Once More with Feeling (12 page)

“What, pulling muscles with obscene names?”

“Trying new things. Bob got divorced a while back, and now, instead of sitting around, feeling sorry for himself, he’s going out and enjoying life. He’s exploring, expanding his horizons—”

“Sounds like a real going-for-the-gusto kind of guy,” Claire observed with a wry smile.

Julie ignored her. “Laura, I think you should be doing the same thing as Bob. All three of us should. Together.”

“If we’re going away for the weekend,” said Claire, “why don’t we at least pick a place where we can sit on a beach, drinking mai-tais and ogling men’s butts? We’ve got all those islands with the ‘Saint’ names so close to us. Surely we can find one where there’s not much political unrest.” With a shrug she added, “Why would anyone go somewhere where the whole point is to be cold?”

Julie ignored her suggestion. “Laura, it’s really important that you break out of your rut.”

“I’m not in a rut.”

“What did you do last weekend?”

“Let’s see. Evan was out of the house with Roger most of the weekend, so I ...” Laura struggled to reconstruct two days. “I cleaned the attic.”

“I rest my case,” said Julie.

“That’s not all.” Laura was quick to defend herself. “I also rented three videos and baked chocolate-chip cookies.” Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial tone, she added, “With nuts.”

Claire shook her head. “The woman is out of control.”

“Laura,” Julie said with exaggerated patience, “we all need downtime. It’s an important part of healing. But you really should be getting out more.”

“Maybe, but skiing? Isn’t that awfully ... dangerous?”

“It certainly is!” Claire exclaimed. “Do you have any idea what those clingy ski pants can do to a pair of hips?”

“It’s settled,” Julie said firmly. “We’re going. I’ll lend you some of the clothes you’ll need. I can probably get hold of some discount lift tickets. And I know a great travel agent who can get us a reasonable rate at one of the ski lodges upstate, probably the Robin Hood Inn. We just have to decide on a weekend.”

“Great,” muttered Laura, trying to sound enthusiastic but still not completely convinced. “Now all I have to do is pay a visit to the Wizard of Oz. I just hope he’s still got some courage in stock.”

Chapter Seven

During the long bus ride
to the ski lodge, Laura stared out the window, half listening to Claire and Julie’s happy chatter. She couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that while she was traveling north in search of adventure, Roger was packing up his things to move out. She was glad to be away and not have to witness the physical dismantling of their house—and, in essence, their life together. She only hoped that hiding out in the Catskills, pretending to be a mountain goat, wouldn’t turn out to be a mistake. Especially one that resulted in expensive visits to an orthopedic surgeon.

When they finally arrived, Laura filed into the lobby behind Claire and Julie, suitcases in hand. She studied the place with curiosity. The Robin Hood Inn didn’t quite fit her fantasy of what a ski lodge should be like. Her first impression was that the Inn had been designed by a renegade architect from Disneyland, with its mock-stone exterior, numerous decorative towers, and groin vaults. Observing the interior filled with plush red velvet, she assumed that the look it was striving for was medieval castle ... a
luxurious
medieval castle, the kind in which even the dungeons had wall-to-wall carpeting.

“Gee, think it’s big enough?” Claire commented, looking around the cavernous space.

“It seems quite ... clean,” Laura added. For a moment she wished she’d brought Evan along. He’d have adored the two knights with swords and battle-axes flanking the door to the men’s room.

She had to remind herself that the whole point of this weekend was to get away from her familial duties. It was her breakout weekend. Her chance to do something for herself. An opportunity to be on her own, without worrying about peanut-butter sandwiches and clean soccer shirts and separation agreements.

Kurt, the red-haired, ponytailed tour guide for the group from Bellinski Ski Tours, of which the three of them were officially members, checked them in. Tucking her room key into her pocket, Laura felt a surge of excitement. This really was an adventure, a chance for her to have a good time—without anyone looking over her shoulder. She’d never skied before. She’d never gone away for the weekend with her girlfriends, either, at least not in fifteen years. The trips she’d taken had either been business trips, giving speeches or signing autographs at conventions, or else family jaunts, during which she constantly wondered why she and Roger were spending money to fight in hotels when they could do that perfectly well at home.

Their room was designed with the same faux-medieval flavor. Stumbling through the door with her suitcases, Laura was overwhelmed by all the massive wood-look furniture that had been stuffed into the compact space, to say nothing of the red shag carpeting, the red drapes, and the red flocked wallpaper in a fleur-de-lis pattern.

“This looks quite comfortable,” Julie said. She’d opened her suitcase and, with great meticulousness, was putting neatly folded clothes into drawers.

Claire had embarked on a more thorough tour. “Oh, look!” she called from the bathroom. “Ye Olde Velvet Toilet!”

“Let me see.” Laura giggled. The toilet itself wasn’t fuzzy and red, but just about everything else in the bathroom was.

“Gee,” Claire commented, “I don’t know whether to take a shower or behead somebody.”

“I know what I’m going to do.” Julie, having finished her unpacking, was stripping down. “I’m going to soak in a hot tub for at least an hour, and then snuggle up in bed with a good book. I hope to be asleep by ten.”

Claire’s eyebrows shot up. “Aren’t you the party girl.”

“Skiing is quite demanding,” Julie explained. “I want to make sure I’m relaxed and rested when we get that eight o’clock bus to the slopes tomorrow.”

“Not me,” Claire insisted. “I came up here to
have fun.
And you,” she went on, pointing at Laura, “are going to come with me.”

“Fun?” Laura repeated; Eyeing her warily, she asked, “What exactly do you mean by
fun!”

Claire shook her head slowly. “Ah, Laura. You’ve been married too long.”

It was only a matter of minutes before Laura learned what that three-letter word translated to, at least in the eyes of a forty-year-old divorced woman imprisoned in a fake castle with hundreds of people in purple and green Gore-Tex.

“There’s a huge social scene that’s associated with skiing,” Claire explained, leading Laura down the corridor to the hotel’s lobby. “Most of the people here have no intention of skiing. In fact, they’ve never even been on a ski slope.”

“Then why bother?”

“Because they want to
meet
people who ski. What better place than a ski lodge?”

“Why would anyone work so hard just to meet someone who skis?”

“Demographics, my dear. We’re talking upscale, educated,
single
people. People with money to burn. People with time on their hands. This Robin Hood fantasyland is exactly the kind of place singles flock to.”

Laura was impressed. “How do you know so much about this?”

“I read
Cosmo.”

In the lobby, an enormous fireplace in one corner had drawn a crowd, mostly men. At least Laura thought it was the fireplace, until she looked more closely and saw that the television next to it, tuned to a football game, was the real crowd pleaser.

“I can’t believe people come all the way up here and then spend the evening watching TV!”

“It’s a good way of separating the sports addicts from the guys sincerely interested in meeting women,” Claire said matter-of-factly. “You might even say it’s a service provided by the hotel.”

“I hope you didn’t bring me here with the idea I might be interested in mingling with any of these people.” Laura studied the TV crowd. “My God! Most of them still have acne!”

Claire ran her fingers through the champagne-colored stubble that constituted her hair. “What’s wrong with a little meeting and greeting?”

“I think Julie had the right idea. A nice, hot bath and a good night’s sleep are beginning to seem better every minute.”

“You sound like my grandmother. No, even my grandmother’s more fun than that. Come on, Laura. This is your chance to party! What good is sitting alone in your room—”

“Surely you’re not about to suggest I come to the cabaret?”

“I think Maid Marian’s Bar and Grill is a much better choice.” Claire had already lured her as far as the doorway of the hotel bar. Peeking inside, Laura saw that beyond lay a cavern of darkness, reeking of beer and cigarette smoke. The music was turned way up, the bass throbbing so hard the glassware vibrated. “You’ve got to get your feet wet sometime, as they say.”

Laura surveyed the scene before her. “Obviously the people who say that have never been confronted with a roomful of drunk college students rubbing up against each other and trying not to vomit in each other’s presence.”

“There are some grownups here,” Claire insisted. “Look at that man over there. He must be pushing fifty.”

“He’s the bartender.” Suddenly Laura froze. “Uh-oh. Check out that man over there.
Discreetly.”

“Which man? Where?”

‘The handsome one, by the mock Tiffany lamp. Tall, blond ... looks like he just stepped out of a men’s underwear ad?”

Claire directed her gaze in the direction Laura indicated. When she gasped, Laura knew she’d spotted the right guy.

“Laura, he’s gorgeous! God, everything about him is perfect. The way he’s holding his brandy snifter, that Rhett Butler smile, those broad shoulders underneath that Icelandic sweater—”

“How do you know it’s Icelandic?”

“Hell, Laura. It could be from Sears for all I care. My main interest is how he’d look with it off.”

“I thought you weren’t interested in having a relationship with a man.”

“Who said anything about a relationship? You’re right; that’s the last thing I need. You let a man into your life, and the next thing you know, your toilet-paper roll’s installed backward.” Claire’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t mean I’m above treating one as a sex object every now and then.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but it looks like I’m the apple of his eye, not you.”

“You’re right. And he’s coming this way.”

“Tell me you’re joking!”

“If I’m joking, a lot of very attractive women on this side of the room are drooling for no good reason.”

“Oh, no! What should I do?”

Claire cast her a look of incredulity. “Bat your eyelashes, laugh a high, tinkling laugh, and tell him you’re a millionairess.”

“Get serious, Claire.”

“I
am
serious.”

The tall, blond man stopped mere inches away, and smiled down at Laura. His blue eyes sparkled. “Hello.”

Laura was unable to come up with anything equally clever. She was relieved when Claire filled in for her.

“You know,” she said, batting her eyelashes and laughing a high, tinkling laugh, “my friend and I were just wondering about something. Maybe you could help us out.”

“Perhaps I could.” His words were meant for Claire, but his eyes remained fixed on Laura. She was beginning to wonder if she had food on her face.

“Who do you think make better skiers? Men, who have most of their strength in their shoulders ... ?” Pointedly Claire stared at his. “Or women, who have their strength in their hips?” She thrust hers out for show-and-tell.

“Actually, I haven’t the faintest idea,” he replied. “I work for the tour company that brought up the group from New Jersey.” With a shrug he added, “I just drive the bus.”

Claire only looked crestfallen for a fraction of a second. Laura guessed that was how long she’d taken to remind herself she wasn’t looking to have this man’s children ... only to work on some of the preparatory steps.

But it was too late. The man’s attention was by now concentrated completely on Laura. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Claire rolled her eyes.

“Well,” said Laura, “I’ve been to New Jersey.”

“No, no. Let me see. I used to work for UPS, so I got around quite a bit....” He peered at her for an embarrassingly long time, then snapped his fingers. “I know! The Cachet Modeling Agency!”

Laura could feel herself blushing. “Heavens, no. I—”

“Yes, that’s it. I know I’ve seen you there.”

“Really, I never—”

“Weren’t you the receptionist?”

Laura grabbed Claire’s arm. “Will you excuse us? It was nice talking to you, but, uh, our boyfriends are waiting for us back at the room.”

“They’re millionaires,” Claire added, allowing herself to be dragged away.

Once they were out of earshot, Claire groaned. “Laura Briggs, what is wrong with you?”

“What did I do?”

“That ... that Nordic god was trying to pick you up!”

“I know what he was doing.”

“So?”

“Claire, I still feel married!”

Claire sighed impatiently. “It’s been over a month since you told Roger to kiss off.”

“I think it’s like having a foot amputated. You can still feel it, even after it’s long gone.”

Claire shook her head. “The problem with you is that you’re not angry enough.”

“I’m angry!” Laura insisted feebly. “I’m very angry. I never told you how I lie awake nights, trying to think up ways of killing him without getting caught. Ways of getting back at him for all the time he stole from me.”

“And you don’t think a long night of sweating up the sheets with Loki the God of Fire is a good way of getting back?”

Laura held out her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I’m just not ready.”

Claire slung a sisterly arm around her. “Okay. I’ve been there. I guess you’re entitled to a little time. A little space. A king-size bed, all to yourself.

“But once you’ve passed through this phase ... watch out, single men! None of you will be safe! Not the short, fat, bald ones, not the skinny, nerdy ones with pens in their shirt pockets ... I predict that one of these days you’re going to wake up and be like the proverbial kid in a candy store.”