Makin' Whoopee Read online

  "That might be a little difficult. He's involved in a bloody battle right now with conservationists regarding some land he's trying to lease out for a toxic-waste-disposal site."

  She caught her breath sharply. "You've got to be kidding. You honestly expect me to agree with him?"

  "What could it hurt, just this once?" Ted was on the defensive now, making her wonder if he had heard a hint of accusation in her tone. "For heaven's sake, Sara. No one's keeping score on you. The world won't end tomorrow if you let one of your causes slide." His voice became soft and cajoling. "Sara, honey, I need to impress Mr. Highland. If you and I come across well tonight as a couple, the partnership is practically mine."

  Sara took several deep breaths, willing herself to remain calm. It was only natural that Ted should want to impress his superiors. She couldn't fault him for being ambitious. And, she assured herself, a little deception was normal in business. She would probably never see any of the people at the dinner party unless she was with Ted. No one would know that she had compromised her principles.

  Except she. What other people thought of her didn't matter. She was worried about what she would think of herself. Compromise was a big part of the business world. She had realized that from the beginning. But she had worked hard to get to a point where she didn't have to make personal compromises.

  "I'm sorry," she said dully. "I can't. Not even for you, Ted."

  He didn't speak for a moment, then said slowly, "I guess we know how important I am to you."

  "That's not fair." Her voice was stiff. "Why don't you look at it from the other side? If I were really important to you, you wouldn't ask me to do something that goes against my principles."

  "I would do it for you."

  The quietly spoken words fell into silence. He probably would, she thought sadly. But that fact didn't please her. It made him seem less in her eyes.

  "You've left me in a mess," he said. "I can't take a chance on your offending Mr. Highland."

  "Then I guess you'd better find someone else to go with you," she said softly.

  "Yes, I guess I'd better," he said. The line buzzed emptily.

  Sara stared out the window, feeling let down. She knew this argument was only a symptom of what had been happening between her and Ted recently. They had been drawing further and further apart with every encounter. This was the beginning of the end of their relationship, and it made her unhappy. Ted was a good man, kind and considerate. But, like herself, he was totally wrapped up in his career.

  She realized now that they had avoided talking about their basic beliefs for too long. She had known for some time that she wasn't in love with Ted. They weren't even dating exclusively. Since they were both cautious people, occasionally one or the other of them would see someone else. But she was comfortable with Ted and had thought perhaps, in this exploratory period, they were laying the foundation for something permanent.

  She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. Had she really believed that? Ted had seemed exactly right for her, but it didn't make her smile to think of him.

  Shaking her head, she wondered what on earth was wrong with her lately. She wasn't looking for someone who made her pulse quicken. She wanted a secure future, a man she could count on, someone like Ted, who wouldn't demand that she have children. Someone who would not think she was less of a woman because she was not mother material.

  "And how did I get from a broken dinner date to motherhood?" she muttered.

  Sara firmly told herself that she should be pleased the breakup had happened now rather than later, when she possibly could have been more emotionally involved with Ted. But, logic aside, her immediate reaction was to view the end of their relationship as a failure.

  And not the first of its kind, she admitted wryly. So far, her experiences with men were not exactly the kind to write home about.

  Frowning, she asked herself—for the umpteenth time—if she was destined to be single. She had no doubt that the fault of her failed relationships lay on her own shoulders. Either she was not giving enough to them, or she was choosing the wrong men.

  Oh, please, she thought, no introspection tonight. It hadn't worked out with Ted, and that was all there was to it. There was no need for gloom and doom. Deep in the recesses of her mind, she had known all along that she and Ted wouldn't last. Their friendship had been too superficial. Not once had they been able to touch on a basic level.

  Shaking off the melancholic mood, she walked back to the phone and quickly punched in a familiar number. "Charlie?" she said when the phone was picked up at the other end.

  "Hello, Sara Love. What's up?"

  "I suddenly find myself free for the weekend," she said, her tone self-mocking. "I think I'll go with you to look over the lodge."

  "Wonderful," he said, and the genuine pleasure in his voice immediately made her feel better. "It will be great if we can talk over the pluses and minuses on the scene."

  "Can I ride with you?"

  "Sure. But there's just one thing."

  "Oh?"

  "You'll have to drive your car," he said cheerfully. "Mine had a heart attack on the freeway and is now in intensive care."

  "For heaven's sake, Charlie," she said in amused exasperation. "Why don't you get a real car? You can afford it."

  "You don't think a '55 Chevy convertible is a real car?" he asked incredulously. "It's a classic."

  "The car is tired. You should have put it in a rest home years ago."

  "Are you going to pick me up, or what?" he asked, sounding as though he were willing to argue all night if she really had her heart set on it.

  "I don't have much of a choice, do I? What about food?"

  "Oh, yeah. That was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about.

  She could picture his crooked grin, and she laughed. Retaining a bad mood around Charlie was an emotional impossibility. "What would you have done if I hadn't decided to go?"

  "I would have rented a car and picked up a package of bologna and a loaf of bread," he said. "But since you're coming along, you can do the little-woman thing and bring some real food."

  He was trying to get a rise out of her, but Sara knew better than to take the bait. "You're so good to me," she said sweetly.

  She was still smiling when she hung up the phone. A weekend with Charlie? she mused, shaking her head. She must be out of her mind.

  Chapter 2

  As soon as Sara pulled her Mercedes into the parking lot of Charlie's apartment building, he appeared out of the dark and opened the passenger door. After chucking a tacky-looking duffle bag into the back seat, he climbed in beside her.

  "I hope you brought a lot of food," he said in lieu of a greeting. "I'm starving."

  "You're always starving. This time you'll just have to suffer, because if the roads leading to this place are anything like most mountain roads, it'll take us a while to get there."

  "I could always nibble on your neck," he suggested, his expression serious though his eyes were laughing.

  "Only if you place no value on your teeth," she said blandly as she pulled out of the parking lot.

  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and her gaze lingered on the ragged pink sweat shirt that barely covered his upper half. "Wasn't that indecent piece of a sweat shirt gray the last time I saw it?" she asked. "I know it can't be a new one, because the biggest hole sits right over the scar on your shoulder."

  "You're very observant." He touched his shoulder. "This is my old war wound."

  "Come off it. You've never been in a war . . . not even an old war."

  He laughed. "Would you believe this is where a flaming arrow struck me during an Apache attack?"

  "If I thought about it at all, I would come nearer to believing one of your women got a little frisky," she said, keeping her gaze on the road as the thought of Charlie with another woman brought a familiar, unwelcome pang. "But I very carefully avoid thinking about it, and I didn't ask about it now. I merely mentioned that your gray sweat shir
t is now putrid pink."

  "Lydia left town," he said sadly, giving her Pathetic, Helpless Look Number Three.

  She glanced at him. "Lydia with the Osmond smile?"

  "The same. She packed up—lock, stock, and dental floss—and flew off to the Caribbean with the night manager of a convenience store."

  "I think I did dear Lydia an injustice," Sara said after a moment. "I didn't know she had such discriminating taste." She looked at him again and frowned. "Don't bother to look like you've been abandoned. You don't sound in the least heartbroken."

  "No," he agreed, then paused, watching her closely. "But somehow you do. Well, maybe not heartbroken, but certainly a little heart-bruised. Are things getting rocky between you and F. Lee?"

  "I wish you wouldn't call him that," she said irritably. "It sounds like you're making fun of the fact that he's a lawyer. Did I make fun of Ginger?"

  "Ginger?"

  "The topless barber."

  "Oh, yeah, Ginger." He smiled nostalgically. "Red hair and enormous . . . potential. There was nothing there to make fun of. The woman was a genius at what she did. She gave good sideburns."

  "Among other things, I'm sure," Sara murmured dryly. "Nevertheless, lay off Ted."

  Charlie frowned. "You really are upset," he said softly, concern showing in his blue eyes. "What happened, Sara Love?"

  She shook her head vigorously. "No, really . . . I'm not upset." She smiled. "We had a small argument, but I'm sure we'll be friends again next week. Right now I'm going to relax and enjoy the weekend."

  Charlie studied her features for a moment, then smiled. "Good for you."

  ❧

  Traffic on 1-90, which ran alongside the wide Yellowstone River, was moderately heavy, but when they turned off it they left the cars and civilization behind. Almost immediately they started climbing. The trees around them grew taller—pine, spruce, and fir, all stretching their branches toward the mountains above, where nothing grew tall.

  The forest became thicker and wilder. In the glow of the headlights, they saw places the sun rarely reached. Quiet, secret places. This was a different world from what they experienced daily. The city of Billings, Montana, became merely a state of mind as they left all reminders of the Great Plains behind.

  Since she and Charlie were never at a loss for conversation, the drive along the narrow, winding mountain road went quickly. In what seemed like a very short time, they burst out of the woods and the headlights struck a sprawling, two-story building. It looked vaguely eerie against the dark mountainside behind it.

  Sara rested her foot lightly on the brake, slowing the car to survey the lodge. The front section was an A frame, and behind it, extending to the east and west, were two wings.

  "It looks . . . dead," she said, unaware that her voice had dropped to a whisper.

  "Did you expect klieg lights?" Charlie asked, scoffingly. "The place has been closed for three years. Pull around to the back. Findlay said the front door is a little stubborn."

  By the time she got her bag from the back seat, Charlie had opened the back door. Cautiously she stepped into musty blackness. "This is not a place I would pay to visit, Charlie," she said, her voice low, almost furtive.

  The glare of a flashlight caught her in the face as she heard him chuckle. "Stay here for a minute and I'll turn on the electricity," he said, and handed her the flashlight.

  Before she could protest, he was gone. She moved the lonely beam of light around the room, passing it over indeterminate objects and indeterminate shadows.

  "If anything moves in this Charles Addams nightmare, I'm gone," she muttered.

  Suddenly the room was illuminated. "That's better," Charlie said, coming up behind her.

  She glanced around, taking in the now-visible cobwebs and dust that covered everything in the large room. "Not much." She walked a few feet into the room and ran a finger over a black surface. "It's a stove," she said in astonishment. "How old did you say this place is? My great-grandmother had a stove more modern than this."

  "Findlay said it was built in 'fifty-seven," Charlie said over his shoulder as he investigated something that could have been a refrigerator.

  "Are you sure he meant nineteen fifty-seven?"

  "Where's your sense of adventure? This place is fantastic. Look at this. The sink is slate."

  "Does water run into it?" she asked, rolling up her sleeves. "Or do we get it from a pump out back?"

  "I turned the water on outside when I got the electricity." He grasped the thin handle of the old-fashioned, rust-encrusted faucet. "Hey, check this out," he said over his shoulder. "The water's orange."

  "Do you have to sound so enthusiastic about it?" she grumbled. "If we want to eat tonight, we're going to have to use some of that wonderful orange water to clean this place."

  "I'll go check out the bedrooms while you do that," he said, his smile guileless.

  "Why did I know you would have a suggestion like that?" she murmured, watching him leave the room.

  For the next hour she was elbow-deep in soapsuds. With each stroke she pretended it was Charlie's face she was scrubbing. Somehow he always managed to get her into situations like this.

  Still, Sara gradually began to relax. She hadn't cleaned in ages. She had forgotten how soothing such a mindless chore was. There was something therapeutic about it, she thought, and smiled wryly. That was probably why they made people in institutions weave potholders and baskets.

  By the time Charlie returned to the kitchen, a good portion of it was at least serviceable. The floor was still thick with dirt, but Sara drew the line at scrubbing floors. She had cleaned a part of the massive counter, the top of a small wooden table, the stove, and enough dishes to last them during their stay.

  "One of these days ..." she said, glancing at him in warning. "I'm keeping track of all the times you've suckered me, and someday I'll get you."

  "Poor baby. You're all worn out. Here, sit down." He pushed her into a chair and propped her feet up on another. "Dinner's on me."

  "If you think I'm going to argue, you're crazy," she said, relaxing with a sigh. "I'll have French onion soup and a grilled-cheese sandwich."

  He laughed. "On the double." From a hook above the stove he pulled one of the pots she had cleaned, and opened the canned soup. "You know, there's something about this place. I think I'm in love already."

  "There's something about it, all right," she said dryly. "Like ten years of dirt and dust."

  "Fixable, Sara Lovelight, fixable." He moved with surprising efficiency as he prepared their spartan meal. "Elbow grease is cheap. But I warn you, you're going to have to use your imagination when you look around the place."

  "That doesn't sound promising. This part is pretty depressing. What does the rest of it look like?"

  "Actually, it's not bad, except ..."

  "Except?"

  "How do you feel about Spanish decor?" he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder.

  "You're kidding. In a Montana mountain lodge?"

  His eyes sparkled with laughter. "Honest to God. Spanish. Scads and scads of dark wood and black wrought iron. If we wanted high camp we wouldn't have to touch a thing. I can't wait to show you."

  She yawned. "Show me tomorrow, when my brain isn't so foggy."

  "You'll love it. I guarantee it."

  She stared at his back for a moment. "How many times have I heard you say that to a client?" When he merely chuckled, she added, "Now I know what it feels like to be a fish waiting to be reeled in."

  Nothing she said could dampen his enthusiasm, and as they ate she listened to his plans for the lodge—if they decided to buy it. After their meal she washed the few dishes they had used, while Charlie checked out the central heat. He had been gone for fifteen minutes when she looked speculatively at the three kitchen doors, and pushed open the one that led to the front of the lodge.

  She found herself in a large lounge with a cathedral ceiling that rose two stories. On three sides high windows were c
overed by drooping, dusty velvet drapes. Parts of the room were clothed in shadow, making the area look vast and empty. But the parts she could see were at least in better shape than the kitchen.

  At the back of the lounge, staircases on either side climbed to a railed balcony. Five doors opened off the corridor, leading, she presumed, to rooms above the kitchen. At the far ends of the balcony she could see archways that must lead to the wings.

  Moving closer to the fireplace, on one wall she saw a wooden bar, and beyond that a small dance floor. It was everything a lodge should be. Not too elaborate; not too primitive.

  Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned. "Except for the furniture, this room isn't bad at all," she said.

  Charlie suddenly grabbed her and bent her back, his blue eyes wide and dramatic. She was shocked by the sudden and unbidden need to pull him close. "We're alone," he whispered heavily. She couldn't pinpoint his accent, but it was something between a Hungarian gypsy and Charles Boyer. "Scream, if you like. There is nothing living to hear you." He laughed maniacally. "You are helpless, fair lady Love, totally in my power."

  She gazed at him in unconcerned silence, then said calmly, "Do you see my knee, Charlie?"

  He glanced down and nodded.

  "Let me go or you'll never father a child."

  He grinned, and lowered her to a massive ottoman. "Party pooper. It's not bad, is it?" he said, glancing around the room. He sat in a chair beside her, then waved his hand at the cloud of dust that rose around him. "I can't believe they thought this room called for Spanish furniture. And the walls . . . What color would you say they are?"

  "Bile green?"

  "Close," he agreed, chuckling. "These tall windows and the high ceiling will be spectacular when we rip down the velvet drapes."

  "When?"

  "Okay, if." Raking his gaze over her face, he said, "I'm glad you could come with me. You needed a weekend away from the business. You get too wrapped up in it."