by Diann Hunt
“Why are we slowing down?” Millie asks in regard to the obvious change in our speed.
“I don’t know. I’m pushing on the gas, but Waldo’s slowing.” Lydia’s worry lines deepen.
“Do you think we can make it to the next rest stop?” I ask.
“I’m maintaining a speed of forty-five, so we’ll get there eventually.”
Just then the motorcyclists pass us again. This time they holler out and wave toward Lydia.
“Good grief,” she says.
“They are totally taken with you, Lydia,” Millie says with a chuckle.
“Well, they weren’t just looking at me. They were checking out you and DeDe too.” There’s no denying the twinkle in Millie’s eyes because the men are fussing over us. She and Lydia are glowing like schoolgirls. It’s probably good for them. Me? I just want to go home.
It’s embarrassing the way everyone is passing us as if we’re standing still. As if we didn’t look old enough riding in an outdated model RV, now we’re cruising at the pace of a turtle. I’m telling you, this is the trip of a lifetime, no doubt about it.
We finally crawl to the next rest stop. Once we get there, Lydia lifts the hood of the RV as though she knows what she’s looking for, which of course, she doesn’t.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Lydia chews on her pinkie nail. “Um, I don’t know. I was hoping something obvious would show itself.”
“Like a two-inch little man standing on the engine pointing to a part and telling us what’s wrong?” I ask.
“That would be it,” Lydia says, laughing.
“You ladies need some help?” The bald motorcycle man with the tiny braided ponytail slips up beside us.
“What? Oh no, we’re fine,” Lydia says, keeping her head turned away from him while slamming the hood down.
The man backs away, arms up. “No harm intended, ma’am,” he says. “Just trying to be neighborly.”
Lydia reminds me of a little girl who’s lost.
“You got some trouble?” An old man comes up to us now. He’s thin and gaunt, a bit stooped over, but has a kind face.
Lydia turns to the older guy. “Well, we were having a little trouble,” she whispers to the man before raising the RV’s hood once again.
Ponytail Man shrugs and joins his friends back at his motorcycle.
The old man tinkers around the area a little bit, then turns to Lydia. “Sounds to me as though you might have a problem in the fuel system somewhere. Might need to replace the fuel pump,” the old man says, closing the hood. “You got far to go?”
“We’re headed for the next town,” Millie says.
“You should make it there. May have to pull over and let the engine cool off, then start traveling again. But I’d get it looked at once I got there, or it could freeze up on you and leave you stranded somewhere.”
Lydia gasps.
“Just take it easy. Of course, you won’t be able to go very fast,” he says.
We thank him, and soon we all go on our merry ways. There is one thing that bothers me, though. Why did we trust that old guy and not Ponytail Man? I mean, how can you really know who to trust?
“I don’t think that’s right, Millie,” Lydia says. “We got off on that exit, but I’m thinking we should have stayed on the highway until here,” she says, pointing.
“I don’t know. That detour got me all messed up,” Millie says, exasperation in her voice. “We’re lost.”
“Welcome to my world.”
“Well, I’m not a man, so I’m going to pull over and ask someone.” Lydia pulls into the next gas station.
She jumps out, leaving Millie and me behind. Millie is beside herself. “We’re an hour over schedule. We’ve wasted all kinds of gas trying to find that stupid campsite,” she says. “Not to mention we have to be careful with this fuel system problem. I think we messed up a half hour ago, but Lydia seemed to think she knew where she was going.”
I’m not about to touch that one. She and Lydia will have to hash this one out all by themselves. Millie gets up and goes into the bathroom. She’s straightening things in the medicine cabinet.
“Well, that’s not great news,” Lydia says, slamming her door shut. “We’ve missed a couple of turns. It will take us another hour to get there.”
“I told you we should have turned back there.”
“It doesn’t help to cast the blame, Millie. It is what it is, so let’s just not say another word about it,” Lydia says.
Millie and Lydia are having “words.” Part of me rejoices that there’s a ruckus and I’m not involved, and the other part of me hopes we’re all still friends by the journey’s end.
Hopefully the RV will make it another hour before it gets attention. Most likely, that’s on all our minds. It’s barely chugging along in between our stops to cool it off. Lydia’s and Millie’s hot flashes were bound to rub off.
Lydia has switched off the radio, and the only sound in the RV is the grinding of the air-conditioning and occasional grunts and groans. I’m not sure if they’re coming from the motor home or Millie.
We’re a half hour into our trip when a police siren blares behind us. What? Is there a target on our back side?
“Oh, not again,” Lydia says. She pulls to the side of the road.
This guy is nothing like Barney Fife. He means serious business. I can almost hear the squeak of his holster and jingle of his keys when he walks. He tells us that driving too slow can be as hazardous as going too fast. Lydia explains the RV’s problem and that we hope to get it in for repairs at the next town. The officer nods and turns to leave, then he swivels back to Lydia.
“By the way, women traveling alone shouldn’t have broken windows in this day and age,” he says with all the authority of Marshal Dillon in a Gunsmoke episode. At which time I slink farther down into my seat. The good news is, we got away with another warning, but our luck may be wearing thin.
After wasting too much time and precious gas getting lost, we manage to find the place. The office attendant tells us where we can get the motor home checked, so we call the place and they fit the RV in for repair. We soon find out that, yes, the motor home has a fuel pump relay problem.
Okay, so the old guy was on the up-and-up; still, one can’t be too careful.
The repair shop is able to fix the problem, and we’re back at camp just as twilight settles upon the town.
“I think I’ll check out the lake area,” I say once the awning is rolled out and the lights are in place. I’m barely a few steps away from the RV when my phone rings. It’s Rob. Millie and Lydia are still in the RV. My heart pounds wildly. A rush of adrenaline shoots through me. I shouldn’t do this. I know I shouldn’t do this. “Hello?”
“Hey, DeDe, how about we all go?” Lydia calls out behind me.
Nervously I disconnect the call and punch off my phone. “That would be great,” I say, hiding my cell phone and trying to calm my nerves.
Lydia locks up things, and we head off for the lake. “Listen, girls, I’m sorry about my attitude earlier. I was just tired and frustrated,” Lydia says.
“It’s no problem. I was too,” Millie admits.
The walk to the lake is filled with thick, shady trees, shrubs, and wildflowers. Soon we step into the clearing. A partial moon sails from a star-studded sky, its light reflecting upon the water below. Lydia takes a deep breath. “Oh, this is nice.”
“Yeah, it is.” Though I’m still trembling, I can feel myself start to relax. We needed to stop at a place like this. “How far are we from Estes Park, did you say?”
Staring at the lake, Lydia answers, “Between four and five hours.” She turns to us. “We’re almost there. Aspen Creek. Our youth camp. I’m so excited, I can hardly stand it. Doesn’t that seem a lifetime ago?”
“It sure does,” Millie agrees.
“Hey, you guys remember when we had that lip sync contest where we acted out ‘Stop! in the Name of Love’?” I ask.
&
nbsp; “I still can’t believe we let you talk us into that, DeDe,” Millie grumbles.
“Oh, you survived. Besides, you really enjoyed yourself, if I remember correctly—and I do.”
We laugh.
“And how you ever came up with all the choreography, DeDe, I’ll never know. Genius. Pure genius,” Lydia says.
“Yeah, that was pretty neat. Though I kept turning left when I was supposed to turn right, and I used the wrong hand at the wrong time. I was so uncoordinated,” Millie says with a sigh.
“Was?”
“Well, at least I’m organized. Coordination isn’t all that big of a deal unless you walk a tightrope or something.”
“Good point,” Lydia says. “Those sure were fun times,” she adds, all dreamy-eyed. No doubt her thoughts are filled with Greg.
We hear some guys clowning around and look to our left to see some men roughhousing just across the lake from us. It takes a moment for us to realize it’s Ponytail Man and his cohorts.
“What are they doing here?” Lydia asks, fear in her eyes.
“Now don’t get yourself all stirred up. It’s a free country,” Millie says.
Right then Ponytail Man sees us and waves. The other guys stop goofing around and look our way.
No one else is around the lake, which is a little disconcerting. Hopefully these guys won’t get overly friendly.
“You guys ready to go?” Millie asks. I’m thinking she’s as uncomfortable as I am.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” Lydia says.
“Me too.”
Quickly we turn and start back for the motor home.
“You don’t think they’re following us, do you?” Lydia asks in a nervous voice.
“Goodness, no,” Millie says in a way that suggests she’s trying to convince herself. “Just happen to be going the same way, that’s all. They’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
Millie and Lydia must be getting to me. I’m never nervous about these kinds of things, but I have to admit, right now I’m hoping Millie is right.
By the time I settle into bed, my mind reels with thoughts of our journey. The sights, the laughs, the fears, the struggles. Being with my old camp friends has made the Lord seem closer somehow. More approachable. I’ve allowed my guilt to keep me away far too long. I need Him. He’s the only One who can help me through this mess with Rob. I don’t trust myself. I’m weak and lonely. My thoughts of God tangle with thoughts of Rob, and in the whisper of nightfall, I talk it all over with the God who made me. Rob. My future. My fears. Everything.
And I hope deep in my heart that this time—in spite of my guilt—He hears me.
17
When we get back to the motor home, Lydia decides to bake. I’m thrilled. It might get rid of the RV’s “old man” smell. Millie goes through the outer storage bins, one by one, and straightens them.
Since I can never refuse Lydia’s desserts, I pass on the chocolate truffle in my drawer. Instead, I get out my Pilates mat and go through my routine.
The air is unusually cool for this time of year, so to save on our problematic air-conditioning, Lydia and Millie have turned it off and opened the windows. Lydia’s clanging around in the kitchen, and before long, the smell of chocolate wafts through the screens just as my Pilates workout is finished.
“Boy, something sure smells good.” A woman’s voice pulls me from my bottled water. I look up to see her and a man coming toward me. Great. Now we’ll have to share our dessert.
“Howdy, we’re the Camerons.” The man stretches out his hand, grabs mine, and gives it a hearty shake. “We’re from Tennessee. My name is Roy, and this here is my wife, Betty.”
“Hello. My name is DeDe. I’m from Florida.” And just for the record, we’re not sharing.
“And I’m Lydia from Maine,” Lydia says on her way out of the motor home.
And I’m John-Boy from Walton’s Mountain—okay, bad attitude.
Lydia shakes their hands. “I’m waiting for the brownies to cool, but you’re welcome to join us when they’re ready to eat.”
Doggone it. No chocolate binge tonight.
“That would be great,” Roy says, rubbing his hands together. “Honey, I’ll go get our chairs and be right back.” Betty nods and smiles.
I’m dying to call out, “Don’t tell your friends about the brownies, okay?” but I don’t want to face Lydia’s wrath.
“Millie, come outside; we want you to meet a new neighbor,” Lydia says. After cleaning the outer bins, Millie went inside to straighten who knows what. Millie would hide in the motor home all evening if we didn’t force her to come out when people are visiting. Besides, she’s straightened the RV so much, it resembles a ruler.
She pushes through the door and is obviously fighting everything in her not to throw us a dirty look. I smile sweetly, and she tosses a glance that says she’ll deal with me later.
“Hello,” she says.
“Howdy. My name is Betty Cameron,” the woman says to Millie. She’s a fairly thin woman, about five foot four, and appears to be in her early sixties with gray hair cropped at the nape of her neck. Delicate laugh lines bunch at the corners of her eyes when she smiles. She’s dressed in jeans, a comfortable pink top, and sensible sneakers. She looks pretty hip for a woman her age.
“I’m Millicent Carter. Millie for short.”
“Where you from, Millie?”
“Indiana.”
Roy’s boots crunch the pebbles on the roadway. “Howdy.” He pulls his Stetson from his head, runs his hand through his hair, then extends it to Millie. “The name’s Roy.”
I hide my giggle when Millie stares at his hand a moment before shaking it.
Roy unfolds the chairs for himself and his wife, and they sit down.
“Are you folks on vacation?” Lydia asks pleasantly.
“Oh my, no. This is what we do. This is our home,” Roy says.
It amazes me to find so many people doing this RV thing full-time. I can’t imagine the draw.
“Yeah, that’s right. We sold our home back in Tennessee, and now the United States is our home,” Betty says with outstretched arms.
“Do you have any children?” Lydia wants to know.
“Sure do. Two daughters. They each have two children of their own,” Betty says. “We sure love to spoil those grandkids.”
Lydia frowns. “But don’t you miss them? The children and grandkids, I mean?”
“Sometimes. But we see them on a pretty regular basis. One lives in Tennessee, the other in Michigan. We head home anytime they need us or if something special is going on in the kids’ lives, like important events, birthdays, celebrations of any kind, that sort of thing.”
“You do that?” Lydia presses.
“Absolutely. Nothing more important than family,” Roy says, leaning back in his chair. “And with our motor home, we can pretty much go whenever and wherever we please.”
Lydia studies them a moment. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“People are always thinking about what they think you have to give up, and they don’t consider all the things you gain by having a portable lifestyle.”
“I suppose.” Lydia nips at her nail. It’s a wonder she has a nail left at all with the way she’s always doing that. “What about emergencies, though?”
“See, the thing is, most kids move away from home anyway. It might take us a little longer to get to them this way, but we’ll get there. They know we’re never too far to come help them if they need us,” Roy says.
“And sometimes we take the grandkids, when they aren’t in school. They’ve traveled out west with us, and it’s opened plenty of discussion on geography and history. They’re richer for it.”
“That’s really neat,” I say, smiling at them and then at Lydia, who appears to be feeling better about the idea.
“It has to be freeing to live that way. Nothing really holding you down, doing what you want to every day,” Millie says.
Roy stretches out his legs and puts
his hands behind his head. “There’s nothing like it, I’m telling you. Smartest thing we ever did, ain’t it, babe?”
“Sure is,” Betty agrees.
“Mind if I start a fire?” Roy asks.
“That would be great,” I say eagerly. I’ve rarely been warm since I left Florida.
We talk about the area and the fact that we are headed on to Colorado. While Roy gets the fire started, our conversation ventures on to Aspen Creek and our antics at youth camp.
“Oh, that’s great,” I say, warming up to the fire. Lydia and Millie scoot away from the flames.
“Hey, do you guys remember the time we sneaked into Mr. Baldwin’s room and decorated it for a surprise birthday party?” I ask.
“Yeah, and we got into trouble for it. Remember?” Millie glares at me as though everything is my fault.
“Try to be nice and what do you get? Heartache,” I say.
Millie and Lydia groan appropriately with me.
“It wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t used his deodorant stick to write on the mirror. That’s why he got mad. Remember? He said it was too personal,” Millie says.
“Yeah, but later he told us he thought it was funny. They just didn’t want the other kids to get any ideas or the whole camp would be in chaos,” I say.
“Uh-oh, sounds like you gals are a little on the ornery side,” Roy says with a chuckle.
“You know, Millie, I’d forgotten that ornery side of you. After you got married, you were much more subdued.”
A shadow crosses Millie’s face. “Marriage has a way of maturing us.”
“Oh, so that’s my problem,” I say with a laugh, attempting to keep things light. “I’m not married, so I haven’t matured.”
“You said it; I didn’t,” Millie comments with all the warmth of an ice cube.
Roy laughs. “It hasn’t matured us all that much, has it; Betty Girl?”
She giggles and shakes her head. “Maybe someday we’ll act our age.”
“Do you remember when Mrs. Woodriff was trying to teach us the basics of swimming, and she almost drowned?” Lydia asks, her eyes wide.
