Marriage on Her Mind

He reached the post office and gathered the mail. After discarding a stack of junk mail and flyers, he was left with a snowboarding magazine, two bills and two letters addressed to Casey.

That was fast, he thought. After all, she’d only arrived yesterday. But he supposed she’d given out the address as soon as she’d leased the apartment and the letters had been mailed before she even left Chicago.

He studied the return addresses. One was from Mr. and Mrs. Charles Jernigan. Her parents?

The other was from a Paul Rittinghouse. Max frowned. Brother? Cousin?

Boyfriend?

His jaw tightened at the thought and he shoved the letters into his pocket. On one hand, why should it surprise him that a woman like Casey would have a boyfriend? She was pretty and smart with a nice personality.

On the other hand, if she did have a steady boyfriend, why would she move so far away from him?

Another mystery to add to the growing list about Casey. She was a city girl who wasn’t particularly interested in skiing or snowboarding or any of the other activities that led people to abandon all and move to the mountains. She obviously had been uncomfortable as the center of attention last night, but at the same time she wasn’t painfully shy or socially inept.

No doubt about it, Casey intrigued him. She might be too complicated for girlfriend material, but there wasn’t anything wrong with getting to know her better.

Strictly as a friend.

CASEY TOLD HERSELF she shouldn’t be surprised when she walked into work Monday morning and the first person she saw was a woman wearing a red feather boa and carrying a sequined toilet plunger. Less than twenty-four hours in Crested Butte had taught her that this was a place where she should expect the unexpected.

She was thrown a little off guard, however, when the woman in the boa introduced herself as Heather Allison—Casey’s new boss. “I’m so glad to see you,” Heather said after they’d exchanged introductions. “We have so much to do and I’m positively thrilled to have some help.”

“I’m happy to be here,” Casey said, trying not to stare at the rest of Heather’s outfit, which included a purple velvet cape and a crown cut from aluminum beer cans.

“Hold this a minute and I’ll get the employment paperwork you need to fill out,” Heather said, handing Casey the plunger. She went to a large wooden desk and began rifling through piles of paper on the top. “I know I put them somewhere….” She tossed aside a yellow rubber duck, a pair of maracas and strings of Mardi Gras beads. “Aha. Here they are.” She waved a sheaf of papers.

Casey could contain herself no longer. “What’s with the plunger?” she asked. “And the crown?”

Heather laughed. “You’ve arrived just in time for Flauschink—our annual end-of-ski-season festival.”

“Flauschink?” Casey tried out the odd-sounding word.

“Literally, flushing, as in flushing out winter. Hence the plunger.”

“So everyone carries these around for the festival?” Casey eyed the sequined toilet accessory.

“Not everyone. Only the king and queen. I was trying out this year’s queen’s costume when you walked in.” Heather plucked the crown off her head and placed it on Casey’s. “I think the costume committee outdid themselves this year.”

Casey watched while Heather divested herself of the royal robes. Underneath the purple velvet she wore a sensible black pantsuit. “When is Flauschink and what happens during the festival?” Casey asked.

“It’s next weekend. Closing weekend for the ski resort and the last gasp for winter tourists. As for what happens, here’s a schedule.” She thrust a flyer at Casey.

Casey read down the list of activities, eyes widening. “Polka ball, crowning of king and queen, ski race, parade, concert…” She looked up. “That’s a lot to plan for.”

“So you see why I’m so glad you’re here.” She took the plunger and crown and stowed them in an empty file drawer. “You can fill out that paperwork later. Right now you would save my life if you could call this list of bands and confirm they’re going to be here to play next weekend. I’ve found it pays to follow up. You know musicians.”

Casey was happy to take a seat at the desk and get to work. Work felt normal—something she hadn’t experienced much of since leaving Chicago.

After Casey confirmed with all the musicians, Heather asked her to proof some ads for the summer Wildflower Festival. “It’s our biggest draw of the year,” Heather explained. “So we do a huge advertising push in newspapers and magazines.”

“So after Flauschink, we start getting ready for the Wildflower Festival?”

“Oh, before the Wildflower Festival we have Poo Fest and Bike Week, then the Wildflower Festival, the Arts and Film Festival and Vinotok—the fall festival.” Heather ticked the events off on her fingers. “Then it’s time for ski season and all the winter activities—which are too many to name right now.”

“Poo fest?” Casey asked. “You mean shampoo?”

“No. Dog poo. The snow melts and all the trails and sidewalks need to be cleaned up. A few years ago someone came up with the idea for the Poo Fest. There are games and prizes for the person or team that picks up the most pounds of poo.”

“You’re kidding.” This had to be another attempt to pull one over on the new gal.

Heather shook her head. “I swear I’m not. It’s a lot of fun. And a great way to get everyone to pitch in to clean up.”

Casey shook her head. Was there anything folks here wouldn’t celebrate?

Mid-morning, the men began showing up.

First was a young man with bright red hair. He came in clutching a brown paper bag. “Is Casey here?” he asked, looking past Heather toward Casey’s desk in the back.

“Wanted to be the first, did you, Jerry?” Heather said.

Jerry’s cheeks matched his hair. He moved past Heather to Casey’s desk and set the bag on top. “Hi, I’m Jerry,” he said. “Welcome to Crested Butte.”

“Uh, hi, Jerry.” Casey eyed him warily.

“I brought you sort of a welcome gift,” he said, nodding to the bag.

“Thanks.” She studied the plain brown bag. “Um, what is it?”

“Moose poop.”

“Okay.” Another joke on the newcomer? How was she supposed to take this?

She sent a frantic look at Heather, who marched over and snatched up the bag. “No wonder you’re still single, you dolt,” Heather said. She opened the bag and fished out a round brown patty and bit into it.

“Don’t worry,” she said in answer to Casey’s horrified look. “It’s chocolate. A local specialty.” She offered the bag to Casey. “Try one. They’re delicious.”

Casey fished out a smaller patty and sampled it. “It is good!” she said, relieved. Belatedly, she remembered the man who’d given her this gift and offered him a smile. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and took a step back. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

Jerry was scarcely out the door before a burly man with a black beard walked in. He marched up to the women and offered his hand. “Bill Whitmore,” he said. “Welcome to C.B.”

“Hi, Bill,” Casey said.

“I thought you might like to have lunch,” Bill said.

Casey glanced at the clock. “It’s only 10:30.”