desert. “You even smell good. Who is she? What’s up with the CIA action?”
“It’s no big deal.”
“It must be a big deal; I think you’re even wearing clean socks!” Sam leaned back against the counter.
“I just don’t want to jinx it. And you’re getting huge palm prints on the case.” Fender started looking for his keys. Sam took a step away from the counter and smoothed the glass with the hem of his T-shirt. Fender could practically see the little gears turning in his brain.
“You haven’t met anybody lately—oh my God!” Sam chased Fender behind the counter. “I know exactly who it is. You haven’t met any chicks lately except one: the ski girl! Dead Boyfriend’s girl! You asked her out? You dog! Well, how’d she take the news about roadkill and the ring?”
The jig was up. He couldn’t lie to Sam. Fender just looked at him.
Sam’s smile was as wide as the Rio Grande. “You didn’t tell her. I knew the new-and-improved Fender would be short-lived. You didn’t tell her, and now you’re hornin’ in on the dead guy’s territory.”
Fender tried to be sanctimonious. “You almost look pleased that I haven’t told her.”
Sam laughed. “I am pleased! You’re a never-ending source of entertainment for me, Fender. I love you, but God, you do stupid things sometimes. So, how’s this going to work? Will you bed her and slip the ring into the eggs the morning after? Or with a note tucked under the pillow?”
Fender really did feel a little hurt. “It’s not like that, Sam. I know I usually don’t go for the long-term thing with women…” He paused because Sam was clearly trying not to laugh. “I know it usually doesn’t work out after a while, but I want it to be different with her. Don’t tell me another thing because I’ve already thought about all of it.”
“All right, studmuffin. You know what? If you think this is a chance for happiness, I’m not going to lecture you. I just don’t remember big fatty lies being the cornerstone of a great relationship.”
“Excuse me, oh Honest Sam. I recall someone in this room calling the cable company to bitch about the cable being out before remembering that he’d hot-wired the cable from his neighbor’s cable box in the first place. Ring any bells?”
“Well, go on your date and have fun. I’m proud of you, too, for bathing. That lets a girl know she’s special.” Sam got out of the shop door before Fender could retaliate.
Ginger cried in the car all the way down the mountain.
It’d just been a horrific day. She’d had lessons back to back on a miserable, wet March Tuesday. All morning long she’d looked forward to changing her socks at lunch and having a warm cup of soup. When she’d trudged back to the instructors’ room, however, she’d found another slip of paper for her, pegged with a golf tee on the big assignment board. Another lesson. A lunch lesson. She could’ve cried. But she’d turned around and marched out to the flats again, wet socks, cold toes, and all.
She never said no. She wanted the work, and she worried that if she turned one lesson down, no others would come her way.
So, she’d gone to teach another lesson. Followed by another, and then another. At the end of the day, she’d been bone tired and cold.
Her last lesson had been a kid of nine or ten. Colby was his name. The mother had wanted to stand on the snow next to them and watch. That’d been Ginger’s first hint of trouble.
Colby was a brat. A spoiled mama’s boy. He was also hopelessly uncoordinated. By the end of the hour, Ginger had been ready to strangle him. But she’d kept at it, trying to get him to wedge turn, or stop, or even just get up by himself.
When they had ten minutes left in the lesson, Colby had fallen and wouldn’t get up. Ginger had tried everything, but he was planted. So, she’d sat down in the snow next to him, resolved to wait until he decided he wanted to get up.
Which was when the mother had stormed
“It’s no big deal.”
“It must be a big deal; I think you’re even wearing clean socks!” Sam leaned back against the counter.
“I just don’t want to jinx it. And you’re getting huge palm prints on the case.” Fender started looking for his keys. Sam took a step away from the counter and smoothed the glass with the hem of his T-shirt. Fender could practically see the little gears turning in his brain.
“You haven’t met anybody lately—oh my God!” Sam chased Fender behind the counter. “I know exactly who it is. You haven’t met any chicks lately except one: the ski girl! Dead Boyfriend’s girl! You asked her out? You dog! Well, how’d she take the news about roadkill and the ring?”
The jig was up. He couldn’t lie to Sam. Fender just looked at him.
Sam’s smile was as wide as the Rio Grande. “You didn’t tell her. I knew the new-and-improved Fender would be short-lived. You didn’t tell her, and now you’re hornin’ in on the dead guy’s territory.”
Fender tried to be sanctimonious. “You almost look pleased that I haven’t told her.”
Sam laughed. “I am pleased! You’re a never-ending source of entertainment for me, Fender. I love you, but God, you do stupid things sometimes. So, how’s this going to work? Will you bed her and slip the ring into the eggs the morning after? Or with a note tucked under the pillow?”
Fender really did feel a little hurt. “It’s not like that, Sam. I know I usually don’t go for the long-term thing with women…” He paused because Sam was clearly trying not to laugh. “I know it usually doesn’t work out after a while, but I want it to be different with her. Don’t tell me another thing because I’ve already thought about all of it.”
“All right, studmuffin. You know what? If you think this is a chance for happiness, I’m not going to lecture you. I just don’t remember big fatty lies being the cornerstone of a great relationship.”
“Excuse me, oh Honest Sam. I recall someone in this room calling the cable company to bitch about the cable being out before remembering that he’d hot-wired the cable from his neighbor’s cable box in the first place. Ring any bells?”
“Well, go on your date and have fun. I’m proud of you, too, for bathing. That lets a girl know she’s special.” Sam got out of the shop door before Fender could retaliate.
Ginger cried in the car all the way down the mountain.
It’d just been a horrific day. She’d had lessons back to back on a miserable, wet March Tuesday. All morning long she’d looked forward to changing her socks at lunch and having a warm cup of soup. When she’d trudged back to the instructors’ room, however, she’d found another slip of paper for her, pegged with a golf tee on the big assignment board. Another lesson. A lunch lesson. She could’ve cried. But she’d turned around and marched out to the flats again, wet socks, cold toes, and all.
She never said no. She wanted the work, and she worried that if she turned one lesson down, no others would come her way.
So, she’d gone to teach another lesson. Followed by another, and then another. At the end of the day, she’d been bone tired and cold.
Her last lesson had been a kid of nine or ten. Colby was his name. The mother had wanted to stand on the snow next to them and watch. That’d been Ginger’s first hint of trouble.
Colby was a brat. A spoiled mama’s boy. He was also hopelessly uncoordinated. By the end of the hour, Ginger had been ready to strangle him. But she’d kept at it, trying to get him to wedge turn, or stop, or even just get up by himself.
When they had ten minutes left in the lesson, Colby had fallen and wouldn’t get up. Ginger had tried everything, but he was planted. So, she’d sat down in the snow next to him, resolved to wait until he decided he wanted to get up.
Which was when the mother had stormed
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