,” she said. She’d attended enough overdone celebrations in Chicago to last a lifetime.

“I wouldn’t call the Polka Ball fancy,” Max said. “It’s mostly just fun.”

“Your costume will have to be something simple,” Heather said. “We’ve only got a week. And I don’t think anything in my closet will fit her.”

“What about that ball gown or whatever it is in your closet?” Max asked. The thing had taken up half her car, like one of those hoop-skirted costumes from Gone with the Wind or something.

“No.” She shook her head, her cheeks a deep pink. “That wouldn’t be appropriate at all.”

Heather gave Max a questioning look. He shrugged. Whatever was in that bag, Casey clearly didn’t want to talk about it and he wasn’t going to push it.

“Why do I have to have a costume?” Casey asked. “Couldn’t I stay home?”

“And miss one of the best parties of the year?” Max asked.

“You haven’t lived until you’ve heard the polka version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’” Heather said. “Besides, we’ll need you there to help sell tickets and things like that.”

“Maybe I’ll wear what I have on and go as a normal person,” Casey said. “I can wear a sign around my neck that says Endangered Species.”

Max laughed. “That’s pretty good. But the whole point is to shake you out of normal person mode. It’ll be good for you.” She obviously had a sense of humor, but there was a certain tension about her, as if she were always reining herself in.

“Do you have a red dress?” Heather asked.

“Not entirely red, no. Why?”

“Does it have some red in it?”

She nodded. “But why do you want to know?”

Heather turned to Max. “I’ve got red heels and red fishnet hose she can borrow. And my red feather boa. She can go as Miss Scarlet.”

“Miss Scarlet?”

“From the board game Clue. Ben Romney came last year as Colonel Mustard and we all said it was a shame we didn’t have a Miss Scarlet, too.”

“What are you coming to the party as?” Casey asked Max.

He grinned. “You’ll have to show up and find out.”

“Last year he was Mr. Disco, in orange bell-bottoms and a rainbow Afro.” Heather laughed. “Add a clown nose and big shoes and you could use the same outfit as a clown costume.”

“I promise you will be astounded and amazed by my costume this year,” Max said. He’d outdone himself, if he did say so.

“Your food’s getting cold,” Hagan called.

“We have to get back to work, anyway.” Heather stood and Casey rose also.

“See you later, neighbor,” Max said.

The smile she gave him made him warm clear-through, setting off warning bells in his brain. He did his best to ignore them. He and Casey would be friends, that’s all. He didn’t have any intention of taking things any further. Why ruin a good friendship with something as messy as romance?

THAT AFTERNOON, Casey waited until Heather was involved in a lengthy phone call before she slipped the letters out of her pocket. She opened the one from her parents first, already pretty sure of what it would say.

As she’d expected, the letter in turns scolded her for being so foolish and irresponsible, pleaded with her to come to her senses and return home and reminded her how disappointed they were that she had embarrassed them so in front of all their friends.

Of course, that was what was most important, wasn’t it? The impression she gave to all their friends. Never mind what she might be feeling. What she might want. Over the years she’d tried in various ways to tell her parents that she didn’t want the kind of public acclaim and popularity they craved, but she could never make them understand.

And worse, they’d almost succeeded in convincing her that she was wrong, that of course she was supposed to lead the kind of life they’d planned out for her—the good marriage to a prominent member of society, the memberships in the Junior League, the League of Women Voters, the Chicago Art Project, et cetera, the house in Madison Park or the Gold Coast and a vacation home on Martha’s Vineyard. Shopping at all the right stores, eating at all the right restaurants, knowing all the right people.

She’d almost believed them. Until the morning she woke up in a panic and realized that if she didn’t do something soon—something drastic—she’d be trapped forever in a life she’d never wanted.

She glanced over and saw that Heather was still on the phone. She dropped the letter from her parents, along with the envelope, into the shredder and watched with relief as the missive was reduced to paper ribbons.

But when she looked at the second letter, her relief vanished, replaced by sheer dread. Why had Paul written her? Obviously, her parents had given him her address here. Possibly they’d even encouraged him to try to talk some sense into her. Because, of course, anything she did that went against their wishes was senseless.

She stared at the envelope, at the neat, clipped handwriting. As upright and proper as the man himself.

Not that there was anything wrong with Paul, she reminded herself. He was a perfectly nice man. Good-looking. Rich. The perfect boyfriend.

Except he hadn’t been perfect for her and she couldn’t make anyone believe that. Not even, apparently, Paul.

She sat there, hand poised to tear open the envelope. But really, what could he say that she wanted to hear? He wasn’t going to make her think differently. He wasn’t going to make her go back.

Quickly, before she changed her mind, she leaned over and fed the letter, unopened, to the shredder.

Then she sat back with a sigh of relief, feeling as if she’d narrowly avoided a collision with a Mack truck.

Oddly enough, it was the same feeling she’d had when she’d made the decision to come here to Crested Butte. Everyone else thought she was crazy, but right now this was better than any sanity she’d previously known.

WHEN SHE AND MAX MET UP later that afternoon, Casey was surprised to learn they were taking the bus up to Crested Butte Mountain resort. “I’d have to dig out my Jeep to use it,” Max said, carrying a box full of miscellaneous snowboard parts to the bus stop in front of the chamber building. “Besides, the bus is free—the tourist tax dollars at work.”

Casey wasn’t about to admit she’d never taken public transportation before, much less something like this funky painted bus full of tourists. As the aide to the mayor, her father supported public transportation, though he didn’t feel that required him or his family to use it. Casey had traveled by private car, taxi or even limousine service.

“The bus is a great idea,” she said, as she followed him into the vehicle. This one was decorated with a scene of the mountains in summer, covered in wildflowers. She settled onto the seat beside Max and looked around at their fellow passengers: a mom and dad and their three children bundled up in ski jackets and knit caps, a group of teenagers similarly dressed, a young couple holding hands and an older man dressed in a chef’s uniform, obviously on his way to work at one of the resort hotels.

The bus pulled away from the stop and Casey turned her attention to Max. “Where are you taking the box?”

“George Taylor’s, right at the base of the lifts. I didn’t need this stuff and they did, so rather than me send it back and them ordering more, we’re doing a trade.”

“So you have a good relationship with your competition.”

He gave her a duh look. “Pretty much all the business owners up here get along. No reason not to. There’s room for all of us.”

In fifteen minutes the bus dropped them off in front of a soaring wood-and-steel building. “New condos,” Max said. “They sell out as fast as they can build them, so they keep building more.”

Casey turned to take in the tall buildings that rose on all sides. “It certainly looks different here than it does in town,” she said. Rough-hewn stone, oversize timbers and artful use of rusted metal gave the buildings the feel of a Bavarian village—a very tall, very modern Bavarian village. Groups of smiling people, some carrying skis or snowboards, all bundled in colorful parkas, made their way along the walkways between the buildings and the rows of shops that sold ski equipment, clothing and souvenirs.

“The resort is really growing,” Max said as they started up the sidewalk. “The condos have changed the look of the mountain, but that’s progress. The tourists pay the bills and at least we’ve kept it confined to the mountain.”

They came to an icy stretch of pavement and Max took her arm. The chivalrous gesture—or maybe it was the masculine strength of the hand supporting her—sent a pleasant warmth through her. “Thanks,” she said.

“Sure.” She half hoped he’d keep hold of her, but as soon as they were clear of the ice, he released her.

Past the condos, they could see the slopes, the ski lift silent, empty chairs swinging in the cold wind. “Do you ski or snowboard?” Max asked.

“I’ve skied some, on vacations with my parents or friends.” But those trips had really been more about wearing the right fashions and making the right connections than the actual skiing.

“Now that you’re living here, you’ll have the chance to get really good if you want,” he said.

She glanced at him. “Are you really good?”

“I do all right. I have to test out the equipment to sell it, you know.”

They entered the snowboard shop. After the night chill, the interior of the shop felt almost too warm. A young woman in a pink baby-doll T-shirt layered over a white thermal underwear top waved at them. “Hey, Max. George is in the back.”

A bearded young man in a leather apron hailed them from the back of the shop. “Hey, Max.” He took the box from him. “Thanks for bringing these in. Sue’s got a check for you.”

“No problem. This is Casey. She’s new in town—works at the chamber.”

“Welcome to town.” George shook hands with her, then turned back to Max. “Have you seen those new mono-skis I just got in?”

“No. Let me check them out.”

While the men talked equipment, Casey wandered to a rack of clothing and began thumbing through the jackets, pants and knit tops. She’d definitely need to add to her wardrobe of casual clothes. Most of the suits and dresses she’d brought with her were too formal even to wear to work. Even business was a more casual affair in C.B. than it had been in Chicago.