by Diann Hunt
“You doing okay, Lydia?”
Her eyes lock with mine. “I’m fine, really. Greg has provided well for me. My church activities and friends keep me busy. Oh, and did I tell you I joined the Red Hat Society?”
“Is that one of those groups where the ladies are fifty and up and they wear red hats?” I ask.
“That’s the one.” Lydia laughs. “I’m telling you, those girls know how to party! They even go on cruises together.”
“Sounds enticing, but since I’m only forty-nine, I’m not eligible,” I say with a wink.
Lydia’s left eyebrow arches. “Not a problem. They accept women younger than fifty, but instead of red hats, they wear pink ones.”
“Well, there you are,” I say, thumping back against my seat. “Won’t happen. Pink washes me out.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.” Lydia says the words like a jingle for a commercial.
“Actually, there is a group near my area that I’ve been thinking of joining. They buy a lot of chocolate from my store. That tells me they’re a fun group with good taste. By the time I get back, I’ll be fifty, and I can wear a red hat.”
“That’s right. You were always the birthday girl at camp.”
I nod, and we grow quiet, each sipping our iced tea, remembering. The ticking clock on the wall echoes through the room. Lydia studies the cuticle on her index finger. “I still miss him, you know.” She lifts a hesitant smile. “Things are so different now.”
“I’m sure that’s something one never gets over. I mean, losing the one you love.”
She waits a moment, as though she’s had to mentally pull herself up by the bootstraps. “Well, one thing I know for sure—Greg would want me to do this trip. He always wanted me to go out with my girlfriends.” Her eyes take on a faraway look. “Sometimes I wonder if he knew I would have to go on without him one day.” She glances toward me, eyes shining again. “You remember Greg. He continually fussed over me. Like he thought I was too fragile or something.” She goes to the refrigerator for the pitcher and adds more tea to her almost-full glass.
My heart aches for Lydia. She and Greg had a wonderful marriage, a model family. Now she’s alone. True, I live alone, but then, that’s all I’ve ever known. You don’t miss what you’ve never had. Oh, there was the dream of that once . . .
The doorbell rings.
“It’s Millie!” Lydia says, barely sitting down before she hops up again. We both rush for the front door. Once it opens, a bright flash greets us.
We’re stunned with blindness for a moment.
“Sorry, but I wanted to get your expressions on our first meeting of this trip,” Millie says, clicking off the camera that’s dangling from her neck.
The door frame helps me maintain my balance. Lydia steps aside and lets Millie stagger through the door with her luggage.
“Wow, you look great!” Lydia says, hugging her sideways to steer clear of the camera.
“How can you tell? All I can see is a blaze of light.” My fingers continue to grip the door frame for support.
“Same old DeDe,” Millie says, laughing and pulling me into a hug.
The light dissipates, and I see that Millie does look great. In fact, there’s something different about her. I know what it is. She’s not dressed in her usual beige polyester. Woo-hoo, the old Millie is back! She’s smiling. Millie hasn’t smiled since—well, for a very long time, that I can remember.
“Oh my goodness, it’s true! You really do have teeth!” I say.
She laughs in spite of herself. “Well, don’t get used to seeing them. I show them sparingly.”
She chuckles again and reaches up to touch the blonde fringe at the base of her neck, running her fingers through the hair at the side of her face. Wispy bangs fall just above shapely eyebrows that top wide blue eyes. With a handkerchief, she blots her forehead, revealing faint lines where smooth skin used to be. Dark-framed eyeglasses are perched upon her head the way some people wear sunglasses.
Millie sees us looking at them, and her fingers reach up to pull them off her head. “I always forget I have these things up there. But it sure comes in handy to have them when I need to read something.” She pulls an eyeglass case from her handbag and stuffs the spectacles inside. “Plus, you know how I’m always losing them. If I stick them on my head, I can usually find them.”
Though Millie is one of the most organized people I know, she has a flaw that just doesn’t match up. She has a problem with losing glasses the way most people misplace pens. When nonprescription glasses appeared on the scene, she thought she’d died and gone to heaven. Cheap glasses have relieved her of the heavy guilt she once carried for losing prescription glasses. Now if she forgets where she put her glasses, she can afford to go out and buy a new pair—especially if she finds a sale where they go for a dollar a pair. She says she keeps a pair in every room of her house.
“So good to see you, Millie. You’ve lost weight,” I say, stepping back to look at her.
She takes a minute to catch her breath. “It’s easy to drop forty pounds after a divorce.” She shrugs.
“I’m glad we have God to help us through these things,” Lydia says, placing her arm around Millie and ushering her into the next room.
I haven’t talked to God in years. Wouldn’t know His voice if I heard it—though I’m pretty sure I would suspect something was amiss if He sounded like George Burns.
“Oh my, that smells good, Lydia,” Millie says once we arrive in the warm and delicious-smelling kitchen.
“It is good, if I do say so myself. But you have to eat your dinner first,” she admonishes like the mother she is.
“No problem there. I’m starved,” says Millie. “Those peanuts on the airplane just don’t cut it for me anymore.”
Lydia says a prayer for our food, then Millie gets up and snaps a picture. “Just wanted to record our first meal together.”
We laugh and settle into light conversation over a dinner of grilled chicken, potatoes, broccoli sautéed in butter and spices, homemade dinner rolls, and crisp salad heavy with tomatoes, cheese, and all the fixings.
“Have you girls entered the hot flashes and cold-cream phase yet?” Millie asks, wiping her face again with the handkerchief.
“I’ve got the cold cream down but haven’t had the hot flashes. What are they exactly?” I ask, buttering another roll.
“It’s where your head heats up pretty much the same as a block of charcoal in a grill,” Millie says, continuing to pat her face. “What about you, Lydia—do you get them?” she asks.
“Yes, I get them. My internal temperature seems to always be running several degrees hotter than everyone else’s.”
“That would explain why I’ve been freezing since I arrived. Of course, being from Florida, I just figured it was a climate adjustment—that whole going from south to north thing.”
“I also struggle with sleeping at night and sometimes concentrating on things. I’m so forgetful,” Lydia adds.
No doubt losing Greg has something to do with the sleeping and concentration problems. “Maybe you should try some choco-rv late. Chocolate can get you through anything, you know. Especially the smooth, rich Belgian chocolate we buy.” I’ve never been one to linger on heavy issues.
“You always did think chocolate was a cure-all.” Millie digs through her handbag, pulls out her glasses, and places them on the bridge of her nose to look at the recipe card for Lydia’s dessert. She stops a moment and looks at me. “You don’t make the chocolate at your place, do you?”
“See, the thing is, we don’t have cacao trees where I live. You know, those tall plants out in the yard that produce cocoa beans? Those would be the ones. Don’t have any. Zero. Zip. Nada. The best my tree can do is produce leaves.”
Millie stares at me. “That’s a shame. You’d have been so good at it, sorting the beans and all,” she says with eyes twinkling.
“Could you, by any chance, be referring to my punishment at the cam
p where Tony and I had to sort through the mounds of green beans simply because Tony put a pine beetle in the green bean tray and I laughed?”
“That would be the one.” Millie winks at Lydia.
“To this day I hate green beans.”
We all laugh. Only they laugh harder than I do.
“Hey, I brought you both a box of my signature truffles.”
“Oh, you’re a doll,” Lydia says. “Mocha?”
“Of course. Would I bring you anything else?”
Lydia grins. “My emotions thank you. I won’t tell you what my hips say.”
“It’s better that way.” I stop and enjoy another bite of Lydia’s homemade dinner rolls. “These are absolutely fabulous, Lydia.”
“Don’t forget to save room for dessert.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Millie says. “Like she would ever pass up chocolate?” She puts the card aside, shoves her glasses back into the case, and drops it into her handbag.
With a shrug I say, “It’s good for the hormones.”
“But of course, since you’re younger than us, you wouldn’t really have a problem with that, right?” Millie teases.
“Right.”
“Hey, won’t you celebrate a birthday while we’re at camp?” Millie asks.
“I’m not doing birthdays this year.”
“Can’t say that I blame you. Fifty isn’t fun.”
“Thanks for the encouragement, Millie.”
“Fifty is great!” Lydia says. “We should have a party!”
“No party,” I say emphatically, cutting off Martha Stewart before the invitations can be addressed and sent.
“Why not?”
“My party self will be bingeing that day. If anything, it should be declared a day of mourning.” Millie nods her head in agreement—which I’m not sure I like—while Lydia gapes at me.
“You’re no fun.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lydia. I’m just not into the attention this year, okay?”
She struggles to agree. It goes against everything in her nature to ignore a birthday event, but her aversion to arguments wins out. She finally nods.
“Well, now that that’s settled,” Millie says, as if brushing her hands of the matter, “I’ve told you, Beverly says they received a great response with donations from alumni for the camp restoration.” Her eyes spark with excitement. “This is going to be so awesome. I can hardly wait.”
“To tell the truth, girls, if I didn’t feel such loyalty to Aspen Creek, I would be afraid to try this trip,” Lydia says.
Millie and I pause to look at her.
“It makes me a little nervous to take Waldo out. I’m not comfortable with that. Greg always managed Waldo. I just went along for the ride.”
Millie pats her hand. “We’ll help you, Lydia. This will be an adventure, you’ll see.”
I try not to gape here. Lydia’s staring at her too.
“Have you been sucking on helium balloons again?” I ask, referring to the time I coerced her into doing that with my birthday balloons at camp. The director had walked into our room and asked us why we weren’t at the afternoon session, and Millie said—in her Mickey Mouse voice—“I’m not feeling very well.” With her mouth dangling, Mrs. Woodriff just stared at Millie. If she hadn’t spotted the balloon, I’m sure she would have whisked Millie off to the hospital in a heartbeat.
“No helium.” She grins. “Just rediscovering who I really am.” Before we can say anything, she goes on. “Oh my goodness, I forgot to tell you girls. Guess who Beverly said is coming to help at the camp?”
Lydia and I stop our forks midair. “Who?”
“Eric Melton!” Millie’s eyes are wide, and she’s smiling as she thumps back into her chair.
“Really?” Lydia’s right hand reaches up to straighten her hair.
“Eric Melton, aka Mr. Egomaniac? That Eric Melton?” I ask.
“As I live and breathe.” Millie wipes her mouth with a napkin. “I couldn’t believe it when Beverly told me. Wonder what he looks like after all these years.”
“Oh, that’s right. He didn’t make it to the reunion,” I say, noticing that Lydia’s face has turned a curious shade of pink.
“He’s probably still a jerk,” Millie says with a grunt. “Remember how he always used to run the palms of his hands along the sides of his head to smooth his hair when girls were looking? It’s a wonder he didn’t rub his head bald.”
Millie has a way of saying things.
“Hopefully his ego has toned down a bit,” she continues before finishing off the last of her broccoli. She turns to Lydia. “Didn’t you date him a couple of times?”
Lydia lifts her glass of tea and without looking at us says, “Yes, I did.” Ice clinks against the side of the glass before she takes a drink. “If you hadn’t been going steady with Tony, he would have asked you out, Dee.”
“He was pretty cute,” I say. “But I did have it bad for Tony,” I add in a dreamy voice.
“Yeah, lasted for all of, what, two weeks?” Millie laughs.
“Don’t knock it. That was a record for me back then.” ’Course, I beat that record when Rob came along. Rob, the guy I thought might finally be the one . . .
“Eric really liked you, Lydia; I remember that,” Millie says, pulling me back from my memories.
Lydia says nothing. She gathers dessert dishes and teacups, then serves us cheesecake and coffee.
I fill my glass with a swallow of warm water from the tap to clear my palate, then sip it until it’s gone. Once I’m seated, I take a small bite of the cheesecake, close my eyes, and move it slowly over my tongue, savoring the moment. When I open my eyes, Lydia and Millie are staring at me.
“What? Don’t you know there is a correct way to experience chocolate?”
Lydia and Millie shake their heads.
“Oh my, yes.” I sit up in my seat. “You should eat it at room temperature. Don’t drink something cold before tasting it, because a warm mouth is important for the chocolate to melt quickly.”
Lydia and Millie continue to stare, their mouths wide open, resembling baby birds at mealtime. I’m enjoying this immensely.
“A glossy surface is a must if it’s a well-made bar,” I continue like a professor at a French cooking school. “You will notice that all my chocolates qualify.” Getting up from the table, I say, “Be right back.” My luggage is by the door, so I rush to it and pull out a couple of boxes, then run back to the kitchen and take my seat. “Mocha for you, Millie. Lydia, since you don’t seem to have a preference, I brought a good mixture of praline, peanut butter, raspberry, and mocha.”
They each grab a truffle and lift it to their noses. I do the same. “See, you break the chocolate into pieces so you can smell the aroma.” Once I break off a piece, we each take turns smelling it.
“Oh yeah, then when I take a bite, I allow the aroma to fill the nasal passage at the back of my mouth, engaging my senses of smell and taste.” Taking a bite, I pause. “Bliss, sheer bliss.”
Millie and Lydia exchange glances.
“Wow, chocolate is serious business,” Lydia says with utmost reverence.
Raising my eyebrows and my chin, I pull my hand to my chest (picture Napoléon Bonaparte here). “A chocolate connoisseur has trained senses to discover the very best chocolate.” My head tips in a slight bow. Then I grin.
Millie doesn’t look all that impressed. She shrugs and goes back to her cheesecake.
I put my chocolate away—well, not the broken pieces. Those go on my plate with my cheesecake, and I take another bite. “Didn’t you say this was cappuccino cheesecake?”
Lydia nods.
“For some reason, I don’t taste the coffee part. ’Course, I like my coffee a little strong, so maybe that’s why I can’t taste it.” Lifting my napkin, I wipe my mouth.
Lydia blinks. “Oh dear.” She rises and walks over to the counter.
“What’s wrong?” Millie asks.
Lydia turns to
look at us. “I forgot to add the coffee.”
“It’s still delicious,” I say with a shrug.
Lydia rejoins us at the table and shakes her head. “See, I forget everything.”
Millie shrugs. “It happens. Now what were we talking about?”
“Let’s see, we were talking about you dating Eric, I think,” I say to Lydia.
“Eric liked me, but he liked himself even more,” she says. “He wasn’t the type to stick with one girl.”
“Besides, if I remember right, Greg showed up at camp and swept you off your feet about that time, didn’t he?” Millie asks, innocently enough, but suddenly everything gets quiet.
Lydia stares at her with a sort of dazed look. “Yeah, he did.” Her voice is upbeat, but she stares in the distance to a place I suspect she visits often.
Things suddenly feel very awkward.
“Remember how we called Mrs. Woodriff ‘The Warden’?” Lydia asks, changing the subject.
“Ethel Belle Woodriff, The Warden,” Millie and I echo together with a laugh.
“Oh boy, we were so in trouble for breaking curfew with her around,” I say.
“Because she knew we were always up to something.” Millie turns to me. “Especially you. How I let you talk me into such things, I’ll never know. I’m telling you, books are safer than friends.”
“Oh, come on, it’s much more fun doing something than just reading about it. Besides, it’s not like you didn’t want any part of spraying her bed with sugar water. If I remember correctly, you were all too eager to participate.”
Millie brightens with the memory. Just as quickly a frown appears. “Well, how were we to know it would attract every mosquito and ant within a twenty-mile radius?”
We burst into laughter.
“For putting up with us, the woman probably is wearing a huge crown in heaven as we speak,” I say.
Hand over her chest, Lydia says, “She was a saint.”
“Amen,” Millie and I say together.
We talk awhile longer, reminiscing about our camp days. Lydia lets us know her motor home has had a recent checkup and should be as good as new when we start our trip. That makes me feel better—slightly—but I still don’t understand why we can’t all pitch in for Hiltons along the way. At least they leave chocolate mints on your pillows.
