Page 25 of The Cowboy and the Bombshell
Smiling again, I turned back to Stone. His face was blank as he studied the women in front of him. Carson was now grinning broadly.
“Allow me to introduce you to “The Queens of the Alamo,” I said proudly. Reaching into my briefcase, I withdrew some of the promotional materials I had drawn up earlier in the week. The photographer I hired met Dolly and her ladies for some great shots in the desert, and then I did some mock ups and had them printed. I handed the items to Carson and Stone, watching as Carson’s face lit up and Stone’s eyes narrowed. “I’m thinking a dinner theater and variety show. A mix of lip sync, cabaret, burlesque, and stand-up comedy. There would be some audience participation, and even a little slap stick. It turns out that these are some seriously talented ladies.” I gesture to the women behind me, who all preen and pose like a bunch of brightly colored birds.
“Penelope,” Carson exclaimed brightly, getting up and wrapping me in a hug, squeezing me so tightly my ribs ached and my feet left the floor. “This is brilliant!” He let me go just as quickly and turned to Dolly. “I would love to work with you guys, uh, gals on some musical numbers. I have some ideas for original songs you might be interested in.”
“Listen, darlin,” came a voice from behind me. I turned and gazed up - way up - in to the beautiful face of Cher. Her long black hair hung straight on either side of her face, falling almost to her waist. She was wearing purple corduroy bell bottoms and a flowered cropped peasant top. Her huge eyes, painted in shades of bright purple to match her pants, blinked down at us. She must have been close to six and a half feet tall, skinny as a rail, and absolutely gorgeous. Cher bat her eyelashes and dramatically licked her lips. “If anyone here is gonna be talking about original songs, it’s me.” She swept her hair back off her shoulders, doing a perfect impression of Cher’s signature move.
“Oh,” stammered Carson. “Uh, yeah.” He grinned at her, one side of his mouth ticking up. “I’d love to discuss options. Penelope, these fliers are great. I’d like to talk about a schedule and get Geoff in on the menu side. I’m thinking four nights a week and a matinee on Saturdays. Also, I want to-”
“Miss Lund,” Stone’s booming voice broke into the conversation, halting everyone as we swung our heads in his direction. I looked at him, tapping my flier on his knee as he sat, leaned back in the chair, one ankle crossed over his other leg. Standing tall, my lips pursed as I awaited his judgment, I tried to anticipate what he’d hate about my idea. Would it be too cliché? Too over the top? Or perhaps he’d hate it for no other reason than it was my idea. I crossed my arms and regarded him coolly, but I could feel my pulse racing in my throat.
Finally, after staring at me silently for a few long moments, he spoke. “This idea, did you come up with it all on your own?”
I was taken aback. His tone seemed purely professional, with no sign of his typical snideness or mockery. His face held nothing but honest businesslike curiosity.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, Mr. Montgomery. Although, once I started to develop it, Dolly and her crew provided a lot of inspiration.”
“And these numbers,” he said, pulling the sales estimates I drew up out of the package I provided. “You think these are going to be accurate.”
“According to the statistics chart that was provided withThe Alamobusiness dossier I was given, they are, yes.”
I waited again as he assessed the assembled ladies, each one more outrageous than the last. There was Dolly and Cher, but also a Madonna impersonator and some famous TV personalities as well. The program the women had put together with their assembled skill set was quite entertaining. I imagined with some polish and a few tweaks form Carson it would be a knockout production.
At last, Stone stood, gathering the package I have given him back together. “If you can reach numbers anywhere near what you’ve projected,” he said, he face serious but not scowling like I was used to. I didn’t really know what to do with him at that moment. How did I handle him if he wasn’t not spitting out snide remarks with every other breath? “I think you just might have a hit on your hands.” And with that, and a shocking twist of his lips I might even have called a real smile, Stone turned and left the conference room without looking back.
Carson and I stared after him for a beat, before we both look at each other in confusion. Carson spoke first.
“What the hell just happened?”
“I, um, I think Stone Montgomery just complimented me.” I said, still not quite sure if I believed it myself.
“Honey cake,” Dolly chimed in, her sweet voice breaking through my shock. “If that man is half as surly as he looked, you better get yourself to a casino and place a whopper of a bet. Because, considering the smile he sent your way, I think this might just be your lucky day!” she finished, and all the ladies cheered.
The only problem was, I didn’t know if I’d consider what happened lucky at all.
But it was damn confusing.
* * * *
That night, after watching the sun set in another spectacular display of brilliant crimson and gold across the hills of Red Rock Canyon, I sat by the pool, a blanket across my lap as I curled up on one of the lounge chairs and called my mother. We had been communicating mostly via text messages during this first hectic week, and I found I just really needed to hear her voice.
“Hey, there,” she said excitedly. I could hear how tired she was by the way her voice was a bit strained. Part of the reason we hadn’t talked much was that she was working nights lately. It was hard on her physically, but there was a wage premium paid to nurses who took the overnight shifts, and we needed all the help we could get. “How are things out in Sin City?”
“Oh,” I said slowly, not wanting to really burden my mom with my problems. She had enough to worry about. “Things are as good as can be expected.”
“Penelope,” she said sternly. “Tell me everything.”
I took a deep breath and started from the beginning. I told her about losing my luggage, and the coffee incident, and stumbling late into the meeting to find that Stone was my boss. I told her about falling in the pool, and the uncomfortable living situation, and how Stone seemed determined to cut me down at every turn. She made all the right noises of outrage, her mama bear instincts kicking in.
“But something pretty great happened today, Mom.”
“Well, I should hope so,” she stated. “It’s been a heck of a week. I wish you were home, I’d get you some ice cream and put on an episode of The Bachelor.” I chuckled, thinking how right she was; sweet treats and trash TV often solved all our problems. “Tell me about your great thing, honey.”
“Well,” I said, drawing the word out to create suspense. “I wore the shoes!”
“Yes!” my mother exclaimed. “I knew it. I knew they would help. Tell me, what amazing thing did that fabulous footwear accomplish?”
So, in and excited rush, I shared with her my idea forThe Queens of the Alamo. My mother laughed with me as I gushed about all of Dolly’s terms of endearment, and asked for pictures when I told her how spectacular Cher looked in her purple bell bottoms. We laughed at Carson’s reaction, and I told her all about the show I had dreamed up in my head, how I planned to market it, and how successful I wanted it to be.
