Marriage on Her Mind. Cindi Myers

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