Marriage on Her Mind. Cindi Myers

so it was kind of fun blowing bubbles over the heads of the assorted clowns, cowboys, devils, angels, snowmen and the other characters that converged inside the Eldo.

      Casey had scarcely gotten her bearings when a man wearing a red long underwear top, rough canvas pants, suspenders and a bushy black beard grabbed her hand. “Let’s dance,” he said.

      Casey resisted. “I don’t know how to polka,” she protested.

      “Then it’s time you learned.” The man—she decided he was supposed to be a miner—swept her onto the dance floor and led her in a somewhat controlled gallop across the room.

      “Who are you?” she shouted over the insistent polka beat.

      “Bill Whitmore. We met at the chamber.”

      Of course. She’d mistaken the beard for a fake, but now realized he’d let it go untrimmed to add to the authenticity of his outfit. “Someone told me you had a girlfriend,” she said as they started back across the room.

      “That’s okay. She’s dancing with someone else.”

      When the song ended and Bill released her, she was gasping for breath. “Guess you’re not used to the altitude,” Bill said, delivering her to a table shared by Heather, Trish, Bryan and Zephyr.

      “Guess not,” she wheezed, dropping into a chair. If she’d had the breath, she might have added that she wasn’t used to being dragged around at a gallop, while wearing high heels, either.

      “We ordered you a drink.” Heather pushed a plastic cup toward her.

      Casey had drained half the cup before she realized the fruit punch was heavily spiked. “Maybe I’d better stick to water,” she said, pushing the cup away.

      “We’ve got that, too.” Trish handed her a bottle.

      Casey twisted off the cap and searched the crowd for familiar faces. She’d half expected Max to offer to ride with her over to the Eldo, since walking even that short distance in heels was out of the question, but she hadn’t seen him since he’d locked up his shop that afternoon.

      “He’s not here yet,” Heather said.

      “Who?” Casey asked.

      “Max. That is who you were looking for, wasn’t it?”

      She hoped everyone would mistake the flush on her cheeks for the effects of her dancing. “I’m curious what his costume might be,” she said.

      “There’s Dr. Ben.” Trish, dressed as a flapper in a white silk minidress and rolled stockings, waved at a man in a familiar beer-can crown and purple cape.

      As he approached, the good doctor saluted them with his plunger/scepter, which also doubled as a holder for a can of beer. “You’re the Flauschink King!” Casey exclaimed.

      “Yes, I do have that dubious honor.” He turned to Heather. “You’re a very lovely…uh…what exactly are you?”

      “I’m a domino,” she said, exasperated.

      “Where’s your queen?” Zephyr asked. He’d added a silver lamé jacket to his usual baggy jeans and introduced himself as a rock star.

      Ben looked around, then a smile broke out. “Here she comes now.” He waved and Patti, the waitress at the Teocalli Tamale, glided over. She wore a tie-dyed T-shirt and ripped jeans beneath her royal robes, and tie-dyed streamers decorated her scepter.

      “Dig the tie-dye, your majesty,” Zephyr said, giving her a thumbs up.

      “Thanks.” Patti curtsied.

      “Anybody seen Max?” Ben asked.

      They shook their heads. “We’re all waiting to see his costume,” Bryan said. He was dressed as a chimney sweep, in top hat and tails, carrying a broom. “Do you know what it is?”