A loud, annoying sound jerks me from a deep sleep. In my fog, I reach up to thump off the alarm clock, but the noise continues. The trumpeter blares a bad version of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” giving me a headache. That can only mean one thing.
Millie.
Suddenly everything becomes clear. I am stuck in an RV, at Aspen Creek Bible Camp, with two women who used to be my best friends, while a metal rooster crows outside my window. Need I mention that our windows are open?
Lydia yawns. “Is it that time already?”
“If, by that, you mean time to hurt Millie, the answer is yes,” I growl, yanking off my covers.
A retreat to the bathroom sounds like a good idea until I can get my attitude under control. Once I’ve finished washing my face and combing my hair, blessed quiet fills the air.
Millie clambers into the RV and snaps open her trumpet case, putting her treasured instrument inside. She looks up and smiles as big as you please. “Guess I was loud enough. At least I got you up,” she says, wearing a proud expression.
I look her square in the face. “Millie, all of Colorado is stumbling out of bed right this minute because of you.”
I’ve always had a problem with speaking my mind, and, well, today is no exception.
“May as well get used to it, DeDe. I’m gonna be the first thing you hear every morning and the last thing you see at night.” She grins savagely, sucking all the joy from the room. The woman is evil personified.
Lydia rolls her eyes. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you two.”
“Give it up, Lydia. We can’t be helped.” For some reason, my own comment makes me sober. Am I beyond help? Does God think so? I’m the one who turned away from Him, but I hope He hasn’t given up on me.
Now that the music—and believe me, I use the term loosely—is over, I go outside and run through my memorized Pilates routine and then head back inside.
After my shower, we all hustle around the kitchen—bumping into one another in the process—pulling together a meager breakfast of oatmeal, toast, juice, and coffee. At last, we sit down.
“It’s cool that we’re parked near a bird feeder,” Lydia says, scooping some sugar into her cereal bowl. “I noticed Cobbler watching the birds eat. I think she enjoys it.”
That sounds as exciting as waiting for a chicken to hatch.
“You want to tell us about your phone call?” Millie asks Lydia without so much as blinking.
Lydia looks at her and hesitates.
“If you’d rather not, Lydia, we understand.” Did I say that? My lips betrayed me. I want to hear what happened.
“No, it’s okay,” Lydia says. “It was Drew. He has no intention of going back to school.” She lets out a long breath and shakes her head. “He’s so angry. Blames God for Greg’s death.”
“I’m sorry, Lydia,” I say.
“There’s not much you can do if his mind is made up.” Millie takes a bite of toast.
“I know.” Lydia cradles her coffee cup between her hands. “If only I could make him see.”
“He’ll wake up one day. But it won’t happen overnight. Believe me, I know,” I say. Lydia’s hand pats my own.
“Well, at least I didn’t just overlook the school notices. His girlfriend worked at the college, and she intercepted those mailings so I wouldn’t know what was going on. Fortunately, they broke up later,” Lydia says, now twisting a napkin in her hands.
Silence hovers between us as we search for words of comfort to help Lydia.
“Millie, I’ve been meaning to ask you how you got so much time off work,” Lydia says, changing the subject.
“Oh, I thought you heard me tell DeDe. I’ve been with the library for twenty-five years, and I had accumulated four weeks’ vacation. They threw a party for me before I left and gave me an additional two weeks. So I have a total of six weeks. Wasn’t that nice?”
“That’s really nice. Too bad they can’t have the new computer system in place before you get back. Then you could miss the chaos,” Lydia says, taking a drink of coffee.
Millie’s face goes from pink to a color pretty much akin to milk toast.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She waits a moment. “What if they sent me away so they could train someone else on the new computer? What if they are already making plans to replace me? What if—”
“Millie!” The sternness of Lydia’s voice catches our attention. “I told you not to say ‘what if.’ Besides, they wouldn’t do that.”
Millie makes a face. “I’m not so convinced.”
“Have you ever played the trumpet for them?” I ask.
“No.” Millie looks confused.
“You should be safe.”
She glares at me, but at least some of the tension is gone.
“Well, how about you, Miss Chocolatier? Any news on how your business is going?”
“Okay, that’s just ugly,” I say.
She tosses a smug smile.
“Oh, come on, Millie. The library wouldn’t do that to you. They appreciate the job you’ve done for them over the years. There is no one more organized than you. I mean, color-coded underwear, Millie. Who does that?”
“I do,” she says defensively.
“Exactly. You’re the organization queen.” I toss her a smile and hope she can’t read on my face that I think the color-coded thing is just plain weird.
“Thanks, DeDe.”
Whoa. Hold everything. Millie and I are having a bonding moment.
Lydia stands and washes out her coffee cup. “I guess we’d better get going.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” I pull my reluctant self from the kitchen chair and make a mental note to contact Shelley later today.
“Lydia, I’ve assigned you the task of chief cook and bottle washer,” Beverly says with a huge grin. “You’re such a great cook—”
“Pretty and she can cook too,” Eric says with a wink. He’s dressed in ripped jeans and a T-shirt that quotes Shakespeare: “Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty.” Somehow Eric doesn’t strike me as the Shakespeare type.
Lydia ignores him. “That will be fine, Beverly.”
“I’ll take you to the kitchen when we leave here, show you where the supplies are, and help you set up. You will be providing the meals for all of us. A couple of the church ladies will help you as needed.”
“Sounds good,” Lydia says.
“Oh yeah, and I called the RV place to order your new window and screen. Should be here before you have to leave,” Beverly says.
Millie throws me a look, but Lydia keeps her eyes on Beverly. “Thank you.”
Beverly looks at her chart. “Organization is not my forte, so I was hoping, Millie, that you would oversee the work and be the manager, so to speak. I will be busy in the office, making a list of all our contacts once the camp opens again. Would you mind that job?”
Millie looks as though she’s been awarded an Oscar. “I’d love it. You know how I enjoy order.”
“DeDe, I thought you could help with the painting, starting in dorm one. Will that work?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’m glad to do whatever.” The fact that painting alone sounds very boring to me is probably better left unsaid. “Do we get chocolate breaks?” I ask, ever hopeful.
“If you’ll provide the chocolate, I’ll provide the breaks,” Beverly answers with a giggle.
She then goes over a list of to-dos with the Biker Boys, Eric, and Steve. No one can deny it’s very admirable that the Biker Boys came along to help Eric, even though they have no real ties to the camp.
“I know it looks a little overwhelming,” Beverly says.
That’s the understatement of the year.
“But I don’t think it will be all that bad. We’ll be up and running again in no time.”
Someone is in denial.
“Okay, that’s it.” Beverly closes her notebook with a snap. “Oh, Steve?”
Dressed in jeans, a short-sleeved T-shirt the color of a mocha truffle, and a smile, he turns around.
Another heart blip here. Hey, whose heart wouldn’t blip at the thought of a mocha truffle?
“I have you painting with DeDe, is that all right?”
A choke cuts off my air supply.
An ornery glint touches his eyes. “That’s just fine, Beverly,” he says with his eyes fixed on me.
Somebody just gulped, and I think it was me.
Beverly tells us where to pick up our supplies, and we head out of the building together, along with everyone else. I’m hoping I don’t look too tacky in my work clothes. The jeans are a little scruffy and old. My dingy white T-shirt has a faded red-and-blue design on it, but these are work clothes, after all. I’m having a good hair day, though, so that’s good.
“So how do you like RV life with Herb Alpert?” Steve asks as we walk together.
It takes me a minute to get what he means. “Oh, you mean Millie?”
He laughs. “She’s the one.”
“Have you heard Herb Alpert?”
“Yes. I have some of his old records.”
And when was the last time I heard someone talk about records ? “Okay, have you heard Millie?”
He winces. “Point taken.”
I laugh. “Millie’s a good friend, though I admit her trumpet playing does take some getting used to. Bottom line? Despite Millie’s faults, I love her.” After all, she loves me in spite of my faults.’Course, I don’t play the trumpet.
“One thing for sure, she takes her job seriously,” Steve says.
“That she does. Millie’s always worked hard. Actually to her detriment. Sort of a workaholic.”
“I can relate to that,” Steve says. “I suppose that’s why my first wife ran off with someone else.” He picks up a twig in our path, throws it, then turns to me. “That’s the way it goes.”
“I’m sorry, Steve.”
“It’s old news.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“She left around five years ago. We tried counseling a couple of times, but it didn’t work. I was willing to do whatever it took to pull our marriage back together. Guess I just didn’t try soon enough, though. She ran off with another guy.” Pause. “Oh well, ancient history. How about you? Pretty as you are, I know you’ve been married, probably a couple of times?”
Hold everything. Did he just say, “Pretty as you are”? Mr. Biceps himself just said that to me? A vision of Rob is trying to break through here, but it’s just not coming.
“No, never did.”
“Just didn’t find the right one?”
“Work got in the way, and then when I found someone—well, it just didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
We step inside the dorm into the first bedroom. In big black letters stretched across one wall are the words “Elaine was here.” Another wall has “Melody loves Ed.” Another says, “Mrs. Woodriff wears grandma underwear.” I try not to laugh. Looking at the cracked paint and gouges on the walls, I can almost hear Millie, Lydia, and me giggling as we talk about boys and camp life. Visions come to mind of me painting my toenails while lounging on the bed, Millie glancing through a magazine, and Lydia staring at the class ring Greg gave her. It was a lifetime ago, and yet it was only yesterday.
“Looks as though this could use a good paint job,” Steve says, surveying the room.
“Sure does.” In the middle of the room stand wooden bunk beds, scarred, splintered, and faded with age. The stained, sagging mattresses have seen better days, but then, haven’t we all?
“Well, I see you’ve found where to start,” Millie’s voice breaks into the room. We turn around to see her standing in the doorway; glasses perched on the tip of her nose, camera aimed at the walls, taking the “before” pictures so we can document our progress, no doubt. “First thing you need to do is sand the walls, taking off any peeled paint. Then we’ll wash them down to prepare them for painting. I’ve got sandpaper, buckets, and rags just down the hall for you.” She’s so happy one would think she’d just won the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes. “Any questions?”
“I think you’ve covered it all,” Steve says good-naturedly.
“Great. I’ll check on you in a little while.” With that, she turns on her heels and prances off to her next assignment.
“She’s enjoying this entirely too much,” I say.
“You noticed that too?” Steve laughs. “Well, I guess we’d better get started before Attila—er, uh, Millie, comes back.” He winks at me, and we both laugh as we head down the hallway.
“Oh, come on, Millipede,” Eric says just outside the dorm building door. “Let me repair some drawers or cupboards or something. Please?”
“Eric, you are not going to work in the kitchen with Lydia, and that’s final.” Millie’s voice snaps with every word.
Steve turns to me and raises his brows. We grab our buckets of soapy water and the sandpaper and head back to the room.
“Sounds like Millie will have her hands full with this job.” I grab the sandpaper and pick a corner to start working.
“Something tells me she can handle it,” Steve says with a gut laugh.
“Here’s something I thought you might like while you’re working,” Beverly says as she enters, placing a jam box in the middle of the room and pushing a button to start an old Andrae Crouch tape.
“Wow, I haven’t heard him since—”
“Camp?” Steve asks with a grin.
“Right.” I smile back. “Thanks, Bev. You’re the greatest,” I call over my shoulder amid the scratchy sound of sandpaper against drywall.
“Let me know if you need anything.” Beverly calls back, her footsteps fading down the hallway.
“So tell me about you, DeDe. What’s going on in your life?”
With a pause, I turn and look into Steve’s twinkling blue eyes. Everything in me says to run, but my feet just refuse to obey.