Lunch is over, and I still could eat a moose. Don’t get me wrong. Lydia’s chicken-salad sandwiches, chips, and apple slices were great—if you weigh, say, five pounds. But for adults? Think hors d’oeuvre.
And the fact that I refused seconds had nothing whatsoever to do with Steve sitting beside me. Counting the church help, there are almost twenty people in our group, after all. I didn’t want to be a pig. Even I have my limits—well, except where chocolate is concerned.
After lunch, Steve and I go back to the dorm and finish preparing the walls for painting. The sanding part is done, and now we’re washing the walls. I heave the bucket of warm, sudsy water up the ladder with me. My back aches a tad, and I have a feeling this is only the beginning.
The building is definitely not soundproof. Eric and his cronies are working in the bathrooms downstairs, and though the radio is on in our room, I can still hear every word the Biker Boys are saying. They obviously are unaware that their voices are carrying, because a couple of their crude comments make me blush down to my toes. As long as I keep my eyes turned toward the wall, I’m good.
“Same old Eric,” Steve says, shaking his head.
“I don’t remember that side of him. He was always on his best behavior around me, because I was usually with Lydia.” My right arm feels shaky from scrubbing the walls. I’m praying Mr. Biceps doesn’t notice that flab-under-my-arm thing. ’Course, this workout should help firm me up.
“Boy, was he mad when Greg horned in,” Steve says.
“Greg sure did sweep Lydia off her feet.” I dump my rag in the water, wring it out, and start washing the wall again.
“It was such a shock to hear of his death. He was a good man. It’s always hard to let them go.”
“Did you and Greg stay in touch through the years?” A chunk of plaster falls from the wall.
“Uh-oh, looks like we’ll have to fill some places in,” Steve says. “I have a couple of those myself.” He points to some glaring holes, then continues to wipe his wall, the muscles in his biceps twitching and bulging. Feeling the blush creep into my cheeks, I turn away. “Yeah, Greg and I kept in touch. He was sort of my spiritual mentor through the years. He helped me a lot while I was going through the divorce.”
“I didn’t know you two were such good friends.”
“When other kids made fun of me, Greg was always there to defend me. I’ll never forget that.” Steve stops wiping the wall and looks at me. “You were the same way.”
I scrub the wall hard with my cloth. If Steve knew the truth about me, he wouldn’t be so kind. I’m no different than the man who stole his wife.
“Is Lydia doing all right? I mean, really?”
My arm feels as if it’s going to fall off. “Seems to be. She misses him, of course, but she’s adjusting. The only thing that bothers me is she doesn’t talk about it much. I’m guessing there’s just too much pain.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hope it’s not deeper than that,” he says.
“You think she’s not dealing with it?”
“Could be. We’ll keep an eye on her. It’s never good to allow poison like that to grow. I know all about that.”
Steve and I grow quiet, each lost in our work, our thoughts. I think about how my own life has been poisoned.
My throat feels as though it will crack and break off if I swallow. Climbing down the ladder, I say, “I’m going to get a bottled water; do you want one?”
“Sure, that would be great.”
Just then someone downstairs complains about being thirsty. I smile. “I guess I’d better ask the guys if they want one too.”
Steve nods.
The stairs creak and groan as I step on them. It’s either because they’re old or because I’m—okay, no chocolate break tonight. The smell of mildew hits me once I get downstairs. My throat tickles, causing me to cough.
The Biker Boys are joking with one another when I step into the room. The scene is amusing, if I do say so myself. These big, burly guys, dressed in Looney Tune shirts (I think they have a different one for each day of the week—at least I’m hoping they’re not wearing the same ones), are cleaning the toilets. Hey, it’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it. And might I add that it just does my heart good to see men doing that?
“You guys want a bottled water?” They’re talking and laughing so loudly that they can’t hear me. Deciding to look for Eric, I step past each stall until I come to one where Eric is sandwiched between the toilet and the stall. His back is to me. Now there’s a picture. Too bad Millie isn’t here. I have an overwhelming urge to shout, “Fire!” but I refrain. Edging my way closer, I bend toward him while he continues to use a rag to clean the outside of the pipe. “Eric, do you want a bottled water?”
My voice startles him, and in his attempt to turn around, he bumps against the rusted pipe, causing it to burst open and let go for all it’s worth. Water shoots straight at me, soaking my face and shirt.
“Shut off the water!” he yells, trying to pull himself from his crouched position.
The Biker Boys scurry about the room. Dashing away from the vomiting pipe, I struggle to keep my dignity intact. The water soon stops gushing. The Biker Boys come over to gawk at me as though I’m some sideshow at the fair. I’m not feeling very charitable at the moment.
One of the guys stares at me. Clearly he is amused.
“Does the term swirly mean anything to you, big guy? You know, as in me dunking your head in the toilet bowl and flushing?” I don’t care if he does resemble John Bunyan. There is enough adrenaline shooting through my veins to take him on. He knows it too. With palms up in front of him, he backs away. Slowly.
Eric’s mouth lifts at the corners.
“Something funny to you, Eric?” I growl. “You want to laugh, do you?” I shake my hair like a wet dog.
“I don’t have a death wish, DeDe.”
Stopping, I look at him. “Smart man.” With that, I turn, lift my chin, and stalk toward the stairs. They can get their own bottled water.
“What happened to you?” Millie asks when she sees me outside the dorm.
“I went for a swim. What does it look like?” I say as I tromp past her. Abruptly I turn back around. “And don’t you dare take a picture!”
Millie puts her palms in front of her and backs away. “I won’t. I promise. By the way, did you happen to see my glasses in the dorm where you’re painting?”
“I’m dripping wet, Millie—and freezing—have I mentioned that?”
“So is that a ‘no’?”
“Grrr! Try your head!” I turn around and stomp off toward the motor home. Okay, maybe I’m being a little harsh, but I can’t help myself, for crying out loud. Shoving through the door of my room, I rummage through the dresser drawer. “Why I ever agreed to this stupid trip, I’ll never know. What was I thinking?” I yank a fresh shirt from the drawer.
“That you might help save the camp and enjoy being with your friends?” Lydia’s standing in the doorway, her expression hopeful.
Her presence so startles me, it takes me a moment to catch my breath. “I’m sorry, Lydia.”
She closes the door behind her, and I change into my dry top.
“What happened?”
First, I tell her everything. Then without warning, I start to laugh. My anger has subsided, and I realize how ridiculous the whole thing must appear to onlookers. Lydia hesitates at first, then laughs with me. “All I wanted to do was get a drink of water.”
“You got your wish,” Lydia says through peals of laughter.
Both of us are letting off some tension. When we finally calm down, and my clothes are changed, we head back toward the dorm. We talk about how things are going and part ways once I reach the dorm. Steve is gone. Grabbing my bucket, I climb the ladder once more, and Steve walks in.
“Where did you put my water?”
I smack my forehead with my hand and look at him. “Did you ever have one of those days?”
“So what do you do back home, DeDe?” Steve asks, steadying the paint can on his ladder.
Thick paint covers my roller, and I lift it to the walls. “I co-own a chocolate company, Le Diva Chocolates.”
“Really?” He chuckles. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why is that?” Fresh paint lifts from my roller as I push it across the faded walls. Have I mentioned that my arm feels like putty?
“Well, I remember how you loved chocolate, and you’ve always been a take-charge type of gal.”
For a moment, I stop painting and look at him. “You think so?” For some reason that comment surprises and pleases me.
“You helped organize a few things back in the day. Of course, it was usually something that got us all into trouble.”
Back to painting. “You’re right. I do have a reputation.” I laugh. “I need to do something different in my business.”
“Oh?”
“There’s a new shop down the road from us, a chocolate shop, as a matter of fact, and, well, I’m a little worried.” Sopping my roller with more paint, I glance at him.
“You afraid it will hurt your business?”
I shrug. “You never know.”
“How are the shops different?” His strong arm pulls his roller across the wall, and I struggle not to stare.
“We both offer gourmet chocolates, though Shelley—my co-partner—says ours are better. The other shop owner offers coffee too.”
“Why don’t you expand in some way? Offer a different twist.”
While my paint roller rubs the wall, I think about that. My thoughts flit to the dessert bar we stopped at on our way to the camp. “I suppose I could offer a dessert bar or something.”
“Now you’re talking. Always improving, keeping up with the times; that makes all the difference.” He steps off his ladder and pours more paint into his pan. “It’s a challenge, that’s for sure. I’m always looking for ways to set my business apart from the competition.” He lifts his pan and glances at me. “Hey, you could offer a free giveaway once a month. Something that would keep customers coming in to sign up.” He climbs the ladder again.
“That’s a great idea!” My mind is already clicking. Creating chocolate boxes and baskets for special events is such fun. They are such a huge hit. Smaller ones could be made for giveaways. “Thanks for your help, Steve.” I’m so excited, I can hardly wait to get back and call Shelley.
“You’re welcome. We businesspeople have to stick together,” he says with a wink.
Something about this whole conversation makes me feel better. I’m thinking it has to do with more than just his suggestions. I’m enjoying working alongside Steve. Lydia was right. Why should I miss out on a good friendship? I think that’s what we have here. A nice friendship.
We’re all a little quiet as we gather around the crackling fire tonight. Everyone has worked hard today. Steve comes over carrying a hot dog and chips on a paper plate and sits on the bale of hay beside me. Before I have time to feel uncomfortable, he bows his head to pray over his food. It takes a strong man to be a man of faith in this world. What a rare find. Why would a woman leave a guy like this?
“Did you get in touch with Shelley today?” Steve interrupts my thoughts.
“Oh, uh, no. She was out. I’ll call her in the morning.”
“Speaking of the morning, rumor has it that tomorrow is your birthday,” he teases before taking a bite of hot dog.
“I don’t do birthdays anymore.”
“Fifty, huh?” He grins.
“Yeah.”
“You’ll get used to the idea. It took some time for me too.”
I stare at him, wondering how this could be the same kid I knew in camp. I remember Steve being very sweet back then, but let’s face it, he was a nerd. High-water polyester pants, dark glasses—I just can’t believe this is him. He turns and catches me staring at him.
“What? Is there something in my teeth?” he asks.
I laugh. “You’re clear. I was just thinking how different you are.”
He laughs out loud, causing the others to glance at us a moment before going back to their own discussions. “When Dad died, Mom remarried. My dad was a science geek. Loved him fiercely, but, well, he was too busy experimenting to worry about style and fashions. That’s all I had ever known. My stepdad helped me with those things. Changed my life, really. My ex-wife helped me too. She wouldn’t put up with the old me at all.”
I nod and move a couple of pretzels around on my plate. “So did you drive straight here or fly?”
“I drove my motor home.”
My head jerks around to him. “You have a motor home?” What is it with people and these motor homes?
“Yeah.” He looks proud. “I just bought it a month ago and figured this would be a good time to try it out. I’m just a couple of homes over from you. There’s your motor home, then two homes that belong to the camp for workers, and then mine.”
“That big fancy one?”
He laughs. “That’s the one.”
“Wow, that looks really nice.” Talk about a big motor home!
“Would you like to see it?”
“Well, I—sure. I’ll ask Millie and Lydia if they would like to come along.” Twinkling eyes again. If he keeps this up, I’m going to put him at the top of my Christmas tree.
After dinner, Millie and Lydia come along, and we follow Steve to his motor home. Eric sees Lydia leaving, so he promptly plants himself in the entourage. I don’t see chemistry between the two, but Lydia seems comfortable with his friendship.
We step into Steve’s motor home, and my breath lingers somewhere between my chest and my throat. We all gather inside on the ceramic tile and stop short of the plush white carpet.
“Nuh-uh. This is so not a motor home,” I say. “No offense, Lydia.”
“None taken.”
Steve laughs. “Yeah, it is. Just don’t call it a camper. We tend to frown on that.”
“This is unbelievable,” I say, slipping off my sneakers at the door. Those behind me do the same.
“You don’t need to do that,” Steve insists.
“Oh, yes, we do. This is absolutely marvelous.” Taking in the spacious slide-out units, I can hardly believe how roomy everything appears. The posh white-leather seats in the driver’s area momentarily make me want to take a ride. The thick carpet squishes between my toes as I step over to sink into the passenger’s seat. I swivel back and forth like a kid in a barber chair. The living room consists of a soft, velvety sofa in white and blue-gray tones and a white recliner on the opposite side of the room. Ample windows are at every turn, giving a gracious view of the subalpine forest surrounding us. A large flat-screen TV is perched near the ceiling just before the driver’s station, for viewing from the living room.
The kitchen area is just beyond the living room. Fine sturdy oak cabinets grace the kitchen area, along with a fashionable table and chairs. Ceramic tile surrounds the area in front of the sink and cabinetry. The bathroom boasts a shower with glass doors, a large tub, ceramic tile, and all the conveniences of home. Now, for this, I could pass up a Hilton.
As we step into the bedroom, we see a queen-size bed, hidden washer and dryer, and another large flat-screen TV in one corner, along with a full wall of mirrored closets with ample room for clothing and such.
“If I hadn’t seen it, I never would have believed it,” I say, smiling.
Steve seems pleased with our reactions. “Thanks. It’s just stuff, though. I try not to get too attached.”
I stare at him. How can he say that? This is fabulous. “I’m actually surprised you don’t have a houseboat,” I say, teasing.
“I do.” He almost looks embarrassed.
Gulp here. Millie nudges me, though I’m not sure why.
“But I can’t travel everywhere by boat. I needed something to take me places inland.”
“A land yacht,” Millie says, nodding.
We look at her.
“Remember, that’s what they call the nicer places like this one, a land yacht.”
“I don’t know that I would call it a land yacht, but that’s nice,” Steve says.
“How do you have time to travel when you own a boating business?” I ask.
“I’ve had it for thirty years. Built up a modest business, and my son helps me run it.”
“Your son?” For some reason it surprises me that he has children.
“Yeah. My wife and I have one son. Aaron is twenty-five, and we’re close. I was thrilled he wanted to help me with the business. I’m grooming him to take it over one day.”
“Well, obviously you’ve done well for yourself,” I say, looking around.
“You know, it is nice, and I’m thankful for it, but honestly I used to own a clunker motor home, and I can tell you, one is just as good as another as long as it’s home. You know, traveling and sharing the beautiful sights of the United States with the people you care about.” His gaze holds my heart perfectly still.
Someone coughs, breaking the spell of whatever that was. We all visit awhile in Steve’s home and finally call it a night. Energized by the evening, Millie, Lydia, and I head back to our home away from home.
“Well, this is it, DeDe,” Millie says. “Your last fling with youth. Tomorrow you’ll be old like the rest of us.”
“You just had to remind me, didn’t you?” I step on a pebble and resist the urge to grind it to powder.
“That’s what friends are for,” Millie says, her eyebrows shifting up and down for emphasis.
Lydia locks her arm through mine. “Fifty is good, DeDe. You’ll see.”
“Tomorrow I qualify for issues of the AARP magazine, Lydia. What’s good about that?”
She thinks a moment. “Well, you don’t qualify for the senior-citizen discount yet.”
Okay, she’s got a point. I’m good.
By the time we step inside Lydia’s RV, I’m feeling a little better. And let me just say here that I’m not buying that whole one-motor- home-is-as-good-as-another thing.