by Lisa Plumley
“You missed it that much, huh?”
“Right. We really bonded. I love things with shaggy hair, piggy little eyes, and a stench that hits you from a mile away.”
He smiled, relieved that she could joke about it. “You just described Bruce.”
She made a face. “That thing creeped me out.”
“Don’t worry, it’s gone now,” Riley reminded her. Upon hearing Jayne’s scream last night, he’d come at a run. A few minutes’ patient coaxing had had the confused (and hearing-damaged) javelina on its way. “I shooed it away. It didn’t mean any harm, though. Probably, it got separated from its herd and was looking for some food.”
“Well, it obviously knew it would find an easy mark with me. The back-to-nature neophyte.”
“It wasn’t personal.”
“Yeah, right. Those were my shoes serving as its appetizer.”
He shrugged. “Your tent must have been left unzipped.”
“Like I said…back-to-nature neophyte. After everything else, I should have known something like this would happen. Why wouldn’t I be javelina bait, too?”
“Jayne, it was a baby javelina. It couldn’t have hurt you. Everyone else thought it looked kind of cute.”
“It looked grouchy.” Jayne squinted her makeup-free eyes, appearing to think about it. “Grouchy, hungry, and ready to stomp all over anybody who got in the way of a midnight snack.”
“Again, just like Bruce.”
She made a face. “I’m serious. It knew I was an easy target. It knew! I don’t belong out here, Riley.”
“Sure, you do.” He smiled. “You’re just lucky it wasn’t a raccoon in your tent, rifling through your stuff. Trying on your hats. Wearing your nail polish.”
“They can do that?”
“Only the big ones. Big enough to gnaw through the tent.”
Her eyes grew wide. “I want a steel tent.”
“Then you get the really big ones. The raccoons who like a challenge.”
“Oh, my God.”
“You’ll probably need to share my sleeping bag until we’re safely out of raccoon country.”
“Ahhh.” Jayne crossed her arms. It was obvious she’d caught on to his teasing. “That won’t be necessary. If I see any raccoons, I’ll just whack them with my fishing club.”
“Good.” He looked her over, reassured to hear some of the feistiness reenter her voice. “Better now?”
“I’m fine,” she said blithely—just as though her body weren’t probably going into shock from hairspray withdrawal right now. “Fine and dandy.”
Fine and dandy? She sounded like Mary Poppins. Now Riley was really worried. “Are you sure? Because you look—”
He paused, nodding meaningfully toward her clothes.
Her brow arched. “Yes? I look…?”
Uh-oh. But he was too worried not to continue. “You look sort of—well, shorter, for one thing.” Riley tilted his head, examining her, distracted from his original mission by the realization. “I knew there’d been something different about you lately, but until now I hadn’t put my finger on it. Yes, you’re definitely shorter.”
She glared.
“More petite?” he tried, thinking that might sound better.
“Shorter.” Jayne’s mouth turned down in a glum line. She indicated her feet. “It’s the shoes. I lost a good three inches going from stilettos to ATSes. I’m usually much taller. Everything looks so…ordinary from down here.”
She didn’t sound happy about it. Given that, Riley should have left things well enough alone. But the sight of her clothes wouldn’t let him. Now that he was closer, he saw that Jayne’s shirt tag stuck up in the back—and Jayne was a militant tucker-inner. He’d lost track of the times her fingers had slipped deftly inside his collar to hide his tag when they’d been together. If she was ignoring her own tag now…well, something was definitely wrong.
He couldn’t believe such a change could come about just because of a javelina encounter. After all, the baby pig-like creature hadn’t actually hurt anything or anyone—including Jayne herself. There had to be something else going on here.
He scrutinized her, trying to figure it out. Oblivious to his concerns, she yawned again and ruffled her hair, leaving several strands sticking up on one side. She didn’t even smooth them down. Her leopard-print “primping” compact didn’t magically appear, either. Riley became convinced trouble was afoot. Maybe the javelina incident, harmless as it seemed to him, had been the last straw for Jayne.
Either that, or he’d slipped up and done “nothing” again.
He hoped it wasn’t that. “Nothing” was so hard to fix.
Riley squinted, trying to figure her out. “You’re okay, then?”
Jayne nodded, giving him a quizzical look.
He was going to have to come right out with it. “I’m worried about…how you look. Your clothes.”
And your hair, your ragged thumbnail, your shoes—which were, he noticed, on the wrong feet and unlaced. It wasn’t that Riley was shallow. He knew there were more important things than surface beauty. Jayne’s looks didn’t matter that much to him. But they did matter to Jayne. Usually.
“Oh.” Comprehension filled her features. “Well, it’s simple.” She waved her hand. “Ever since last night, I’ve lost my will to accessorize.”
“Your will to—”
“Accessorize. Right. Also, I’ve lost all interest in coordinating. I mean, does any of it really matter? When it comes right down to it, does looking good really matter—especially out here in the wild? Does anything matter, at all?”
He paused. “You’re not a morning person, are you?”
In reply, Jayne shook her head. The motion messed up her hair even further. She still didn’t fix it. This was not good.
“But—if you look good, you feel good,” Riley said, so worried he felt compelled to dredge up her self-help mantra. “If you look good, you—feel—good.”
She shrugged. “I feel okay. I’m going to go gather some sticks and bark for breakfast. Cut out the middle man in my All Bran. See you on the trail.”
Jayne waved half-heartedly, like a beauty queen in a parade. Then she schlepped away with her shoelaces flapping, her pants dragging, her fleece backward and inside out, and her derrière—Riley saw with a wince—decorated with a hiking sock that must have clung through static electricity. It plastered her right cheek like a foot-shaped white flag.
He shook his head, worried but uncertain what to do. Jayne didn’t seem concerned about her condition—but then people in trouble often didn’t.
In all his years guiding adventure travel trips, Riley had seem some pretty strange things. Successful CEOs who broke down halfway up a mountain summit, defeated by a storm that defied their schedules. Hypothermia victims who fought against the dry clothes and warm shoes that ultimately saved them. Competitive couples whose refusal to cooperate doomed them to shared failure.
But I’ve lost my will to accessorize? I’ve lost all interest in coordinating? Those were new to him.
Behind him, Kelly shuffled out from her tent. She caught him watching Jayne, and shook her head.
“I’m worried,” Kelly said. “I think Jayne’s in trouble. After the javelina left, I caught her trying to sleep with her cache of bath products. Do you know how hard it is to get forty winks with bath beads and Bathing Beauty Bubbles clanking beside you all night?”
Jayne had been restless. “No,” he said.
“Well, I do.” Kelly crossed her arms. “Baths are Jayne’s primary form of stress relief, you know. And now, being on the trail….”
“No baths,” Riley finished, beginning to understand.
“Right. I think it’s pretty hard on her, dealing with all of us in her group. And all the nature stuff. And the javelina. Plus, well…” Hesitating, Kelly bit her lip. She gave him a pointed look.
“Me? Plus dealing with me?”
Kelly nodded. “Sorry.”
“No point shooting t
he messenger,” he told her, suddenly remembering what Jayne had said when they’d met at the Hideaway Lodge.
These women are depending on me, Riley. I won’t let you mess things up for me.
Riley folded his arms, still watching Jayne in the distance. Now she had a clump of wet leaves on her shoe, and it dragged along in her wake. Her guidance groupies looked askance when she passed by in all her disheveled glory, but Jayne waved at them and continued onward. Her butt sock swished perkily from side to side with every step.
Riley groaned. “I’ve got to do something to help her.”
“I’m not sure what you can do. She’s stressed out, and she’s staying that way. Unless you can turn up a bathtub somehow.” Kelly frowned doubtfully.
“I can. There’s a bathtub at the canyon lodge!” It was a little…rustic, sure. But it was a bathtub, the cure for everything that ailed Jayne. “It’s only a few hours away. We’ll be there by this afternoon.”
Relief filled him. Unified in newfound hopefulness, he and Kelly watched Jayne. Soon, she would get the relaxing bath she needed. Everything would be all right again. She’d bathe, she’d recover her will to accessorize, she’d…pause at the campsite’s edge and roll up her trail pants? Two mismatched socks flashed as Jayne strode into the trees.
“A few hours might be too late,” Kelly said worriedly.
“I’ll think of something,” Riley said. Then he headed out to do exactly that.
“It’s time for the next workshop,” Jayne said that afternoon. She’d hiked all morning, had soaked her shoes during a creek crossing everyone else had navigated easily, and had finally devolved to the point where she actually considered beef jerky “a treat.” Now, she just wanted to get on with things. “The title of this workshop is—”
“Wait!” Mitzi said from within the group gathered around Jayne. “What about the primping?”
Murmurs of assent were heard. Alexis waved her leopard-print compact overhead, clearly ready for the usual pre-workshop ritual. Kelly put her chin in her hand and cast a worried glance toward the men, who were leaving for their own workshop.
“Oh, all right.” Halfheartedly, Jayne withdrew her compact. “Is everyone ready? Okay…primp. I guess.”
They all fluffed and powdered and lipsticked. She rolled her eyes and snapped her compact shut. She just didn’t have the energy to primp today. Not after last night. Not after…everything.
Jayne thought she’d been hanging on pretty well—but the javelina had obliterated the last of her back-to-nature courage. All she wanted to do now was get finished, get to the lodge, and get back to civilization.
As soon as the lipsticks were recapped, she began. “Again, the title of this workshop is—”
“Hey!” Her breakup-ees’ disappointed gazes stopped her. They all frowned. Well, all except Carla—who’d said she wasn’t feeling well, and had opted out of this particular workshop. She was resting nearby.
“Oh, all right.” To make them happy, Jayne formed a weak upraised fist and finished their usual ritual. “What’s our motto?”
They all shouted happily, “If you look good, you feel—”
“Okay, okay, that’ll do.” Everyone drooped. Well, that was just too bad, Jayne told herself. It was time for them all to get serious. “Now, the title of this workshop is Karaoke ‘Your Song’ Into Submission. Its purpose is to desensitize you to that special song that you and your ex shared.”
“Me and Rodney’s song was ‘Shoo Doo Be Doo,’ Mitzi volunteered. “But I’m working on a new song these days.”
Her sideways glance caught Bruce as he walked to the clearing where Riley’s ‘macho’ workshop would be held. The guide saw Mitzi wave. He blew her a kiss. She giggled.
Kelly cleared her throat. “Tim and I first danced to ‘Your Cheating Heart’ at a Patsy Cline soundalike contest. Come to think of it…that should have been my first clue.”
They all commiserated.
“Brendan once burned a mix-CD of Lenny Kravitz songs for me,” Alexis told them. “I guess that’s pretty romantic. Does that qualify?”
“Sure, it does,” Jayne said, mustering a smile.
“Marty dedicated ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ to me on Buster Boogaloo’s radio show,” Doris said. “The Sinatra version, of course. Marty was a traditionalist.”
“Nonsense,” Donna disagreed. “Marty was a happening dude. And he dedicated that song to me!”
“You never even listen to Buster Boogaloo.”
“I might, if you weren’t always hogging the radio!”
“Hogging?”
“Ladies…” Jayne brought them both around to the subject at hand. “Let’s get started.”
They practiced the various songs once quickly, so everyone would be familiar with the lyrics and melodies. Then Jayne began her demonstration of the technique.
She cleared her throat. “Now, the romantic song I’m going to karaoke into submission is—”
“—‘your song’ with Uncle Riley?” Alexis asked.
That got everyone’s attention.
Jayne nodded. That was what she’d planned. But now, suddenly, she didn’t want to destroy her fondness for that song. Her techniques were effective. She believed in them. And she didn’t want to use them to sever the link ‘their song’ made between her and Riley.
She was probably strong enough to skip this step, Jayne assured herself. What could it hurt?
Switching gears, she mentioned the first song that came to mind. “Umm, ‘Born To Be Wild.’”
“Cool!” Alexis said.
“Really?” Doris and Donna put in, squinting skeptically. “That’s your special romantic song?”
“Is there something wrong with that song?” Jayne asked. When they all shook their heads, muttering “I guess not”s, she knew she’d successfully convinced them. “So, here goes. Is everyone familiar with this one?”
She hummed a few bars. Everyone nodded.
“Good. Since we couldn’t bring an actual karaoke machine on the trail, your job—when you’re not holding the ‘mic’—” She indicated the hairbrush in her hand. “—is to be the background music. Just hum, sing do-wops, do whatever comes naturally to you. Okay?”
The group members nodded. Alexis looked a little concerned, but she nodded, too. More than likely, the girl was worried Jayne would ruin her uncle’s special romantic song—and this, after Alexis had revealed Riley’s feelings for Jayne. Reminded of that, Jayne felt reassured about her decision to switch songs. Given how Riley had reformed so far, it wouldn’t be fair to do a search-and-destroy mission on their favorite ballad.
Standing up, ‘mic’ in hand, Jayne launched into “Born To Be Wild.” She rumbled on the bass, reached for the high notes, and emoted as much as was possible with a song that urged her to “get her motor running.” She gestured wildly. Clenched her hairbrush mic. Hunched over with musical passion during the “yeah, I got to go make it happen,” parts. Even jumped onto a boulder for her grand finale.
Strangely enough, the song made her feel invigorated for the first time that day. Singing felt good. Moving felt good. Pretending she could actually be ‘wild’ in any sense felt good. The rest of the women did their parts, too, pretending to play electric guitars and acting as backup singers.
“Ta da!” Jayne said when she’d finished, slightly out of breath. She flung her hair back and took a dramatic bow.
The women applauded. The men at their nearby workshop site hooted and hollered. Jayne blushed and squeezed her ‘mic.’
“And that’s how it’s done,” she explained. “You exaggerate the sad parts, parody the dramatic parts, and repeat the process as often as necessary to rob ‘your song’ of its power.” She sat down again, leaning closer to confide in them. “And to give yourself power. After you’ve karaoked your song into submission, you’ll never be at the mercy of a radio blaring love ballads, or a mushy Muzak elevator ambush, ever again.”
“Yay!” they yelled, applauding some more.
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They launched into their individual karaoke sessions. Within minutes, the clearing rang with the sounds of “Shoo Doo Be Doo,” sung as sappily and as crazily as possible. With the strains of “The Way You Look Tonight,” à la the Squabble Sisters. With the groove of assorted Lenny Kravitz melodies. And finally with a shouted, over-the-top rendition of “Your Cheating Heart,” which was sung with particular gusto by every woman there.
Watching them, joining them, Jayne felt a cozy sense of sisterhood steal over her. This was what it was all about. Helping people. Making a difference to people. Proving—to Francesca and to the world and to herself—that her self-help techniques really worked.
That her “gift” really existed.
Being with Riley hadn’t derailed her, she realized. It hadn’t hurt her research—and her breakup-ees hadn’t found out about it, either. Now, her wilderness trip was almost over. Even though she hadn’t exactly become Hiking Monthly’s new centerfold girl, she’d survived.
Jayne’s spirits lifted a little. Her posture did, too. As it did, she felt a telltale prickle at the back of her neck. Automatically, she felt behind her for the sticking-up clothing tag she knew would be there.
She tucked it in. Her gaze fell to the hole in her pants. To her shoes, with their toes pointing awkwardly—and uncomfortably, Jayne realized suddenly—in the wrong direction. To her fleece, which was inside out and…backward?
With a sense of awakening, she felt the wind whoosh over her lipgloss-free lips. She felt the sunshine beat down on her uncombed, un-hat-protected hair. She felt the unaccustomed-to lightness of un-made-up eyes, and remembered tossing her mascara into a bivvy sack with desperate laissez-faire that morning.
Aaack! What had she done?
She’d abandoned every principle of self-respect she’d ever espoused. Beautification. Fragrance application. Hair stylization. She’d become the before in a “Before and After” makeover shot. She’d become…ordinary.
Panicked by the realization, Jayne grabbed for her pack. Too late, she realized it was stowed several feet away, along with everyone else’s.
