Rocky Mountain Getaway

by Cindy Myers

  “If you could do anything else in the world, what would it be?” he asked.

  How many boring hours behind this desk had she whiled away pondering this exact question? “I’d be a travel journalist,” she said. “I’d travel all over the world and write about my trips to share with others.”

  “You mean like books and stuff?”

  “Books and articles. Maybe a blog. Maybe even documentaries.”

  “I always thought filming documentaries would be fun,” he said. “Better than a cooking show, at least.”

  “You don’t like your work?” she asked.

  He straightened. “It’s okay. But it’s never perfect when you’re not your own boss, you know?”

  “I guess not.” Part of the appeal of her travel writer fantasy, after all, was that Cassie never figured at all in those daydreams.

  “I was hoping you could help me with something,” Jack said.

  “Oh. Uh, sure.” So he hadn’t stopped by just to flirt with her. She tried to hide her disappointment. Of course he hadn’t.

  “I need to drive around and shoot some footage of local scenery. You know, beautiful views, interesting buildings, popular sights—stuff like that. We use the shots in the opening and closing credits and as establishing shots before and after scene breaks.”

  She nodded, waiting to hear where she might fit in with this information.

  “Since I’m not from around here, though, I don’t know where any of those things are,” he continued. “So I was hoping you could help me out.”

  “I can show you a few places to try.” She reached for one of the maps the local Kiwanis Club had printed as a fundraiser last year.

  “I’d rather you showed me in person.”

  She slid the map back onto the pile on the desk. “In person?”

  “Sure. Go driving around with me—point out the good places. We could make a day of it. It would be fun.”

  Was he asking her on a date? She swallowed. “You’re right. That might be fun. But . . .” She looked away.

  “But what? I promise I’m a fun guy.”

  “But are you a fun guy with a woman in every town you go to?” she asked. “I mean, is this just a ploy you use wherever you go?”

  “It would be a good one, wouldn’t it?”

  She didn’t return his smile. “This may sound horribly old-fashioned to you, Mr. Ngu, but I’m not that kind of girl.”

  His expression sobered. “And I’m not that kind of guy. I promise. I just like you and this was the best way I could think of to get to know you better.”

  Was he telling the truth? How could she possibly know? It wasn’t as if she had a lot of experience with men. The dating pool in Eureka was small to begin with—and even smaller the closer she grew to forty. Add in that she was an introvert who wasn’t particularly beautiful and, well, she hadn’t had a real date in over two years. Her last foray had been when Elmer Hudson invited her to go bowling with him in Montrose. After she’d thrown three gutter balls in a row, he’d announced that he really couldn’t be seen with a woman who was so uncoordinated. After all, as president of the bowling league, he had a reputation to maintain.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll go with you. I get off at noon on Thursday.”

  “It’s a date.”

  He offered his hand, but before she could shake it, the front door to the library opened and Bob Prescott hurried in. A shriveled old miner with white hair and a beard, a bent back, and sharp blue eyes, Bob was one of the library’s best customers, reading everything from thrillers to anarchists’ tracts he ordered through inter-library loans. Bob’s penchant for anarchists was one of those “interesting secrets” Gloria might have shared if she hadn’t taken the idea of confidentiality to heart. A patron’s checkout record was as sacred as his medical record, or even a confession shared with a priest.

  “Hello, Bob.” She raised her voice to greet the old man, who was a little hard of hearing.

  He ignored her, his attention focused on Jack. “You’re with that television woman, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “I’m Jack Than Ngu.” Jack offered his hand. “I’m Faye Anne Reynolds’s cameraman.”

  “Bob Prescott.” He gripped the younger man’s hand, and Jack winced. “That’s the kind of grip fifty years of wielding hammers, picks, and shovels in a mine will get you,” Bob declared.

  “Impressive.” Jack rubbed his hand.

  “What do you think of Eureka?” Bob asked. “Have you ever seen a prettier town?”

  “There are some spectacular views,” Jack said. “Faye Anne is a little disappointed, though.”

  “Disappointed?” Bob leaned closer. “About what?”

  “She pitched the whole show as spring in the Rocky Mountains. She hadn’t expected it to be so gray.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” Bob said. “Tell her real spring weather is on its way. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “I’ll tell her. She’ll be happy to hear it.”

  “My knees are never wrong,” Bob said. “You tell her in a few days, she’ll have exactly what she’s looking for—a beautiful spring day in the Rocky Mountains.”

  RASPBERRY LINZER TORTE

  Ingredients:

  1½ cup whole almonds

  1½ cups flour

  cup sugar

  1½teaspoons ground cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ½ teaspoon baking powder

  1½ sticks unsalted butter

  2 large egg yolks

  1½ teaspoon vanilla extract

  2 cups raspberry jam

  Powdered sugar

  Directions:

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spread almonds on a baking sheet and roast for 8 to 10 minutes, until lightly browned. Remove from oven and allow to cool.

  Place cooled almonds and ½ cup flour in the bowl of your food processor and process until the almonds are finely ground, but not yet a paste consistency. Add the remaining flour, sugar, cinnamon, salt, and baking powder. Pulse until well combined.

  Cut cold butter into pieces and add to the food processor bowl. Pulse. Add egg yolks and pulse again. Add the vanilla. Pulse until mixture forms a coarse dough.

  Divide dough into two balls. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for one hour.

  Butter a 9- or 10-inch springform pan. Remove one ball of dough from refrigerator and press into the pan bottom and up the sides to form the bottom crust of your torte.

  Spoon raspberry jam into this crust. Place in refrigerator while you prepare the top crust.

  Roll out remaining ball of dough to form a 10-inch circle. Cut dough into strips about 1 inch wide. Remove the torte from the refrigerator and weave dough strips over the top to form a lattice crust.

  Bake at 350 degrees for 30 to 35 minutes. Remove from oven and allow to cool completely before you remove the rim of the springform pan. Dust the top of the torte with powdered sugar.

  Chapter Four

  It’s sleeting.” Her second morning in Eureka, Faye Anne rubbed the condensation from inside the window of the motel lobby and stared out at the icy downpour. Everything was coated in a layer of ice, and frosty crystals dripped from the budding leaves on trees and the brittle stems of last year’s dried grass.

  “Maybe this is what the old man at the library meant by a typical spring day in the Rocky Mountains,” Jack said, looking over her shoulder. He held a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a donut from the motel’s continental breakfast in the other.

  “We can’t do exterior shots in this weather.” She jerked the drapes closed, shutting out the offending view. “You’ll have to focus on interior filming. Get some pictures at the café—the usual stuff—pots on the stove, people eating, interior walls.”

  “No problem. Every time I go in there, Janelle or Danielle insists on feeding me. Have you tried their food yet? It’s fabulous. Yesterday, for dinner, they served me chicken and dumplings that made me think I’d died and gone to heaven.”
He looked at his half-eaten donut, then dropped it in the trash. “Come to think of it, I bet they make a killer omelet.”

  “Do you know how many calories are in dishes like that?” she asked. “And the carbs!” She shuddered.

  “Luckily, I never have to worry about my weight.” He patted his stomach, making a sound like playing the bongos. “What are you going to do today? Get out and mix with the locals?”

  “I suppose I have to.” She sighed.

  “Just turn on that patented Faye Anne Reynolds charm,” he said. “They’ll be lining up to join your fan club.” He saluted her with his coffee cup and headed for the door.

  She sank into a wing-backed chair, wishing she could go back to bed and wake up with her debts paid off, her show renewed and at the top of the ratings, and her troubles over. She was tired of being charming all the time—tired of smiling until her face hurt, of always being pleasant and polite and sincere.

  But of course, she’d built her career on being all those things. And if she didn’t do damage control on her life before it raced out of control, no one else would. She had to take charge or she’d be right back where she’d started—Faye Anne Pearlmutter, she of the crooked teeth, frizzy hair, and stooped shoulders. She hadn’t been born with any advantages—she’d made every opportunity for herself.

  Now wasn’t the time to try to change that. She sat up straighter, then leaned over and jerked back the curtain once more. The sleet continued to fall, in stinging shards of ice like shattered glass. If spring wasn’t going to show up on its own, she’d have to force its appearance.

  Ten minutes later, a silk scarf tied lightly over today’s wig—a platinum pageboy cut shorter in the back and full on top—Faye Anne hiked down the street toward Eureka’s main business district. The budget for the show only stretched to one rental car, and Jack had persuaded her he needed it the most today, which left Faye Anne on foot. She quickly discovered that four-inch red heels were not the ideal footwear for tromping through mud and ice, but she slogged on, refusing to so much as limp, no matter how much her feet hurt her.

  But even her famously strong will couldn’t keep back the shivering by the time she arrived at her destination, a store called Lacy’s. She was wet and half-frozen, her red silk suit pockmarked with wet spots, like flowers blooming against the delicate fabric.

  Cowbells that hung from the back of the door clanged as she pushed it open and practically fell inside. A tall, angular woman with silver-streaked dark blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses, looked up from behind the counter. “Welcome to Eureka, Ms. Reynolds,” she said. “Looks like the first thing you need is a more appropriate wardrobe for our spring weather. But I think I have a few things that may help you out.”

  “Oh, no—I’m fine,” Faye Anne stood just inside the door, breathing hard and letting the feeling seep back into her fingers and toes.

  “You won’t say that when you catch pneumonia,” the woman said. “I’m Lucille Theriot, by the way. I’m mayor of Eureka and I own this shop.”

  “So nice to meet you, Madam Mayor.” Faye Anne managed a smile. She tucked a damp lock of hair underneath the scarf and looked around the shop. “They told me at the motel that you sell a little of everything in here.”

  “I do. I specialize in general junk, but enough true antiques and collectibles come my way to pay the bills.” Lucille moved out from behind the counter. She wore low-heeled boots, brown corduroys, and a gold and brown cowl-necked sweater. She looked comfortable, stylish, and most of all, warm. Faye Anne tried not to stare with envy. “You come sit over here and I’ll be right back.” Lucille motioned to a stool in front of the counter.

  “I don’t mean—”

  But the mayor had already disappeared into the back of the store. Faye Anne limped to the stool and slid onto it. A space heater glowed orange near her feet and she gratefully leaned toward it. She would never complain about the heat in Dallas again.

  “I knew I had something that would work for you.” Lucille’s voice preceded her as she returned from the back of the store. She thrust a warm mug into Faye Anne’s hands. “Blackberry tea. A woman in town makes it. I can direct you to her if you’re interested. And then there’s this. Let me just unpack them.”

  Faye Anne sipped the tea, which was sweet and fruity and—best of all—hot. She began to thaw from the inside out. Lucille dropped a cardboard carton on the counter and lifted off the lid. She grinned. “Yes. Exactly what we need.” She handed a bundle of something resembling leopard skin across the counter. “Put that on.”

  Faye Anne set aside the mug of tea and shook out the fabric, which proved to be a faux fur coat. The black and white fake leopard reached almost to her ankles. “That should keep you warm enough,” Lucille said. She pushed a pair of black boots after the coat. “And these will keep your feet warm. They may be a little big—you’ve got small feet. But we can always stuff some tissue paper in the toes. Better to be warm than stylish, right?”

  Wrong. Faye Anne dropped the boots onto the floor. “This is very sweet of you, Mrs. Theriot, but I’m fine with my own clothing.”

  Lucille set aside the empty carton. “If you didn’t come here for warm clothes, what did you come in for?”

  “The people at the motel told me I could find almost anything in this place.”

  “That depends on what you’re looking for.”

  “I need four dozen silk flowers. Preferably lilacs or something springy.”

  “Why?”

  Faye Anne took a deep breath. This was the true test of her talents; she had to make an implausible task seem completely plausible. “I’m going to wire them to the shrubs in front of the Last Dollar.”

  Lucille nodded, her expression solemn, betraying nothing. “And you want to do this why?”

  “Because my viewers expect spring in the Rocky Mountains.”

  Lucille laughed. “That’s exactly what you’re getting. We get some of our heaviest snows in April.”

  “But most of the rest of the country associates April with flowers, so that’s what I intend to give them.”

  “Then let’s see what we can find. Finish your tea and you can help me look—unless you want to sit there half the day while I work my way through all this.” She indicated the rest of the store, which was crammed with items such as a one-armed mannequin, a worn moose head with one crooked antler, a glass case of fine crystal, what looked like a Tiffany lamp, piles of old magazines and books, stacks of quilts and linens, and cartons and cartons of who-knew-what trash or treasures.

  “I guess I’d better help look,” Faye Anne said and set aside her mug.

  She and Lucille were well into a stack of boxes at the back of the store when the cowbells chimed again. “We’re back here!” Lucille called.

  A moment later, an elegant blonde in skinny jeans and a cashmere sweater peered around a bookcase. “Am I interrupting something?” she asked.

  “Barb Stanowski, have you met Faye Anne Reynolds?” Lucille asked.

  “I haven’t yet had the pleasure.” Barb extended one French-manicured hand, several large diamonds glinting from her fingers. She spoke with the well-modulated Texas accent Faye Anne associated with old money and Junior League balls.

  “What do you do here in Eureka?” Faye Anne asked.

  “I’m here visiting friends, and I’m planning to open a bed-and-breakfast in town, but I live in Houston.”

  “A bed-and-breakfast?” Faye Anne thought of her grim little motel room. “I wish it were open already.”

  “Come back in the summer.”

  “Right now, Faye Anne is trying to bring a little summer to our spring,” Lucille said. “Somewhere in this mess, I know I have a box full of silk flowers, but we can’t find it.”

  “I’ll help look.” Barb chose a box from the stack against the wall and opened it. “Looks like someone cleaned out a kitchen. Anyone need a toaster?” She held up the shiny metal appliance.

  “Keep looking.” Lucille cut open a new b
ox. “I know they’re in here somewhere.”

  “What are you going to do with silk flowers?” Barb asked.

  “I’m doing some decorating over at the Last Dollar.” Faye Anne was less willing to look like a fool in front of this elegant woman.

  “If you need any help, let me know,” Barb said. “Not to brag, but I have a ton of experience decorating for parties and benefits. It’s one of my few talents.”

  “I could definitely use someone like you,” Faye Anne said. She studied Barb more closely. The Junior League background definitely showed, but there was something else about her—something warm and down-to-earth. “A lot of television—especially reality television—is making people believe the story you want them to believe,” she said. “Dressing things up to make them seem a particular way.”

  “Of course,” Barb said. “I once turned my whole backyard into a desert bazaar because the sprinkler system failed while we were out of town and all the grass died. So I had to make everyone believe it was a deliberate move on my part. Instead of confessing I’d been too lazy to maintain the sprinkler system, I looked like a creative genius.”

  “Exactly!” Faye Anne had to refrain from hugging the other woman. “Then you understand—it’s all about controlling the environment and controlling people’s perceptions.”

  “I found them!”

  At first, Faye Ann couldn’t remember what Lucille was referring to. Then the mayor pulled double handfuls of silk lilacs from the depths of a cardboard box that had once held vodka. “Instant spring,” Lucille said.

  “Let me guess.” Barb took one of the silk blossoms. “You’re going to make those bushes in front of the café bloom?”

  “Yes.” She should have known this woman would understand. “Will you help me?”

  “If you’ll invite me to the dinner. Not because I want to be on TV, mind you—only because I want to eat one of Janelle and Danielle’s fabulous meals.”

  “It’s a deal.” The women embraced to seal the agreement. Faye Anne breathed in Barb’s expensive perfume and her mouth curved in the first genuine smile she’d worn in months. She was going to pull this off. When viewers turned on their televisions to watch this episode of What’s Cookin’? USA, they were going to see a bountiful spring, not dreary snow. People who preached about learning to accept the things you couldn’t control were merely slackers who didn’t try hard enough.