RV There Yet? (4 page)

Steam curls and lifts the aroma of hazelnut from my cup, and I take a deep whiff as I glance around the family room. Lydia's boys used to have such fun in this room. Back when they were younger, it was more of a game room, complete with table hockey, big-screen TV, board games, and in one corner, darts. The games are gone now, and an extended sofa sits in their places, along with a twenty-six-inch standard TV and a wide area of open, hollow space that emphasizes something is missing. It lacks warmth and shows little evidence of the family noise and fun that used to take place within these walls.

“You look good in red,” Millie says, pointing to Lydia's shorts outfit.

“That's why she joined the Red Hat Society, you know,” I say with a grin.

“You did? I've thought about doing that, but I'm too chicken to wear a hat in public.” Millie takes a drink from her mug. “I just don't have the face for it.”

“Oh, I would love to jump on that one,” I say with a chuckle.

Millie's left eyebrow rises.

We discuss the advantages of belonging to a Red Hat group, and Lydia convinces us to check it out when we get back home. Which, of course, I was planning to do anyway.

Breaking the silence that follows, someone starts whistling
The
Andy Griffith Show
theme song. Millie and I look around.

Lydia laughs. “It's Cobbler,” she says, pointing to her blue and white parakeet perched in the birdcage that is situated on a stand in the corner of the room.

“Your bird whistles
The Andy Griffith Show
song?” Millie asks with wide-eyed wonder.

“Cobbler is a Mayberry groupie,” Lydia responds with all the admiration of a proud mother. “She has to have her fix every day.”

“How do you mean?” I walk over and peer into the cage. Tiny birdseed hulls litter the paper-lined floor, covering the ad for an upcoming George Clooney movie. Only half of George's face is showing. That is just wrong. Leaning toward the bottom, I blow a teensy bit in hopes of clearing George of this disgrace, but the hulls scatter about, some settling outside the cage and onto the carpet. I sneeze three times, causing more hulls to scatter. “I'll deal with you later.” I won't rest until George Clooney's dignity is restored.

Lydia places coasters for our mugs on the coffee table. Millie and I sit on the sofa, and Lydia sits across from us in a rocking chair. “If I don't turn
The Andy Griffith Show
on for Cobbler every day, she throws a fit. Dumps the hulls from her seeds all over the floor, squawks up a storm. She has a thing for Barney.”

I can't imagine how the bird—or any species for that matter—could pick Barney on TV over George Clooney, who is right in her cage—well, his image anyway. This bird needs help.

“What makes you think Cobbler has a thing for Barney?” I ask.

“After the episode where Barney was caught kissing Thelma Lou, Cobbler didn't eat for two days.”

First a motor home named Waldo, and now this? “Anyone know the number for Dr. Phil?
Someone
has some serious issues.” Lydia puts her index finger to her lips. “Shh, or she'll hear you.”

“Actually, I was talking about you.”

Lydia stops and looks at me to see if I'm serious. Only after I laugh does she join me. “Well, Cobbler is a tad bit different too,” Lydia whispers.

All righty then. Do I really want to take this trip? Just how well do I know these people? I mean, really?

Lydia takes a drink of coffee, then places the mug in a coaster. “Okay, you girls ready?” she asks, pen and paper in hand.

“Armed and dangerous,” Millie answers, pen poised over the paper. She takes over. “How about you make the grocery list, Lydia? DeDe, you write down the miscellaneous kind of stuff we need, like paper towels, batteries, that kind of thing. I'll make sure the map I printed off the Internet jibes with this atlas; will that work?”

Lydia and I stare at Millie.

“What?” she asks.

“Just admiring your leadership abilities,” Lydia says.

“Actually, my thoughts took a different direction.”

“Ha-ha,” Millie says. Her gaze flits to Lydia. “What can I say? It's my gift.”

“I have a different name for it,” I mumble under my hand.

“I heard that,” Millie says.

“Girls,” Lydia warns.

Millie and I exchange friendly growls, then move on. “Now, girls, do we want to travel the most direct route or the most scenic?” Millie pauses here, but before we can say anything, she hurries on. “Beverly said everyone else was making the effort to get there within two weeks. That gives us a little leeway. It's roughly a twenty-one-hundred-mile trip. We could probably make it in a week if we drove straight through, but around two weeks would give us time to do a little sightseeing and just have fun on the way. I vote for the most scenic route. What do you think?”

“Sounds good to me,” Lydia says. “It will be good to get some time away,” she says, looking around the room.

While I hate to be gone too long from my business, my partner has assured me things will be fine and has told me to go enjoy this time with my friends. Rob won't leave me alone, and my feelings for him scare me. It's better if I get away—before I do something really stupid. “Sounds good to me too,” I say with a grin. “Let's make this a memorable vacation!”
Though something tells me
traveling in an RV will be memorable enough.

Lydia and Millie catch my enthusiasm. “That's more like it,” Millie says. “To our trip.” She lifts her coffee cup toward us. Lydia and I join in, and we carefully tap our cups together.

“I have another idea. After we get the things we need, how about we pack everything into Waldo, then go to the beach this afternoon?” Lydia says.

“The beach sounds great,” I say. “Will it take long to get there?”

“Not at all. It's just about twenty-five miles east of here.”

Millie claps her hands together. “Great! Let's do it. I've got a new book I'm ready to
dive
into.”

We set to work, and by morning's end we've made a list of everything we need to pick up at the store, and Millie has mapped out our trip's route.

Soon we wander the aisles of the grocery store, picking up the necessary supplies, and I have to admit I'm getting a little excited. The “brewing storm” feeling has subsided, and I'm actually getting into this whole save-the-camp idea. Not only that, but Rob, the love-of-my-life-turned-traitor, has only entered my brain a couple of times today. Baby steps.

“I'll unlock Waldo so we can load everything inside,” Lydia says when we arrive back at her house.

Though I'm not into motor homes, I have to admit the RV looks all right. Large windows flank the home, giving it an airy feel. Lydia opens the various compartments on the outside, revealing storage, the sewer hose, hookup compartments, and such.

An ammonia scent greets us when we enter the blue and light gray interior. Just behind the driver's seat, a blue sofa hugs the wall. On the opposite side is a matching love seat.

“That pulls out into a bed,” Lydia says, pointing to the sofa. “This is our kitchen,” she says after we take two steps forward.

“Nice touch.” I nod toward the bouquet of yellow, red, purple, and pink flowers erupting from a blue ceramic pitcher on the table.

“Thanks. They're from my flower garden.” There's a smidgen of pride in Lydia's voice. “We'll have to store them under the sink once we start moving. Here's the sink, stove, microwave, and refrigerator,” Lydia says, touching each one with her hand as we stroll by—okay, we can stand still and touch everything. Yes, they really are that close.

“It's very nice, Lydia,” Millie and I assure her. And it really is. I mean, as far as motor homes go.

Oak storage bins border the tops of the walls as we edge down the hallway. And I do mean
edge
down the hallway. I'm thinking if I overdo it on dessert, I'll be wedged between the refrigerator and the bathroom for the duration of the trip.

The door on my right leads to the bathroom. A shower, stool, and sink. All the comforts of home—in a frightening sort of way.

Straight ahead is the bedroom area that encases two twin-sized beds and a nightstand. Lydia lifts the bed mattresses to reveal more storage beneath them. Cabinets border the bedroom walls. Plump pink and blue throw pillows give the matching quilts on the beds a cozy feel.
Cozy
is the polite word for “cramped.”

“Tiny but quaint,” Lydia says with a smile.

“I think it's great,” Millie says.

They both turn to me. “Quaint,” I say, grabbing Lydia's word. I'm wondering how I will describe it after two weeks. Two days. Two hours.

“I'll let you girls have the beds, and I'll sleep on the sofa bed,” Lydia offers.

Millie and I emphatically refuse. This is her motor home, and she will sleep in a real bed.

“Well, I think you're being ridiculous, but you're both headstrong, so I'll have to concede.” Lydia looks at the beds and then back to us. “All the beds are comfortable, but we can toss a coin to see who sleeps in the actual beds and who sleeps on the sofa bed.”

“No need to do that. I've slept on sofa beds before, and I'm fine with that,” Millie says.

“You don't need—”

Millie holds up her hand, cutting me off. “My mind is made up. Besides, I like sleeping near the door where I can keep an eye on things.”

One thing I've learned over the years, you don't want to mess with Millie when she hasn't had her beauty sleep. She could tear the hide off a grizzly.

We store our clothes and toiletries away. With horror I watch as Millie stores a familiar case. “Is that your trumpet?”
Please, oh
please, say no
.

“Yes.” A proud smile lifts the corners of her mouth.

An inward groan. “You're planning to play on our trip?” I ask nonchalantly, though every neuron in my brain is standing at attention.

“Hopefully at the camp.” The tone of her voice tells me she thinks she's doing us a favor. “It relaxes me when I play.”

Can we talk about what it does to everyone else? My gaze collides with Lydia's. The panic I see on her face matches what I'm feeling. She shakes her head slightly.

“That's nice,” Lydia says with a sweet smile.

Nice? She thinks that's nice? A Girl Scout helping a little old lady cross to the other side of the street,
that's
nice. A vase of roses? Nice. Millie playing her trumpet? That's just wrong.

Lydia shoots me a “behave yourself ” look, so I keep silent—on the outside. But inside I'm screaming to beat the band.

We step outside the motor home, and Millie snaps a picture. She's going to get on my nerves during this trip; I can feel it. To calm myself, I take a deep breath of fresh air and a sweeping view of the late sky. Fortunately, it's not late enough to stop true beach lovers such as ourselves from going on a little jaunt to the sea.

After packing the RV, we make our way to the house, put our bathing suits on beneath our street clothes, and grab the suntan oil, beach towels, and snacks; then off we go like college girls on spring break.

The wind whips against the motor home's side, causing it to groan like an old man with arthritis. And this hunk of metal is carrying us twenty-one hundred miles? I can only hope we have enough Bengay.

On the way to the beach, the oldies station crackles from the radio speakers, and we crack right along with it, totally charged by the time we arrive.

With the long hours I put in at Le Diva Chocolates, this break will do me good. Away from work and, well, other distractions. It will give me time to sort out what I want to do with my future, besides work. Funny how different my future appeared less than a year ago when Rob Grant was in my life. We did everything together. Well, on the weekends, since that was the only time we could be together. Like an idiot, I dropped my church, my friends, everything and everyone, to keep my weekends free for him. How could I have been so stupid?

“Hey, you gonna sit there all day like a bump on a log, or are you coming?” Millie asks with a wide grin.

Climbing out of the motor home, I take a big whiff, allowing the salty sea air to fill my lungs. Cupping my hands over my eyes, I gaze at the water. The ocean seems such a contradiction to me. One minute it inspires me to soar; the next minute it calms my heart to a whisper. How can that be?

Seagulls caw overhead, swooping here and there for dry crusts of bread or soggy chips left on the sand. An old man with scraggly gray hair, tattered pants, and a dirty white T-shirt combs the beach with a metal contraption, looking for hidden treasures. A smattering of kids splash and squeal at the water's edge while frazzled mothers look after them. A few bikini-clad teenagers bake in the sun, and a makeshift volleyball net stands in the distance while buff young men spike a ball back and forth.

“Where is everyone?” I ask Lydia as we unfold our lounging chairs.

She turns to me with a smile. “This beach is Maine's best-kept secret.”

“Last one in is a rotten egg,” I squeal, running toward the water.

Lydia and Millie laugh, running behind me.

I plunge into the water with gusto, and a scream escapes me. Not quite Janet Leigh in
Psycho
, but close.

Lydia laughs and braces herself for the cold. “You forget Maine is not Florida. Our water is cold.”

“Cold? You call this cold? Polar bears could come here in search of food.” I scan the horizon for icebergs headed our way.

“Don't be such a wimp, Dee,” Millie says as soon as we're all waist-deep in the water. Millie cups her hands and lifts water to her face and neck.

Just watching her causes me to shiver uncontrollably.

Lydia points to my face. “Your lips are blue, Dee.”

“No, I'd say purple. Definitely purple,” Millie says with an evil laugh.