“These are marvelous,” says Marge after I make her take another one.
“What's this?” says Ross, coming out of his office.
“My valentine also knows how to make chocolates,” I brag as I hold the box out to him.
“No kidding? Will made these?” Iry one.
He takes one of the dark-chocolate cashew turtles, and as he slowly chews, a euphoric smile creeps onto his face. “These are amazing.”
I nod. “Yep, I know.”
“May I?” He's looking at the box.
“Of course. There's no way I can eat all of these.”
“Oh, man,” he says as he savors another. “These are decadent.”
“Exactly,” says Marge. “That's just what I was thinking.” “Will should open a chocolate shop,” says Ross. I feel my eyes widen. “You're absolutely right.” “I'd be a customer,” says Marge. “I'd be a backer,” says Ross. “I'd even carry them here.” A chocolate shop. Of course! I'm excited. I wonder if this could be the business that Will is looking for. I remember his concern that a restaurant business can take over your life. A chocolatier wouldn't have to give up his life. I'm tempted to call him right now, but I don't want to be hasty. Instead, I decide to wait for our nightly phone call. I'll just introduce the idea to him casually. But before I do that, I decide I should also pray. Will and I have both, been saying that we want our lives to be directed by God. He's come a long way in the past few months. I don't want to encourage him to make a move in the wrong direction.
ill goes absolutely nuts over my idea. “That is so incredibly perfect, Cassie!” he says with unbridled excitement. “If it could really work. I love making chocolates and confections and desserts. I had a blast putting that box together for you. I even made one for my mom, and she was totally impressed.”
“It wouldn't be as demanding as running a restaurant,” I point out. “You wouldn't need to be open in the evenings. And you could take vacations if you wanted.” I tell him some more of my ideas, about how he could sell to restaurants and maybe even market his chocolates online.
“I need you to be my marketing manager,” he says quietly.
“That would be so fun.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Then I tell him about my childhood memory of running the lemonade stand and how Bridget told me that might hold the clues to my happiest career choice. “Maybe you'd want to develop a franchise in Black Bear,” I say shyly. “I mean, after you get established. Maybe I could run it for you.”
“What if wanted my home base to be in Black Bear?”
“Seriously?”
“Why not?”
“What about your mom?”
He tells me that she and her friend have already booked their flight to Florida. “They're going to look around for a while, and she plans to put her house on the market by summer. She says its too big for her to keep up. I wouldn't be surprised if she became a year-round Florida resident. If not, she could easily buy a second home wherever she likes. Maybe even wherever I finally decide to set up my business.”
“You'd really consider settling here in Black Bear?”
“Of course. I fell in love with the town…” There's a long pause now. “Of course, it might ve had something to do with falling in love with someone who lives in the town.”
I swallow hard, almost afraid to believe what I am hearing. “Me?”
He laughs. “Of course you!”
“Really?”
“Really, Cassie. I've been wanting to tell you for ages. But so much was going on. My life has been crazy, and I don't have a real job now. Then my dad… and, well, I just figured I had no right to even consider that you might take me seriously.” Another long pause. “I mean, if you even do…”
“Of course I do.”
“You do?”
I laugh. “Okay, I guess I'm a little stunned. I mean, it's so crazy.”
“Crazy good?”
“Yeah, crazy good.”
We talk for another hour, and by the time we hang up, I know I'm in over my head. But I've never felt happier. I've never felt more excited about the future. I've never felt like I loved anyone more than I love Will. I think I fell for him the night he fixed me dinner at the old apartment. I just didn't know it—or couldn't admit it. But now I want the whole world to know.
By the end of the week, we have a plan. Will wants to stick around until his mom and her friend head down to Florida. She is showing him the things she wants put into storage for later use in her condo. Then she wants him to have an estate sale to get rid of everything else. “But that's not all,” he says in a happy voice.
“What?”
“Apparently my dad had an insurance policy that Mom nearly forgot about. It was through NASA and has matured rather nicely over the years. Anyway, she feels that Dad would want me to have it to launch my new business.”
“No way!”
“Yep. She said that she doesn't need it and that she's well taken care of even if she lives to be 150. So there you have it. I'm good to go.”
“Will, thats great.”
“I was hoping you could look around Black Bear for me… maybe get some ideas for a good location and that sort of thing. Do you have time for that?”
“Oh, man, I would make time for that, Will. You are definitely talking to the right woman!”
He laughs. “That's what I figured.” He tells me he'll be shopping online for the equipment he'll need. “I figure it'll take me until mid-March to really be ready for a move. In the meantime, I'd like to come over to visit this weekend.”
“Cool.”
“And if you're not busy.
“Hopefully I'll be busy with you!”
“Well, it's a date then.”
And is it ever a date! A date that lasts the entire weekend, starting with Friday night happy hour at the brewery, then skling at Black Bear Butte on Saturday, followed by an amazing dinner at Petit Ours Noir that night, which Will totally loves. He picks me up for church on Sunday morning, and Bridget invites us to join her and Ross for lunch at her house afterward. As it turns out, it's a celebration lunch: they did get engaged last night!
By Sunday afternoon, Will and I are standing in front of my mom's house, and I don't want to let him go. “It went by so fast,” I tell him.
“I'll come again next weekend,” he promises as he kisses me good-bye. It's not our first kiss, and I know it won't be our last. But, honestly, I think I could kiss this man forever.
Finally I pull myself away and tell him to drive safely. “Say hello to your mom for me.”
“That's right,” he says suddenly. “She wants to meet you. I told her that before she trips on down to Florida, I should bring her over. Would you mind?”
“I'd love to meet her.”
By spring break I have met Will's mom, a completely delightful woman who recently bought a wonderful condo in Key Largo and wants Will and me to come visit as soon as she and her friend are settled. I also found the perfect spot for Will's business. It used to be a shoe shop and is on Main Street and has a tiny apartment upstairs. The architecture is absolutely charming, and Will fell in love with it and immediately put down a deposit. My mom, our Realtor, says it should close in April, and Will plans to be finished packing up his family home by then.
In the meantime I tried to give Ross my notice, but he talked me into becoming a freelance marketing consultant for him and others, which actually sounds rather nice to me. He feels that my marketing expertise and creativity might be useful to several businesses in town, including Alex's French restaurant, which is still struggling. But, I assured him, my main priority is going to be Will and his business. I'm already putting together a marketing plan that's going to totally rock.
Just a couple of weeks ago, and not long after getting engaged, Bridget and Ross shocked everyone by eloping to Las Vegas. At first I was slighdy alarmed by this unexpected move, but they seemed totally happy when they got back. Ross actually walks around the lo
dge whistling and even goes home early sometimes, so I think it must ve been a good decision. Plus Ross has been coming to church with her.
The happy consequence of their hasty marriage is that Bridget honored her promise to rent her little bungalow to me with an option to buy. On April first I actually move into this darling cottage.
The weather is perfect, and I am happier than I've ever been as I unpack boxes and spread what few furnishings I have around this adorable house. Last week Will talked me into keeping some furniture he's decided to save from his family home. He would put them in his apartment over the shop except that its about the size of a postage stamp, and he plans to keep it minimalist. “It'll save renting a storage unit,” he told me. “That is, if you don't mind.”
“Just no old lady things,” I warned him.
He nodded and grinned. “You mean you don't want the old pink Victorian lamps with tassels? Not the rose-colored sofa with its ruffled pillows?”
I frowned at him and wondered what I was getting into.
But when he backs the moving van into my narrow driveway this afternoon and starts unloading, I know I've hit the jackpot. “These belonged to your family?” I ask, astounded as he unloads another amazing mission-style piece. This one is a narrow table that looks stunning in the small entryway. I can't wait to put a lamp and vase of flowers on it, maybe a mirror above it.
“My mom was really into the craftsman style for a while, but she wants something less heavy and dark for Florida,” he says. “But I've always liked Gustav Stickley, as well as Frank Lloyd Wright.”
“I love Frank Lloyd Wright,” I exclaim. “And those pieces are totally perfect in here.”
“So you're not wishing for those Victorian lamps and the rose sofa?”
“You were pulling my leg.”
“A little.” He pauses after setting a leather-covered craftsman recliner by the small fireplace, then pulls me into his arms. “So you like my furniture, huh?”
“I love your furniture!” Then I frown slightly. “But what happens when you get your own place? Do I lose all this?”
He laughs. “Not if you agree to marry me.”
I blink, then stare at him in unbelief. Did he really just say what I think he said, or am I hallucinating?
“So to keep the furniture,” I repeat, “I have to marry you?” I use a teasing tone—just in case I really am confused or delusional. After all, I remind myself, this is April first.
Will fakes a hurt expression. “You mean you'd marry me just to keep my furniture?”
“It's awfully nice furniture,” I say, kissing him gently on the lips. “But even if you gave it all away, Will, I'd still marry you.”
“So can I take that as a yes?”
I nod. “Unless this is some ill-planned April Fools’ joke. It better not be.”
He seals the deal with a slow, passionate kiss. “This is no joke, Cassie. I might ve been fooled a few times in my life, but this is the real deal. I love you. You are the only one for me. I'm absolutely positive about that.”
“Me too,” I say quiedy, suddenly remembering my goofy analogy of the toe-pinching Valentinos that were a big mistake and how they compared with my snuggly, comfy Uggs that I could wear forever. I'll probably never tell Will about my crazy litde metaphor. But it works for me—this guy is a perfect fit!
“I love you!” I tell him, wrapping my arms more tightly around his neck. “You're the only one for me!”
MELODY CARLSON is the award-winning author of over one hundred books for adults, children, and teens. She is the mother of two grown sons and lives near the Cascade Mountains in central Oregon with her husband and a chocolate Lab retriever. She is a full-time writer and an avid gardener, biker, skier, and hiker.
OTHER BOOKS BY MELODY CARLSON
On This Day
Finding Alice
Crystal Lies
Notes from a Spinning Planet series
Diary of a Teenage Girl series
The Secret Life of Samantha McGregor series
THESE BOOTS WEREN'T MADE FOR WALKING
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
A division of Random House Inc.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Melody Carlson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Carlson, Melody.
These boots weren't made for walking: a novel / Melody Carlson. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-49940-0
I. Title.
PS3553A73257T46 2007
813’.54—dc22
2007003697
v3.0
These Boots Weren't Made for Walking Page 23