“I’m thankful for Prospero.”
Silence cascades around the apartment like a flood. Gisele smiles, not knowing who Prospero is, Joel frowns, and Mom looks perplexed, her fists clenched.
“You’re thankful for your cat?” she asks.
“That’s so sweet!” gushes Gisele.
“Yes. I’m thankful for my cat.” I reach for the one thing on the table I actually want to eat, and slice through the marshmallow layer to reach the gooey orange insides.
“What about this fine meal I’ve prepared for you? Or for your brother being home? Isn’t there anything else you’re thankful for?” Her pleading does nothing to my resolve, and I stare at the sweet potatoes. Sure, this is immature, but I’ve had it this month. All I wanted to do was have Thanksgiving and maybe chat with my brother while watching a movie. Now, I have to share him with Gisele, and the meal is pretty much a bust. And if I mention either of these things my mother will explode, her ears most likely landing in the flan on the counter.
Joel clears his throat and gets Mom’s attention. “This tastes awesome, Mom.”
“Thank you, sweetheart! I worked so hard.”
I sweep my bangs out of my face, tossing my head, and Mom glares. “I don’t understand why you even bother with that haircut, Cassie. You have to push those silly half-bangs out of your eyes every five seconds. If you want bangs, get bangs, or put in a hair clip. You’re driving me crazy.” Since Gisele has the same hairstyle, she blushes and tucks her hair behind one ear. Mom doesn’t notice her discomfort and keeps berating me. “You’ve been a nuisance all day. I don’t ask for much. A peaceful Thanksgiving, wouldn’t that be nice, I thought, but I guess it’s not worth planning if you’re going to mope all day long.”
“Mom,” Joel starts but she cuts him off.
“And your poor brother took a late flight to be here and all you do is fight and make him want to leave early.”
“I have work, it’s not Cassie’s fault.”
“Stop, Joel. I know you feel unwelcome here, and I know it’s not me driving you away. Who else can it be?” Her eyes bore into me like drills, and I stand, wipe my mouth, and leave the table. “See! There she goes. Stomping off instead of telling us what’s wrong.”
“She’s had a rough few months…” I don’t hear what else Joel tells Mom. I take my coat from the hall closet and exit quickly. Maybe there is an open store where I can find some counterfeit stuffing and a piece of pumpkin pie. I might not cook well, but it would be better than stupid brussels sprouts and runny flan.
I’m at home when Joel calls me to apologize for Mom’s outburst. Prospero lies by my feet on the couch, purring. At least someone’s happy to see me.
“I can’t believe she said those things, sis. It’s not like her to explode like that.”
“Yes, it is. Remember, you don’t live here. You get Good Mom. I get Yelling, Shitty Advice Mom.” He hears the venom in my voice and changes the subject.
“I know you’ve had it rough this year, so I’ll forgive you for making fun of Gisele.”
“I only made fun of her in my head.”
“Even so.”
Damn Joel. He can always tell what I’m thinking. “I should have gone somewhere else for Thanksgiving or bought all the groceries myself.”
“I don’t think that would have won you any points either.”
“No kidding. She would have said that I was usurping her day to shine. It’s been really hard with her. She’s so jealous of Dad.”
“Why would she be jealous of Dad? Like he has anything going for him.”
“Please, I don’t want to fight.”
“Fine,” he sighs, “so how’s the love life?”
“Horrible.” Joel laughs, and I chuckle too. It reminds me of when we were kids and Jean Foster liked him. She was a skinny little thing with braces and knobby knees. I teased him mercilessly that summer. He only punched me once, but since he was nine it didn’t hurt that much. We still laugh about it.
“I could give you some pointers. I’m a gold medal dater.”
“I know. I’ve seen some of them.”
“Seriously! I know a lot about dating.”
“You know about dating women. What could you possibly tell me about dating men? Did you have a weird college experience I don’t know about?”
“Nothing like that. Didn’t I warn you about Pete when you first started seeing him? I have this innate ability to pick out assholes.” He says it so proudly that I don’t chide him for bringing up Pete.
“It’s your superpower: douche vision.”
“Exactly. That’s how I met Gisele. She was dating this prick movie producer who told her she’s fat all the time.”
“If Gisele’s fat then I’m morbidly obese.”
“Neither of you are fat! If I were a chick, I’d kick a guy in the nuts if he called me fat.”
“That’s assault, little bro.”
“Confess to a girl cop. She’d let you off the hook.” We’re giggling like mad again, both imagining me running to a cute policewoman and bearing my heart and felonies. When I catch my breath, I ask Joel what he thinks of Pete calling me on Halloween.
“That dickhead called you? I’m going to fucking kill him!” That’s a bit extreme.
“Slow down. I didn’t answer or anything.”
“Good! That guy was nothing but bad news for you! Don’t you remember how mean he was? I wanted to kick his sorry ass every time you made us hang out. I kept my cool out of brotherly love, but he’s not your fiancé anymore. After he dumped you—”
“I’m going to stop you right there.”
“I don’t care. Do not call him! I would forbid it, but that’d just make you dial faster.”
“I hate Pete,” I lie, hoping Joel believes me. The last thing I need is to help pay for Joel’s lawyer fees. Pete would be a messy red puddle on the pavement if Joel found him. “I won’t call him.”
“No matter how lonely you get this Christmas?”
“I promise.”
“I don’t believe you, but I guess it’s your life.” He sounds so sullen I almost laugh again.
“I would never go back to him. He ruined my life.”
“Sis, you let him ruin your life.” This stuns me, and I find I can’t breathe. Is that what everyone thinks? That I let Pete walk all over me, dump me, and find a new life?
“Is that what you really feel?”
“I’m sorry. I hate that guy.” He didn’t deny it. He believes I let Pete bring me down…maybe he’s right. Maybe I was cavalier about my feelings. Maybe I let things slide with Pete. “You there?” he asks.
“Yeah. I gotta go. Prospero’s hungry.”
“I fly out tomorrow. The sun’s calling me, and Gisele’s afraid her tan’s fading.”
“Did I tell you how charming I find her?”
“Shut up.” Sure, he can tell me how he feels about Pete, but the second I mention Gisele. Sheesh.
December
Dark Tan Dan and Rule Number Seven: Orange is a perfectly natural skin color.
Minnesota winters are harsh. It takes a special person to survive. I trick-or-treated in a Cinderella costume during a blizzard, I drove two hundred miles in sleet just to visit my cousin in Des Moines a few Januarys ago, and I run outside, until the snow gets too deep.
October doesn’t see much snowfall, and November can be more windy than snowy, but December is when Mr. Frost kicks things in gear. The first morning after a snowy night is exquisite. The trees are spray-painted sparkly white, the ground covered in pristine crystals, unless an early dog walker sullies it. The clear sky is stuck in time, the clouds barely moving or not present at all. We’ll be sick of the snow by January, but that one miraculous morning glows in our memories until Christmas.
Once New Years is past, the snow should be gone. Holiday festivities scream for snow, and a Christmastime without the white blanket seems alien, but after the presents are opened and the Auld Land Synes sung, there shouldn’t be
more snow. The snow angel’s novelty has passed. The snowmen droop and lose their shapes. The icicles dangle precariously overhead like Damocles’ sword, waiting to impale those caught unawares. Don’t laugh. I’ve seen it.
But now it’s December, and that first bedazzling snowfall has graced the Cities. I thank God that I have underground parking. The plow drivers don’t mess around. If you’re parked on the wrong side of the street, they’ll tow your ass. The magic of the holidays.
Keeley calls me before I go to work, knowing that I get a new assignment today. She wants to spring the next guy on me before I get bad news from Kelly—another romance novel.
“Hey babe! How was your Thanksgiving?”
“Uncomfortable and belligerent. Yours?”
“Fine. My mom made nothing, thank baby Jesus. She let the cook handle things this year.” Keeley’s mother is a famously terrible cook. The last time I ate her food I couldn’t get off the toilet for three hours. I feel jealous that her mother can relinquish control.
“So, what’s the bad news? I know you’ve got the next guy lined up and ready for slaughter.”
“Don’t worry. He’s not like the last one. And for the record, I was against setting you up with Sam. Alicia thought he was charmingly aloof, but every picture on the site showed his cats. I’m all for cats,” she adds, hoping not to offend me, “but one is enough.”
“Hear, hear,” I say and ruffle Prospero’s ears. He flips over and tries to bite my fingers. “Try for someone normal this time.”
“I picked this one! His name is Dan something, an architect!”
“That sounds promising.” People who build stuff can’t be that nuts right? They wouldn’t let crazies design skyscrapers, would they? “Any other info? Or do I have to research I.M. Pei?”
“He’s sooooo interesting! He sailed across the Atlantic, went zip-lining in the rainforest, and drove on the wrong side of the road in England!”
“He’s well-traveled.”
“Yup. He mostly likes to talk about his business trips.”
“He’s gone a lot? Why does he live in Minnesota?” I thought architects liked to live in bustling cities like New York and Los Angeles, not in Dullsville, Midwest. Sorry St. Paul. “Is he a snowbird?”
“He has a place in Florida, some condo, but he likes to stay in Minnesota until January.” Just like me! What wouldn’t I do for a place in Cabo during those horrid months known as January, February, and March? Even April’s iffy most years.
“How would you like to go skiing?”
“Not really. Not even a little bit.” Is she serious? I’m about as good a skier as I am a cyclist. Plus, I don’t have the thighs for ski pants. “How ridiculous would I look skiing?”
“Shut up, you can totally ski. We go all the time.”
“When exactly.”
“You know. That time in Ludson. All us girls went. We had a blast!”
“You mean that one time five years ago when I sat in the chalet drinking Bailey’s and hot chocolate? And Lindsey fractured her tailbone and Alicia left early because Mickey was sick? That one time?” I hear her breathing on the other end, trying to think of other fabulous skiing expeditions we’ve been on, but she’s got nothing.
“Oh hell, just go fucking skiing with the guy. He’s totally hot and has money.”
“Those are the only reasons to date a guy?” She giggles and tries to come up with some other reasons, like she tried to think of ski trips.
“There have got to be other reasons!”
“Lindsey might know some,” I say.
“The only reason Lindsey dates is to get laid.”
I agree to skiing and regret it the moment I set foot in Afton Alps. I remember coming here in grade school and junior high, dragged along with the elated kids who have their own skis and numerous lift badges attached to their coats like medals of honor. I fell a lot, got multiple bruises, and pulled muscles I did not know I had. I cannot stop very well and inevitably cease my descent by falling over. The last time I was here I almost hit the fence at the bunny hill’s bottom. I do not enjoy outdoor winter sports.
Today I wear my puffiest winter coat, a turquoise Columbia, along with a knit hat, gloves, and boots. I don’t own skiwear, so I’ll have to rent. The long, slim skis feel strange on my feet. I’d rather be strapped above a pit of hot coals. My breath freezes in midair and I cough, hating the sudden iciness in my throat. Who enjoys this? Is it even really a sport? My hair flies around my face with the wind, and I wish I’d put it in a ponytail.
As I trudge to the chalet to meet Dan, a sleek black BMW rushes past and careens into a parking space near the doors, throwing up snow cascades as it goes. He almost hit me! The nerve of some people! These affluent assholes are always the same.
Of course, the driver is my date. He steps out of the car and surveys the scene, a handsome face and dark black hair slicked back from a prominent forehead. His features are perfectly shaped, and I understand why Keeley found him attractive. His broad shoulders say: muscular, fit. His clothing is expensive, sleek, and black. There’s only one problem: he’s orange. Ten thousand times in the spray tan booth too orange. Oompa Loompa orange. Not tan. Not burnt sienna. Not even sun kissed. Freaking orange.
Now gentlemen, let me tell you about fake tans and the women who are not attracted to them. I’m one of them, but I’m sure I speak for many more in our great nation: put away the fake tanner and just let your skin be itself! I’m alabaster pale in winter, but do I spend obnoxious amounts of cash on something that makes me look like a pumpkin? Never, nope, non. The black clothing is not helping him at all. Mortified, I try to keep from laughing as I walk toward him. When he sees me, a blinding fluorescent smile greets me. So, he colors lots of body parts. There’s no way those choppers aren’t bleached. Is no part of this guy real?
“Cassandra?” His voice is thick and pleasant, self-assured. It reminds me of an old soap opera star, the guy in his late forties who still gets twenty-year-old girls.
“Hi Dan. Or do you prefer Daniel?” Yikes. First meetings are so awkward. I wish there was a way to traverse this part of the date, and I’ll bet men do too.
“Dan’s fine. The weather’s perfect for the first run of the year!” He must mean skiing, because I run year-round.
“It’s a bit windy,” I say and clutch my arms around my body.
“That’s okay. It makes things more interesting.” He looks me up and down.
“What?” I ask, annoyed. My attire isn’t designer ski, but it should do.
“You don’t have skis or boots.”
“You got me there. To tell you the truth, I don’t ski very often.” He is obviously shocked at my confession, as his mouth gapes open. I hope the girls didn’t regale him with my dizzying skiing endeavors. Crap.
“But you live in Minnesota! It’s almost as good as Colorado!” I highly doubt that, but I suppose he would know. “Afton Alps might not be the best, but it’s not bad. Didn’t your parents take you when you were younger?” I shrug and shake my head. My mother likes winter sports about as much as she likes pets, and my dad never had time to take us. He used to ski in his youth; there’s an odd picture of someone doing a ski jump at his apartment. I’ve never asked about it, because my father doing anything that thrilling is impossible.
“Wow. That sucks. I was four the first time I put on skis.” He rubs his hair back into position and gives me a nervous glance. “Are you sure you want to ski today?” He sounds like a pro flinching at his rookie pupil. He must have wanted to show off his prowess on the tougher slopes. I doubt I’d be able to get down those hills in one piece.
“I was hoping we could maybe cross-country ski for a bit then get some lunch at the chalet. I could try some hills, but I usually end up sliding down on my butt.”
“That’s fine. I have cross-country skis too.” I have no idea how he fit the skis into his tiny car, but he popped the trunk and they slid out like clothing in a vacuum-packed bag. They are very nice, new I�
��m sure. The downhill skis show more wear and tear. They look much older, as do his boots, but they must be top quality. He handles them like bags of diamonds.
“Don’t you need different boots for cross-country?”
“Not with these! They work on both skis. Specially made for my feet.”
“Interesting.” When a lady says “interesting” she usually means “weird.” It’s strange that he has custom-fit ski boots, right? I can’t conceive of a reason he would need them unless he lived in Aspen.
“I have a small cottage in Vail, so these babies come in handy.” Okay, so not Aspen. Three residences? He must move around a lot for work.
“You have places in Florida, Vail, and in the Cities?”
“I have a small flat in London too. That’s where I spend most of my time in spring. I do a lot of business there.” He designs buildings in England? This guy is pretty impressive, not counting the skin tone. Maybe I should give him a chance.
He walks beside me to the chalet, where he places his skis in the rack near the door. He straps his boots on after going in and this alters his gate, though his long legs easily keep pace with me. He shows me where to rent boots and skis and asks the employee where to go for the cross-country trails.
Once we start skiing, I loosen up. It’s a nice aerobic alternative to running, and the motion is much the same, but more elongated and flowing. We get into a groove and cruise around. The trail has a few small hills, nothing to upset my footing, and the crisp air smells wonderful in the evergreens. When the trail is wide enough, we ski side by side and he asks if I want to lead when it narrows. He’s so damn courteous I’m not sure what to do or say, and I find myself flushing, and not just from the chilly air. He’s loose with information about himself: how he came from a middle-class background in northern Minnesota, went to a New York college on scholarship and excelled at graphic design and architecture, and eventually found clients in England who admired his simplistic designs. He doesn’t mention siblings, so I tell him about Joel. He has two sisters, but they’re much older and still live up north. One of them married a Canadian!
Men of the Year Page 17