The next afternoon is a buzz of activity, everyone frantically working on their concert pieces. Church guys are trying to get the electricity up and running for our microphones and keyboard.
Some of the men heave a wooden platform over to the open meadow, then Steve and I work around the endless cords, setting up microphones and stands. In hopes that the electricity will be back on for tonight, the sound guys from the church put together some sort of PA deal, and one glance at the stage screams preschool program. An avalanche around seven o’clock tonight might be a good thing.
Lydia brings a lovely brass kettle stuffed with wildflowers to the platform and sets it to one side. Okay, that’s as helpful as putting a dirty kid in clean clothes.
“That’s nice, Lydia.” I mean, it is nice. Well, if you don’t count the fact that it’s sitting a little whopper-jawed on the boards. But, hey, who’s going to notice?
She brushes her hands together. “Good. I’m going to bring another one out for the other side. It will give the place a little more warmth.” She looks once again at the flowers, then walks away.
We’re surrounded by an alpine forest and majestic mountains, and she’s thinking we need wildflowers for warmth. Okeydokey.
Millie’s horn blares from a nearby dorm. She’s been going from place to place to practice in hopes of keeping the elk away. Just call her the “Pied Piper.” Millie plays, the elk follow.
Truthfully, they’ve been hovering at the edge of the woods, though they’re not coming too close since there are so many of us milling around.
Beverly is darting around the camp here and there, trying to get things ready for the concert. She has assigned teams from the church to help. Once the microphones are in place, several of us begin to set up folding chairs, facing the platform.
The weatherman promises a pleasant evening, and hopefully he’ll be right. I glance up. A few tiny wisps of cloud sail along the azure sky. Enormous mountains sweep down upon a sun-washed meadow.
“DeDe, will you come here for a minute?” Steve calls me over to the keyboard that the guys have just placed on the stage. “Can you grab that microphone and say something?”
“Testing one-two-three,” I say just as Steve pushes on the keyboard. My words and his note lift with the breeze. We all turn toward the volunteer electricians and clap. Beverly’s shoulders relax. One less thing to worry about.
For now.
Lydia places the second bunch of flowers on the stage and calls out to everyone that dinner is ready. We all head to the cafeteria and soon devour Lydia’s offering of sandwiches and homemade vegetable soup. Some people talk excitedly while eating; others sit in quiet. All of us handling stress in our own way. I figure, what’s to worry? It can’t be a sellout crowd. Not that I don’t want to sell a lot of tickets, mind you. We need the money, that’s certain. But, well, there’s something to be said for keeping one’s dignity intact, and I’m thinking our reputations could be on the line here. On the other hand, the crowd knows we’re not professionals, so why not enjoy ourselves?
Dinner is soon over; we’re all dressed and ready for the concert. We make our way onto the open field where about fifty people have gathered for the event.
I have to admit I’m surprised to see so many. I might add here that most attendees are in their twilight years—as in this concert could last past their bedtime. Okay, my bedtime too. The frightening thing about it all? The program is forty-five minutes long. An hour, tops.
Beverly interrupts my thoughts by welcoming everyone. Her microphone sends a sharp echo through the crowd, causing Beverly to step back. “Guess my voice is more powerful than I thought,” she says with a chuckle. Smiles light the crowd.
Nice audience. That’s a good sign.
One by one we perform our numbers. We get through the first half and midway through the second half, and now it’s Millie’s turn. If the people go home now, they’ve seen a fair share of the program.
Millie’s face is flushed as she walks up to the stage. She smiles at the audience, pulls her trumpet to her lips, opens a valve, blows, and spit falls onto the stage. Nice touch.
She pulls the horn to her mouth once more and begins to blow. One of Eric’s buddies pulls out a trombone, and another belts out a second trumpet. Millie turns to them, looking as surprised as I am. The fellows turn this little number into a jazz ensemble, giving “When the Saints Go Marching In” a New Orleans type of sound. Finally, they come to the chorus the third time around, and the fellows drop out, leaving Millie to finish the number alone.
By now her confidence is in full swing. I half-expect her to bebop through the crowd, moving her horn up and down with the rhythm of the music, but to her credit, she stays planted, merely lifting her horn heavenward as her notes climb higher and louder with every blow, bouncing from one mountain to the next until a strange bugle and grunting sound join the mix.
I look past Millie at the guys to see who’s joined her this time, but they are looking around too. The strange bugling continues. Other people crane their necks, looking for the source of the sound. It’s then that I notice a group of elk, peeking just at the edge of the trees.
Then out of the woods on the opposite side comes a bull elk. And let me just say that sucker is huge, with antlers that could serve as a coatrack for Goliath. He’s headed straight for Millie, who by now is so absorbed in her music, she has entered the heavenlies. People scream and scatter about while the men on the stage rush to Millie’s side and yank on her arm. She looks as though she’s ready to bop someone for interrupting her moment of glory until her eyes lock with Mr. Bull. This is where Millie’s legs kick into gear and carry her off like a hungry cheetah chasing his lunch.
You can say what you will about Millie, but she’s no slacker.
In a flash the entire meadow is cleared out. Mr. Bull reclaims his females, and off they go into the woods, leaving me, and most likely others, thankful that we opted not to take instrumental instruction.
“Boy, I hope it’s all right that we left everything set up in the meadow tonight,” I say once we’re safely inside Waldo.
“The guys were going back to tear down,” Lydia says. “They wanted to wait and make sure the elk were gone.”
“Well, don’t expect me to go back,” Millie argues. “I’m not about to take on a seven-hundred-pound bull elk, thank you very much.” She plunks down on the sofa. “It was bad enough duking it out with my husband, and he was a scrawny man.”
She glances up at us, and we all start to laugh.
Millie’s cell phone rings. Lydia and I make sure the way is clear, then we head back outside to help the guys clean up.
“Well, that wasn’t quite the grand finale we had planned, but it worked,” Beverly says as we pick up litter around the concert area. “Poor Millie. Is she all right?” Beverly’s face shows nothing but concern, but Lydia and I both bust up laughing. She joins in, though I can see she feels bad doing so.
“Millie is fine,” I say. “Though I don’t suspect she’ll take home any elk souvenirs.”
Others join us in our efforts, and finally the concert area is clean. When we get back to the motor home, Millie is still sitting on the sofa, only now her eyes are red and puffy.
“Millie, what’s wrong?” Lydia asks when we step inside.
She waits a moment. “That phone call before you left?”
We nod.
“It was my mother.”
Lydia gasps. “Is she sick?”
“She’s fine. She called to tell me that Bruce’s wife”—fresh tears fall, and she wipes her nose with a tissue—“is pregnant.”
“Pregnant? Isn’t he a little old for that?” I say, incredulous that a man in his fifties would become a father for the first time.
“Do you know why Bruce and I never had children?” Millie asks as if she never heard my comment at all.
Lydia and I shake our heads.
“I have a tipped uterus. Did I ever tell you that?”
Well, it’s not like that comes up in regular conversation. “So how’s the family?” “Why, they’re fine, thank you. By the way, I have a tipped uterus.”
“Um, no,” I say.
She nods. “That’s what made it so hard for us to get pregnant. It can happen; it just didn’t happen for me.” She looks up, tears swimming in her eyes. “Oh well, now he’ll get that baby he’s always wanted.”
I want to say, “You’ve got a lot of elk admirers,” but this doesn’t seem to be the time.
Lydia sets to work making tea. That’s a cure-all as far as Lydia is concerned. Millie cries some more until her tears are spent, while we sit beside her, saying nothing, hoping our presence is enough.
“I’ve been as narrow as this motor home,” Millie says with disgust. “No offense, Lydia.”
“None taken.”
“When I couldn’t have a baby, I just threw myself into my work. At the library, I could control my environment. At home, I couldn’t control anything.”
She stares at the wad of tissue in her hands. “And now I can’t even do my job.” Millie looks up at us and shrugs.
We grab her arm, saying nothing, just being her support while she cries the last of her tears.
Afterward we sit down to tea. “I guess we’ve all been narrow, Millie. I had my sights set on my career too. Now what do I have to show for it? A business whose very survival is threatened by someone younger, more energetic, more creative.” I look out the window, then back at Lydia and Millie. “I always thought that by the time we reached this age, we would have arrived at the place of contentment, the place where we would finally feel settled, as though we had fulfilled our God-given purpose.”
They nod.
“Are we there yet?” I ask with a sly grin.
“I don’t think so. I’m not sure we ever ‘arrive.’ We just keep traveling, growing, learning.” Millie cleans her eyeglasses with the edge of her blouse. Guess she does learn something from her books.
No one says anything for a few minutes.
“Well, I didn’t put a career first, but I haven’t done so great myself. Talk about narrow. My world was my husband, my kids.” Lydia cradles her hands around her teacup. “I’m not saying that I’m sorry I put them first. Still, I should have reached out more to others as well. Expanded my world. The only world I have ever known is gone.” She looks up at us. “Where do I go from here? What now?”
“Trust our future to the Lord and take one day at a time. The older we get, the more precious each day becomes,” I say, feeling strangely solemn all at once. Extending my hands to each of them, I grab hold of theirs. “In case I haven’t told you lately, I love you both, and I cherish your friendship. Thank you for getting me through the hard places.”
Lydia and Millie say the same, and soon we’re all bawling and hugging each other.
“But no matter how much I love you, Millie, I still can’t get used to your horn-blowing,” I say. “So try to be kind if you decide to play in the morning.” I wink at Lydia before I turn and head off to the bathroom to smear on some cold cream—praying all the while that Millie won’t take a picture.
A piercing scream zings through Waldo’s interior, alerting every nerve in my body. Either Millie’s trumpet is rebelling, or somebody’s in trouble. Could be both.
Lydia and I scramble out of bed and run to the front room. Millie is frozen in place. She is standing in front of the sofa, trumpet case in hand, staring at the driver’s window like a statue—as in Lot’s wife has nothing on her. My gaze goes from Millie to the window. What I see there causes my heart to attempt a fast escape from my chest.
We are staring into the face of the biggest moose I have ever seen in my life. Okay, so I’ve never seen a moose, but can I just say here that Bullwinkle never prepared me for this. I’m wondering if the moose got a glimpse of Millie’s trumpet case and decided enough was enough. I mean, even animals have their limits, right?
Go, Bullwinkle!
I’m just glad he’s outside and we’re, well, not.
“What do we do?” The words squeeze out of the side of my mouth toward Lydia, who has also turned to stone.
“I would say run, but that doesn’t seem to be an option.” You know how Lydia handles that fear thing? Well, if I placed her in the forest right now, we’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference between her and a quaking aspen. Does that tell you anything?
“I sure wish I could get a picture. But we dare not move,” Millie says with all the talent of a ventriloquist.
“Lydia’s shaking—does that count?” I’m tattling here, but nerves do that to me.
“Just keep it to a minimum, Lydia,” Millie whispers.
“I’m doing the best I can.” Lydia’s voice sounds old. Think Whistler’s mother.
Bullwinkle’s eyes glance around the home. Frankly, I don’t think he’s all that impressed. He snorts and grunts a couple of times. Yes, we can hear him. It’s as though we’re on the set of The Lost World: Jurassic Park, only we’re not pretending. As far as instruments of torture, Millie’s trumpet is looking better all the time.
Then again, maybe not.
Just as I’m beginning to think we’re going to be stuck in this Mexican standoff all day, Bullwinkle gets bored and moves on. It’s only as he ambles back toward the woods that Lydia, Millie, and I collectively let out our breath. Then Millie runs for her camera and gets a shot of Bullwinkle’s backside.
Now there’s one for the album.
“Well, that was exciting,” I say. They both turn and stare at me.
“That type of excitement, I can do without,” Lydia says. She’s never been all that adventurous.
“I’m half-afraid to play my horn this morning,” Millie says, wavering with indecision.
Hope rises inside me. “Yeah, I don’t blame you. It might bring the moose back, or maybe even get that bull elk all stirred up.”
Millie thinks a moment and nods. “You’re right. I’d better not risk it.” She puts her trumpet back in the storage bin.
My insides are singing, “Let the heavens rejoice!” but I dare not let my face show it.
After we eat breakfast, we show up for duty around the campfire, which is now just a heap of ashes, and find out that one of Eric’s buddies (Porky Pig) sprained his arm last night. It seems the guys had a rope and were trying to swing from a tree. Maybe somebody should tell them that Tarzan didn’t do trees once he hit midlife.
Evidently he lost his grip on the rope and fell on his right arm. It takes real talent. Poor guy. The worst part about it is, he was helping with the roofing, so that will slow down things on that end.
Beverly makes her rounds, telling us that we have some urgent matters to discuss around the campfire tonight.
Everyone seems a little on edge today. Steve and I have almost finished painting the dorm rooms. He’s exceptionally quiet today too. I tell him about our moose incident, but he doesn’t comment much. He’s evidently preoccupied. So I throw myself into the work and keep quiet—well, as much as I’m able.
“Appears to be time for lunch,” Steve says, climbing down his ladder. “You ready to go?”
“Sure.” I put my brush and paint aside for now. We go to our respective bathrooms and clean up, then meet on the porch to walk over to the cafeteria together.
“You doing all right today, Steve?”
He turns a heart-melting grin my way. “Yeah. Just kind of solemn about everything coming to a close.”
His words surprise me.
“What? Do you think that’s weird for a guy to act a little sappy?”
“Well, I’ll admit it’s not every day a guy will open up and show his true feelings, you know.”
Another grin. “Yeah, I know.” He picks up a twig, snaps it, and then tosses it aside. “Listen, DeDe, I was wondering—well, we live only four hours from each other and all, and I thought maybe we—that is, you and I—we, uh, could get together once in a while.” He keeps his eyes focused straight ahead.
He looks so cute, I want to melt down to a puddle, but the reality is, he won’t be interested in me when I tell him the truth. “There’s something you should know about me before you ask me that, Steve.”
Now he stops walking and turns to me. Fortunately, we’re still a little ways from the others, so we have privacy.
“I’m not sure this is the place to talk about it, but since we don’t have much time left, well, I just want you to know I have a past I’m not real proud of. I—”
Steve holds up his hand and places his fingers against my lips. “None of that matters now. Your past is just that. Past. We’re both starting over, remember?”
“It’s not as easy as all that,” I argue.
“As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us.” Steve steps closer to me and looks down into my face. Brushing a curl from my brow, he says, “He forgives you, Dee. That’s good enough for me.” His gaze holds me for a heartbeat, and I scarcely can breathe. Still, his smile seems to lift the weight of a huge boulder from my shoulders.
“Thank you, Steve.”
“So is that a yes, you will agree to see me?” Twinkling eyes again—his. Another heart blip—mine.
I smile and nod.
He squeezes my hand, and we continue our walk to the cafeteria, though we’ve both picked up the pace. We no sooner step inside the cafeteria than we realize something is wrong.
“What’s going on?” Steve asks Eric.
“It’s Lydia. We can’t find her anywhere. Lunch isn’t prepared.” Worry lines his face.
A pain slices through my heart. “Who saw her last? Where would she go? What could have happened?” My questions are stumbling over one another as panic rises.
Millie comes over and touches my arm. “I think she went looking for wildflowers, Dee.” She points to the counter where Lydia displays her flowers, and I see that the basket is gone.
A cell phone rings nearby. One of the Biker Boys answers it. “She’s lost,” he tells the person on the other end of the cell phone line. “We’re going to look for her now.” He hangs up and looks at us.
“Who was that?” I ask. How could anyone possibly know about Lydia already?
“Drew somebody, I think he said.”
“That was Lydia’s phone and you told her son that she’s lost?” I ask in disbelief. Leave it to a man to get things stirred up.
Everyone looks at him. “Well, I didn’t know it was a secret,” the guy says, completely clueless. His shirt says “Daffy Duck.” Somehow that fits him.
I pick up Lydia’s phone to see if she has caller ID. She doesn’t. Her redial doesn’t work. I go through the list of numbers on her phone to see if I can call Drew back so he won’t worry. When I finally find it and call the number, he’s gone. There’s no time to worry about it. There’s nothing I can do about it now.
Eric takes charge. “Okay, guys, we’re going to look for her. She obviously went searching for flowers and got farther into the woods than she had intended.”
“Hold everything. You can’t just take off like that,” Beverly says. “You need water bottles, snacks in case you’re delayed for whatever reason, flashlights.” She continues on, but her words are lost on me.
God, please keep her safe. We can’t lose Lydia. We just can’t.