by Diane Kelly
I finally decided that since I appeared to be the only one worrying about the box, maybe I should stop worrying about it. Weird stuff just happens sometimes.
So does good stuff. The good stuff was that I had a date Friday, with a high-tech hunk. What better excuse to stop by Savannah’s and borrow something cute to wear?
***
Savannah had been my best friend since forever. She used to be two sizes smaller than me, but after squeezing out three boys in six years she’d expanded and now matched me inch-for-inch, pound-for-pound. Bad news for her as she lamented her lost figure, good news for me as it doubled my wardrobe.
I pulled into the driveway of Savannah’s house, a red brick one-story tract home in a small suburb, if you could call it that considering there wasn’t much “urb” in Jacksburg. Our downtown consisted of two square blocks of strip center retail stores and single-story office complexes, with the three-story credit union building, Jacksburg’s sole skyscraper, in the center.
I parked the car, turned on my flashing lights, and stood in the open door of the cruiser. I got on the PA system. “This is a fashion emergency. Come out with a cute blouse in your hand and no one gets hurt.”
Savannah’s front door burst open and her boys, ranging in age from five to eleven, poured into the front yard, all bruises and Band-Aids and gap-toothed grins. Savannah trailed behind them, still wearing her work clothes, a basic black dress and flats, carrying a stained floral dish towel.
Zane ran in circles around the car, apparently re-energized after the nap he’d taken at school today. Eight-year old Dylan chimed in with “this car is lit,” while eleven-year-old Braden described the cruiser as “cool as shit.”
Savannah twirled the towel into a tight loop and snapped it at Braden’s butt. “Watch your mouth.”
By then the neighbors had begun to peek out their windows, so I turned off the lights before rumors could begin to fly. The boys wailed with disappointment.
I scooped up Zane, lifted his lime green T-shirt, and put my mouth to his bare stomach, blowing with all my might and treating him to a good old-fashioned belly blaster. He thrashed in my arms, giggling with glee. I set him down and stretched out my arms toward the other boys, fingers waggling. “Who’s next?”
They squealed and ran off into the yard.
Savannah leaned against the front fender of the cruiser, arms crossed over her chest. “Fashion emergency, huh? What’s up?”
“I’ve got a date Friday night.”
Her hazel eyes bugged under brown bangs overdue for a trim. “A date? Boy howdy, girl, it’s about time.” She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the house. A variety of smells greeted me. Spaghetti sauce from the pot bubbling on the stove. Laundry detergent from the load sloshing in the utility closet at the back of the kitchen. Stinky boy’s’ feet from, well, her stinky boys. Those stinky boys followed us into the house.
Savannah called back over her shoulder as we headed through the living room. “Don’t you boys bother me and Marnie unless somebody’s bleeding. Who knows when Marnie will get a date again.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Savannah dragged me down the hall to the bedroom she and her husband, Craig, shared. She pulled me into the cluttered room and locked the door behind us. Kicking off her shoes, she flung herself onto her unmade bed, her legs crooked up behind her, just like she’d done back when we were girls. “So, tell me all about him. Is he cute? Is he sexy? Does he have a good job?”
I sat down on the edge of the rumpled periwinkle blue bedspread and gave her the rundown on Trey, telling her all I knew, which wasn’t much. Cute? Yes. Sexy? Hell, yeah. Good job? Freelancing here, employed regularly in the tech industry in California.
Savannah turned onto her side, her head propped up on her elbow. “All I got to say is I’m glad you finally have someone to think about other than that mystery man with the Ninja. I’m sick and tired of hearing about him.”
I stuck my tongue out at her. “You’re just jealous because you’re an old married woman and all your romantic fantasies are over.” Old friends can say things like that to each other because we both knew it was absolute bullshit. Savannah was living my dream—a sweet husband, a handful of rambunctious children, a home of her own.
Savannah rolled off the bed, stepped into her closet, and began to rifle through her clothes. “Where are y’all going?”
“I don’t know. He said it would involve an electronic gadget. That’s all I know.”
She peeked her head out of the closet. “Electronic gadgetry, huh? I’ve got just the thing.” She pulled a skimpy black lace teddy from a hanger, put a finger in the stretchy crotch, and slingshot the thing into my lap.
“It’s not that kind of electronic gadget. I’ve already confirmed.” I picked the teddy up by the thin shoulder straps and swung it over my head like a lasso, sending it sailing back to her.
She snatched the flying lace out of the air. “Too bad.” She resumed her search.
“Remember,” I said, “it’s got to have long sleeves.” My Wonder Woman bracelets could only do so much and didn’t fully conceal the jagged, tell-tale scar on my wrist. I hadn’t worn short sleeves in public since the day I’d acquired it. People might see it and jump to conclusions or, worse yet, ask questions I didn’t want to answer.
After showing me at least a dozen potential outfits, she eventually convinced me to wear a pink satin ruffled blouse, far more girlie than my standard fare, but maybe it was time to try something different. She pushed the hanger into my hand.
“The tags are still on it,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why I even bought the thing. Craig and I never go anywhere. We never have the time or energy to go out and, even if we did, we don’t have the money to go anywhere special. Every time we turn around one of the boys needs new shoes. You wouldn’t believe how fast their feet grow.”
I decided I’d wear jeans with the blouse. No sense going all out. Trey wouldn’t be around for long and, even though it was my first date in a year, I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard. Back in my college dating days I’d discovered the ironic truth that the less special you treated a man, the more special he thought you were. Guess it’s reverse psychology. Or maybe perverse psychology. But that’s the game of love. Anyone crazy enough to join in had to play by the rules.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE ONLY DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MEN AND BOYS IS THE PRICE OF THEIR TOYS
The next three days were drizzly and dreary, with no sign of the Ninja. Despite the weather, my spirits were bright with that pre-date high. I could hardly wait to see Trey again. I cruised by the elementary school several times, but hadn’t been lucky enough to catch him on his way in or out. Good thing, probably. Didn’t want to appear desperate.
When I arrived home from work on Friday, I found Dad in the kitchen, mopping huge muddy paw prints off the floor. I glanced out the back window, noting fresh holes under the scrubby cedar tree. Looked like Bluebonnet had been having some fun in the rain-soaked yard. Uncle Angus was perched on the countertop, drinking a Shiner Bock. He tipped his bottle at me in greeting.
Dad plunked the mop into the bucket of soapy water and leaned on the mop handle. “Angus and I were thinkin’ of heading out to the Chuck Wagon for chicken-fried steak. Want to come along?”
“Thanks, but I can’t. I’ve got plans.”
I never had plans. Which is why Dad tilted his head, waiting for details.
“It’s a date,” I explained.
“Now, honey,” he teased, “you know you’re supposed to bring the boy to meet me before I’ll allow him to take you out.”
The last boy I’d brought home to meet Dad was Chet. “You’ll like this one. He works in computers. He’s a really good bowler, too.”
“A bowler, huh? Guess he’s all right then.”
Bluebonnet and I ate leftover tuna casserole for dinner, then I took a shower and prepared for my date, wearing a pair of plain
tan flats with the ruffled shirt and jeans, hoping they’d be suitable for whatever we’d be doing. Trey arrived promptly at seven, wearing his hiking boots, faded Levi’s, and an untucked light-blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. He looked sporty and adventurous.
Dad and Angus followed me to the door and the three men introduced themselves. Trey’s gaze went from Dad’s long braid to mine. It’s not often a father and daughter wear the same hairstyle. To Trey’s credit, he seemed unfazed by my dad’s appearance. Good thing, too. I came from a long line of blue-blooded biker stock and made no apologies for my heritage.
Bluebonnet wandered in from the kitchen to see who was stopping by. Trey crouched down, getting face-to-muzzle with her. “Hello, there.” He ran a hand down her neck and scratched under her chin. She wagged her tail and licked his cheek, a good omen. Bluebonnet was an excellent judge of character.
We bade Dad, uncle, and dog goodbye. The storm had finally broken and we made our way through the soft, early evening sunlight to the car, a bronze Lincoln sedan. Not exactly what I’d expect a single guy in his early thirties to drive, but maybe he’d borrowed it from his parents. A sizzle ran up my spine as Trey put his hand on my back to help me into the passenger side.
The seats were soft and cushy. “Comfortable car,” I said as Trey slid into the driver’s seat.
“It’s my mom’s,” Trey said. “I took the first flight out after my dad’s stroke. My car’s back in California.”
I put my hand on his arm when he stuck the keys in the ignition. “Before we go any further, show me that electronic device. I want to know what I’m getting myself into here.”
Chuckling, Trey reached over my legs and into the glove box, pulling out a bright yellow device about the size of a cell phone. He held it up.
“What is it?” I asked.
“GPS.” He pressed a button on the gadget and the small screen lit up.
“We planning on getting lost?”
“Nope. We’re going geocaching.”
“Geo-whatting?”
“Caching. It’s a cross between a high-tech scavenger hunt and orienteering.”
Wow. This guy is a total nerd. So how come I felt the urge to throw him into the backseat and have my way with him right there in the driveway?
Trey went on to explain that unknown people all over the world, identified only by secret code names, planted caches in hidden spots, noting the locations on websites so others could attempt to locate them. Geocaching sounded different, fun, adventurous even.
He handed the GPS to me and I looked it over. “I can’t imagine there’d be many of these caches around Jacksburg.” The citizens of Jacksburg resisted innovation, partly out of respect for tradition, partly due to the expense of electronics. Heck, the scoreboard on the high school football field was still changed by hand.
“Surprise,” Trey said, handing me a computer printout. “There’s three caches within a six-mile radius of Jacksburg.”
I looked at the printout. On the list were coordinates for three caches denoted with odd names. Kickin’ It Old School. Nut Job. Tower of Power. “What do these names mean?”
“They’re hints,” Trey said. “They usually give a clue where the cache is hidden. The GPS is only good to within ten feet or so.” He took the device back from me and situated it on the seat between us where we both could see it. “‘Kickin’ It’ is the closest one, so let’s try that first. Watch the screen and tell me where to go.”
I pointed the the road heading northeast. “That way.”
We spent the next few minutes working our way to the first location. We pulled onto the road by Jacksburg High and the readout counted down the distance to the cache. Three-hundred feet. Two-fifty. Two-hundred feet.
“We’re almost there.” Trey turned into the high school parking lot and pulled into a spot at the back by the gym. We climbed out of the car and went the rest of the way on foot, the GPS guiding us, ending up at the gate to the football stadium.
“Kickin’ it,” Trey said, his face thoughtful. He looked around for a few seconds, then his eyes brightened. “Got it.”
I followed him across the field to the end zone, the grass on the field still damp and soft thanks to the day’s rain. The air smelled fresh, felt cool against my face. Trey stopped at the metal goal post, his gaze moving upward. “There it is.” He reached up to a small cylindrical plastic container attached by a magnet to the horizontal pole of the goal post. He opened the container and pulled out a narrow, tightly wound strip of paper.
I craned my neck to see. “What’s that?”
“A log.” Trey explained that when a cache is found, the finder records his or her code name on a log contained in the cache. He pulled a pen out of his back pocket, smoothed the log out on his thigh, and signed his name to it. When he handed the log and pen to me, I twirled my finger in the air, motioning for him to turn around. He put his back to me and I held the log against his shoulder, using it as a solid surface to write on, fighting the urge to run my hand over the lean, hard muscle. I noticed Trey had referred to himself as “Computer Geek.” I identified myself as “Wonder Woman.” My eyes scanned the signatures on the list. Among them were “Rowdy Redneck,” “Cowpoke,” and “The Jacksburg Jackass.” I had several nominees for the last appellation.
I handed the pen and log back to Trey. “This is fun.” Not the typical first date, but I was beginning to think Trey was anything but typical.
Trey toggled a switch on the GPS. “‘Tower of Power’ is the closest cache to here. Four point two miles south. Let’s try that one next.”
Fifteen minutes later, we stood under a towering transformer, an occasional zzt-zzt of stray electricity punctuating the otherwise quiet evening. A ten-foot chain link fence topped with loops of barbed wire surrounded the structure. The gate was chained and padlocked. We followed the fence, looking for anything that could be a cache.
Having been trained to search for discarded weapons and drugs hurled from moving vehicles, I’d developed a keen eye. I spotted a clear plastic milk jug tucked at the base of a wild bush nearby. At first glance it appeared to be trash, but then I noticed it contained something. I crouched down and pulled it out from under the bush. “Could this be it?” I shook the jug and it rattled loudly.
“Sometimes people leave prizes for the others who find their cache.”
I took off the red plastic cap and we peeked inside. At the top of the jug was another rolled-up paper log. Underneath the log were dozens of colorful glass marbles, the kind kids used to collect and trade back in the day. “Hold out your hands.”
Trey cupped his hands and I poured a handful of marbles into them. I fingered though, picking out a glass cat’s eye streaked through with yellow and black, the Ninja’s colors. Trey chose a solid red one. He poured the rest back into the milk carton, bending down to retrieve the few that fell to the grass. We signed the log and returned the jug to its spot under the bush.
Geocaching was a bit pointless, perhaps, but it beat the hell out of a stuffy dinner at the country club, my ex’s idea of good time. I liked the adventure of not knowing where our quest would take us next, of working with Trey, combining his technical savvy with my street skills to track down the treasure, solve the mystery. With our complementary skills, we made a great team.
Trey punched a couple of buttons on the GPS. “Now for ‘Nut Job.’”
We hopped back into the Lincoln. I checked the device and pointed out the side window. “That way.” We headed southwest as far as we could, took a short detour due west, then went southwest again on a narrow county road, past fields with dried-out cotton plants, a once-dry stock pond now brimming with the day’s rain, and a scattered herd of Holstein cattle.
