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Authors: Cindy Myers

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BOOK: The View From Here
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Cassie could only hope the altitude would get to her. Or she'd miss her home in Houston and decide to head back. Then Cassie knew exactly what she'd do; what she should have done long before now. She'd drive up there and search the cabin. Jake had that book and Cassie would find it.
These thoughts filled her mind as she prepared to chair the meeting of the Eureka County Historical Society the Friday evening after Maggie's visit to the library. She distributed copies of the night's agenda and the minutes from the last meeting around the long table in the conference room at the back of the library. Today's main topic was a proposal to revamp Hard Rock Days to more appropriately reflect the heritage of the county. Cassie had drafted the motion herself and was quite proud of the work.
Bob was the first to arrive. No surprise there. “No refreshments yet?” he asked, frowning at the side table, which was empty of everything but the water pitcher.
“Tamarin is in charge of refreshments this month and she hasn't arrived yet,” Cassie said.
Bob pushed his lips out as if he'd just eaten something sour. “I hope she doesn't bring any more of that low-fat crap like last time,” he said. “We ought to invite Danielle and Janelle to join. Then we'd have really good refreshments.”
“I can't think those girls would be interested in the history of the county,” Cassie said, disguising her horror at the idea. At least Bob, as disgusting as he was, had lived in the area fifty years. He knew more about mining in the area than almost anyone and was practically a historical artifact himself.
Tamarin Sherman and Shelly Frazier arrived together, with a pan of brownies Bob pronounced acceptable. The newspaper editor, Rick Otis, came with his camera slung around his neck, notebook in hand. As if anything ever happened at these meetings worth photographing.
Last to arrive was Lucille, that awkward grandson of hers shuffling after. “Lucas is very interested in history,” she said, more by way of explanation than apology. “And his mother is working tonight.”
“She got a job already?” Shelly smiled, showing a network of shiny braces. Honestly, Cassie thought. Why did a forty-something woman bother with braces? “Where is she working?”
“She's waiting tables at the Dirty Sally.” Lucille wore a pinched look, as if it hurt to say the words. And no wonder. Every low-life in town hung out at that bar. Jacob Murphy had been a regular.
Lucas helped himself to a brownie and slid into a chair next to his grandmother. The child was the oddest looking boy Cassie had ever seen. He caught her staring and glared at her. She quickly looked away. He had atrocious manners, too.
“I think everyone's here, so let's get started,” she said. She pounded the little gavel on the table and checked her watch. “We'll note that the meeting officially began at 7:04 p.m.”
Shelly scribbled away on her steno pad, and Rick snapped a picture that Cassie was sure showed her with her mouth wide open. Damn freedom of the press. Couldn't a person conduct business without having someone take her picture? She smoothed the front of her dress and continued, taking them quickly through approval of the minutes from the last meeting and discussion of the old business of a report from the State Historical Commission on new procedures for applying for historical designation for buildings.
“Rick, I want this information in the next issue of the paper,” Cassie said. “Eureka has several buildings that would qualify for historical designation, if the owners would just put in the application. The Historical Society would be happy to help them through the process.”
“Some people don't want that plaque on their homes,” Rick said. “They don't want to have to answer to the government every time they want to paint the porch or change out a light fixture.”
Cassie's own home had a prominent plaque by the front door, one that was a source of great pride to her. “Those regulations are in place to prevent people from changing the historic nature of the structure,” she said. “People shouldn't think of them as intrusions, but rather as safeguards to the value of their home.”
“I always said you'd make a good politician,” Rick said, grinning. At her look of fury, he chuckled. “Don't get your panties in a wad. I'll put the article in the paper and tell readers to contact you if they want to know more.”
“Fine.” She studied the agenda, regaining her composure. If it were anyone but Rick, she'd complain to his supervisor. But Rick had no supervisor. He owned the paper, edited it, and since Angela Zerbock had married and moved to Gunnison, he was the only reporter, except for the highschool boy who covered school sports. And people liked Rick. They didn't feel that way about Cassie, she knew.
But as her grandmother had been fond of saying, life was not a popularity contest. People who were willing to be unpopular were the ones who got things done in this world. “Let's move on to new business,” she said. “The proposal for a new addition to Hard Rock Days.”
“I still say we ought to have a beauty contest,” Bob said. “A Miss Hard Rock Days. A bunch of pretty young things strutting around in bikinis would bring in the crowds, I tell you.”
“That's sexist and ageist,” Tamarin said.
“We could make the prize a scholarship,” Bob said. “That would make it all right.”
“No beauty pageants,” Cassie said. “My proposal is that we devote part of the day to honoring the pioneers who settled this area. We could produce an original play that tells the story of Eureka County. It's the kind of thing people would return to see each year.”
“You don't think it's a little late in the year to be making changes to the festival?” Rick asked. “You've only got two months.”
“This won't take any time at all to pull together,” Cassie said.
“A play might be fun,” Shelly said.
“Period costumes would be easy enough to find,” Tamarin said.
“Have you talked to the drama society about this?” Lucille asked. “They would want to be involved.”
“I haven't talked to anyone yet,” Cassie said. “But, yes, I would think the drama society would be involved.”
“Have you written the play yet?” Rick asked, pen poised over his notebook. “And who do you want to play Festus Wynock?”
Cassie flushed. “Of course my great-grandfather would figure in the play, as would all the founders of the area. I've made some notes, but I'm certainly open to suggestions.”
“When would we run the play?” Shelly asked. “We've already got the dance Friday night and the Hard Rock Games all day Saturday, and the awards banquet Saturday night, and the 1890s baseball game Sunday afternoon.”
“There's no need to have the games go on all day Saturday,” she said. “I thought we could eliminate the water fight.”
Loud cries of protest rose up around the table. “Not the water fight!” “That's the most exciting part of the day!”
“What's the water fight?” Lucas asked.
“Teams of men or women go after each other with fire hoses,” Rick explained to the boy. “The last team standing wins. It takes place right on Main Street. It's a blast—literally.”
“What does that have to do with mining?” the boy asked.
“Exactly.” Cassie seized on this objection. “It's an excuse for spraying a bunch of water around. It's a waste of resources and it's dangerous.”
“You know as well as I do that one method of mining was to use high-pressure water to blast the ore out of the side of river banks,” Bob said. “That's what the water fight recalls.”
“Except that method wasn't used much around here,” Cassie said. “So it has no place in a celebration of our mining heritage.”
“You can't get rid of the water fight,” Rick said. “It's the most popular event at the games. And the biggest fund-raiser, since some of the teams are pretty large and each individual has to pay to participate.”
“You could present the play Sunday after the ball game,” Lucille said. “It would be a nice way to end the festival. ”
“It really should run all three nights,” Cassie said. “To make it a centerpiece of the event.“
“Try it on Sunday the first year and see how it goes,” Lucille said.
“We don't even know if it will be any good,” Tamarin said. At Cassie's scowl, she stammered, “I mean, I'm sure it will be good, but people want to be entertained, so you need to be sure and put humor and stuff in it, and . . . and stuff like that.”
“I still say young women in bikinis beat out old codgers pontificating about the past,” Bob said. “And I say that as a codger who can pontificate with the best of them.”
“Rick, don't write that about Cassie suggesting doing away with the water fight,” Lucille said. “It'll just get everyone up in arms for nothing.”
“I'll admit I'm tempted,” Rick said. “Except I don't have anyone to help me deal with the avalanche of angry letters to the editor I'd be sure to get. But I will mention the play. It'll be a good way to gauge what kind of interest you'll draw.”
“Fine.” Cassie slammed down her gavel, more out of frustration than out of any parliamentary need. “We'll table the idea of the play until next time, and I'll talk to the drama society and see if they want to take this on. Do we have any other new business?”
They all looked at each other, then at Cassie. “I move the meeting be adjourned,” Lucille said.
“I second!” Shelly and Tamarin spoke together.
“Well, that was painless enough.” Rick rose from his chair.
Cassie wanted to point out she hadn't officially adjourned the meeting yet, but everyone was already standing and milling about. She tapped the gavel on the table. “Meeting adjourned,” she said, though by this time no one was listening.
Chapter 10
B
y the start of her third week in Eureka, Maggie felt less intimidated by the isolation of the mountaintop cabin. Every morning she built a fire in the woodstove to chase away the dawn chill that lingered even in June at this altitude.
She cooked breakfast, feeling very much like a pioneer woman as she made a cheese omelet from eggs Janelle had sold her—eleven perfect brown ones and one blue one from the estimable Arabella. She smiled as she cracked the shell on the side of the counter and watched the rich yellow yolk spill into the bowl, thinking of the hens snug in the fireproof chicken house her father had built in defiance of bigots. That was one good thing he'd done, though the threats that had accompanied the construction still made her uneasy.
She tidied the cabin, read, or explored the property. Sometimes she simply sat and contemplated the view out the cabin windows. She felt much like an invalid recovering from a long illness—a little fragile, craving stillness; weak, but feeling herself growing stronger every day.
Often various errands—and a craving for human contact—took her to Eureka. So it was that one Wednesday morning she headed down the mountain but had barely traveled two miles when she met a truck headed uphill. Before she could pass it, it swerved toward the middle of the road, forcing her to stop. She shoved open her door and climbed out, intending to give the driver a piece of her mind, but before she could approach, the driver's side window rolled down and Jameso stuck his head out. “I'm glad we caught you before you left,” he said.
“Who's we?” she asked.
But just then the passenger door of his truck opened and Barb stepped out. “Darlin', when you said you were living on a mountain, you weren't kidding,” she drawled. “This view is spectacular.” She fanned her face. “But I have to say, the lack of oxygen makes me dizzy.”
“It's just those high-heeled boots you're wearing,” Maggie said, and rushed to embrace her friend.
Barb's arms wrapped tight around her, and to Maggie's surprise, her friend's voice was thick with tears when she spoke. “I've been so worried about you, woman,” Barb whispered.
“Well, you wasted all the worrying for nothing,” Maggie said. “I'm fine.”
“You're more than fine.” Barb stepped back to appraise her. “You look fantastic. This new style suits you.”
“New style?” Maggie looked down at the worn denim jacket, faded jeans, and boots.
“Very Ralph Lauren,” Barb said. “And the longer hair looks good on you, too.”
Maggie put a hand to her hair, which she hadn't cut because she hadn't taken the time to find a hairdresser in Eureka.
“Now that we've all admired Maggie and praised her fashion sense, do you think we could drive on up to the cabin?” Jameso said. “We are blocking the road.”
“You're the one parked in the middle,” Maggie said, but returned to the Jeep.
Barb climbed into the passenger seat beside her. “Where are you going to turn around?” Barb asked, eyeing the steep drop on one side of the gravel track and the cliff on the other.
“I'll have to back a ways,” Maggie said, and proceeded to do so. Two weeks ago, such a feat would have terrified her, but now it seemed no big deal.
She backed about a quarter mile before she found a place to turn around, then led the way up the mountain to the cabin. When they arrived, Winston was on the front porch, his head stuck in the open window.
“What is that?” Barb shrieked.
“Winston, you get out of there this instant!” Maggie called.
The ram had to tilt his head almost sideways to withdraw it from the window. He did so with surprising delicacy and looked over his shoulder at her, his expression accusing. “What is that animal?” Barb asked again.
“It's a bighorn sheep.” Maggie strode toward the front porch, waving her arms. “Get out of here, Winston,” she called.
“I don't think he's going to leave until you give him his cookies,” Jameso said. He stood by his truck, smirking.
“Fine.” Maggie went inside and fetched the Lorna Doones. Winston took the cookies she offered and trotted away.
“You're giving cookies to a sheep?” Barb asked. Her expression said she feared for her friend's sanity.
“Not my doing,” Maggie said. “My father trained the darn thing, and I don't have the energy to untrain it.”
She didn't miss the look Barb exchanged with Jameso, but marched past them into the house. Barb followed, though Jameso remained outside. “This is amazing,” Barb said, turning all the way around to take in the cabin. “It's like . . . like the world's best tree house.”
“That's exactly what it's like.” Maggie hugged Barb again. “I'm so glad to see you. I can't believe you're here. How did you get here? How did you find me? How did you meet Jameso?”
“One question at a time.” Barb laughed. “I got your e-mail about mailing you your stuff, but I thought it would be so much better to surprise you and deliver it in person. So I rented a U-Haul truck and drove here.”
“You
drove?
In a moving truck?”
“A small one. And I stopped on the way and spent the night in Wichita Falls.”
“But how did you find me?”
“I figured in a town this small someone would know where to find a woman from Texas who was living in a cabin on the side of a mountain, so I stopped in the first café I saw and asked.”
“That would be the Last Dollar.”
“Yes, and the woman there told me where you lived but said I didn't want to drive up here in a moving truck, and then she sent the other young woman to fetch Jameso and he loaded everything into his truck and drove me up here.” Barb leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Now,
he
is exactly what I imagine when I think of a sexy mountain man. And he seemed more than happy to drive up here and see you.”
Maggie fought down a blush. “That's because he's nosy and wants to see what I'm up to.”
“Where do you want this?” The man himself spoke from the doorway, from behind a stack of cardboard boxes.
The women rushed to relieve him of his burden. Maggie set the first box on the table and ripped off the tape, then pulled out a waffle iron? Maggie stared at her friend.
“I wouldn't want to live without mine,” Barb said earnestly.
Maggie set the waffle iron aside and dug deeper into the box. Jeans, her favorite University of Houston sweatshirt, and a long, fluffy robe more than made up for the waffle maker. Other boxes contained her stereo, CDs, books, and her laptop computer. “Though I don't know what good that computer's going to do you if you don't have DSL or even a phone line up here,” Barb said.
“Don't bother helping to unload the truck or anything, ladies,” Jameso said as he delivered another stack of boxes.
“You don't look like you need our help,” Barb said. “This way we get to stand back and admire your muscles.”
“That's not all I saw you admiring,” he said with a provocative twitch of his ass.
Barb and Maggie dissolved into laughter. “Where is the moving truck now?” Maggie asked when she'd caught her breath.
“Jameso's going to turn it into the dealer in Montrose for me,” she said.
“He's going to turn—woman, what did you do to him?”
“I can be charming when I want.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Plus, I offered to pay him twenty bucks.”
“With Jameso, I have a feeling the money was a better persuader than your charms.”
“You're either underestimating me or Jameso,” Barb said.
“Never mind that,” Maggie said. “How long can you stay?”
“I figure I'll hang out with you as long as you'll have me; then I'll fly home.”
“Or as long as you can stand to stay in a place without central heat and cable TV.”
Barb's smile dimmed a few watts. “You
do
have indoor plumbing, don't you?”
“The finest composting toilet money can buy.”
“A composting—” Barb waved away the words. “I don't think I even want to know. “
“It looks just like a regular toilet, but you don't flush,” Maggie said.
“Oh God, this is sounding worse all the time.”
“You just drove over a thousand miles in a moving van to see me,” Maggie said. “You're tough enough to deal with a composting toilet. At least you don't have to hike to the outhouse out back.”
“You have one of those, too?”
“I do. Apparently my dad kept it because it was convenient.”
“Your dad sounds like quite the character. I can't wait to hear more about him.”
“I've got plenty of stories to tell, though I'm not sure I believe half of them.”
“This is the last of the load,” Jameso said. He deposited two suitcases by the door. “If you're all set, I'll be going now.”
“You don't have to run off,” Barb said. “Stay and have a drink.”
“I don't have anything here
to
drink,” Maggie said. Except for the rest of the whiskey she and Jameso had shared her first night here.
“There are several bottles of wine in one of these boxes.” Barb gestured to the packing cartons scattered around the room.
“That's okay, ladies, I'll leave you to it,” he said.
“Be that way, then,” Barb said. “Thanks for all your help.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Maggie said.
“Any time.” His eyes met hers and she felt again the flash of heat.
“He's definitely hot,” Barb said when he was gone.
“He's full of himself,” Maggie said.
“There's a lot to be said for a man with self-confidence,” Barb said. “There's a lot to be said for a
man
.”
“I've spent half my life tied to a man,” Maggie said. “Let me enjoy being single for a while.”
“I never said you had to marry the guy,” Barb said. “I'm talking about enjoying being single.”
“I'm not interested in Jameso.”
“You two are a real trip,” Barb said. “I can't decide if you're dying to jump each other's bones or you can't stand each other.”
“That's ridiculous!” Maggie felt her cheeks heat. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Don't tell me you haven't noticed the way he looks at you,” Barb said.
“He doesn't look at me any particular way.” Did he?
“I'll bet you look at him, too,” Barb said.
Yes, Maggie had looked. But she wasn't about to admit this to Barb. Some things had to be kept secret even from best friends.
Barb insisted on opening the bottle of wine right away and helping Maggie unpack the various moving boxes. “You must have brought half my storage unit with you,” Maggie said as she hung clothes in the closet. She had no idea when she'd ever have use for the dresses Barb had packed, but she wouldn't hurt her friend by saying so.
“You haven't even seen the best part yet.” Barb gestured to the four largest cartons. “I brought the Steuben.”
Maggie stared at the cartons, which she could now see were clearly marked:
Glass. Fragile
. “Why did you bring those?”
“Because I know how much you love them,” Barb said. “I thought maybe you could put them around the cabin. To, you know, dress things up. Remind you of happier times.”
The Steuben glassware would remind her, all right. Of all the times when she'd thought her life had been perfect, when she thought it would go on being that way. “Thanks.” She gave Barb a faint smile. “We'll leave them packed for now, until I decide the proper way to display everything.”
“I wanted you to have everything you needed,” Barb said.
“I do have everything I need now that you're here,” Maggie said, happy to change the subject. “Tell me how everything is going back home.”
“Jimmy is busy as ever. We're thinking of taking a cruise after the first of the year. Michael is dating a nice young woman; I think it might be serious this time. My hairdresser is pregnant and wants to stay home with the baby, so I'll have to find someone new. And I have some other news you're probably not going to like.”
Maggie froze in the act of unwrapping a ceramic teapot. “What kind of news?”
“I saw an announcement in the paper a few days ago. Carter and the Rich Bitch are getting married.”
“Oh.” Maggie couldn't say the news was unexpected, but before it had merely existed in the realm of possibility, not as fact. Knowing that Carter would have another wife hurt more than she'd expected. It wasn't that she wanted him back, not after all he'd done. But hearing this news made her feel the pain of his rejection all over again. She'd spent twenty years identifying herself as Mrs. Carter Stevens, and now she wasn't good enough for that anymore.
BOOK: The View From Here
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