Calamity Jayne Heads West (4 page)

“Nope,” I continued. “Not
a
boyfriend, runt. Taylor has two, or is it three guys she’s seeing now? I lose track,” I said, purely to needle the kid. “Let’s see, there’s the hunky veterinarian with the Hummer,” I said, ticking the beaus off as I went. “Then there’s that good-looking grad student with the gorgeous blue eyes. And who was that other guy she sort of fancies? Oh, yeah. The back-up quarterback for the Hawkeyes,” I finished, spinning my little yarn.

“Oh,” the Townsend twerp responded with a hang-dog look eerily like the one my cousin Frankie wore when he almost drowned in the water hazard at the Public Safety Academy obstacle course last fall.

I felt the teensiest twinge of regret for my exaggera-tion. Taylor
had
dated all of the aforementioned hot-ties. Just not all at the same time. But the smitten sixth grader next to me didn’t know that.

Taylor stirred and opened her eyes briefly, moving her head carefully to the side and downward toward the dwarf who had taken Townsend’s seat.

“Hello,” Nick Townsend said. “Are you really dating three guys at the same time? ’Cause that’s what
she
said,” he told Taylor, jabbing an elbow in my ribs.

Taylor gave me a put-out-but-too-pukey-to-do-anything-about-it look and moved her head back and forth as if in slow motion.

“Not dating now,” she said slowly, and closed her eyes again.

Nick Townsend shot me a dark glare that boded ill for me. Still, what could the munchkin do on an air-plane at thirty thousand feet with a hundred passen-gers as witnesses?

“I like snakes. Do you like snakes? My uncle Rick collects snakes. He has lots of them. He lets me hold them. The ones that aren’t poisonous, that is. Does Uncle Rick let you play with his snakes?”

Given another context, the mental imagery associ-ated with playing with a snake that belonged to Ranger Rick Townsend might hold some appeal. How-ever, given my very real—and completely rational—fear of all things slithery, this topic was unquestionably off limits. And totally taboo.

“Sorry, kid. I’m not into creatures of the cold-blooded variety,” I told him.

“I think snakes are cool. Don’t you think snakes arecool? The way they wind around your arm when you hold them, all cold and dry against your skin. Snakes rule.”

“They also bite,” I told him. And pop out of hay bales when you least expect it. And take refuge on top of propane tanks where you can’t shoot ’em. Diaboli-cally clever creatures.

“You want to talk about movies? I saw a cool movie.”

I nodded, thankful to get the subject off legless rep-tiles and onto less creepy topics of conversation.

“Oh, yeah? What was it about?” I asked.

“It was about this airplane and a bunch of poison-ous snakes got loose and started coming out from everywhere and attacking and biting the passengers. It was, like, so whacked!”

I stared at Satan’s spawn, wondering how the little sadist knew I was terrified of snakes, and simultane-ously realizing who the sneaky snitch was. The kid smiled up at me with a big, wide,
gotcha
grin on his to-tally too Townsend face. My lips felt dry and I tried to wet them with my tongue only to discover I’d devel-oped a serious case of cottonmouth myself.

“Have you seen the movie?” he asked, and I managed to shake my head. “ ’Cause if you haven’t, you can watch it now. I brought the movie with me, and I’ve got my portable DVD player. You can borrow them if you like.”

I found myself all of a sudden examining the struc-ture of the aircraft around me: the carry-on compart-ments, the seams that held the ceiling together above, the specter of a snake dropping down in front of me instead of an oxygen mask—the stuff my nightmares are made of. Rarely, if ever, afflicted by motion sick-ness, I felt my stomach rebel at the ghastly images in my head of row after row of writhing, squirming snakes hanging in the faces of air passengers and slith-ering up the center aisle.

“How about it?” Nick asked, holding out the DVD player.

“ ’scuse me,” I said, bringing a hand to my mouth. “I need out.”

The four-foot fiend sat and looked at me.

“Now!” I ordered.

He simply smiled.

“I’m warning you—,” I managed, just before the runt’s facial expression informed me he’d received the message to move or suffer the consequences.

Unfortunately, time had run out. Before I could yell “barf bag,” the little troll next to me was treated to an interactive, 3-D view of Taco Time’s South of the Bor-der fare. Rerun variety. How do you say, “Play it again, Sam” in Spanish?

We landed at Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix ninety minutes later, a decidedly unpopular delegation from the nation’s heartland, and hurried out of the gate and into the terminal. The sight and smell of hurl in a cabin that recycled and recirculated air had had epi-demic implications. By the time we landed, thirteen passengers had performed the ol’ heave-ho, and I was pretty sure the airline crew had taken down our names for future reference.

A glass-half-full kind of gal, I searched for the one pos-itive to come out of any given unpleasant experience.

“Uh, sorry about that, bud,” I said to Townsend’s nephew as we waited for my aunt and uncle to arrive.

The smelly squirt gave me the bird and walked away without a word.

See? What did I tell you, folks? A silver lining.

CHAPTER FOUR

Aunt Kay and Uncle Ben arrived a few minutes later, squabbling between themselves about who had caused them to be late. It was Aunt Kay, according to Uncle Ben, because it took her too long to slap on war paint. (Uncle Ben had obviously lived out west too long, pardner.) It was Uncle Ben, claimed Aunt Kay, because he’d driven like a “half-blind, senile old woman” all the way from the hotel to the airport—and she’d been forced to follow at a snail’s pace, so she should know.

Ah, love, southwestern-style.

I hadn’t seen Aunt Kay and Uncle Ben since their last visit to Iowa three years earlier. Neither had changed very much. Aunt Kay still looked like my dad in drag. Naturally, I suppose, given they’re twins. And Uncle Ben, with his salt and pepper hair and ruddy complexion, resembled Grissom from that CSI show, complete with cute little paunch.

I hugged them both, feeling that awkward hesita-tion and momentary discomfort reserved for those oc-casions when families reunite after a long separation. Or when you have to use a public restroom and just know you’re gonna make a heckuva lot of noise in the process. I just hate that, don’t you?

“Welcome to the Grand Canyon State,” Uncle Ben said, including the entire entourage in his statement. “Glad to see everyone made it here ship-shape.” He must’ve sucked in a deep enough breath to get a whiff of little Nick’s shirt, because his smile faltered. He put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Ah, poor lad. Airsick, were we?”

The lad in question gave me the evil eye.

“Not ‘we.’ Her!” The stinky squealer pointed in my direction. “She threw up all over me!”

I folded my arms and tapped my foot.

“Really, Nick. It isn’t nice to fib,” I said. “There’s no shame in an inability to control your bodily func-tions,” I told him. “And I know my sister, Taylor, here agrees. Right, Taylor?” I bent to give the kid’s cheek a tweak. “Silly boy,” I said, with a Grinch-like smile. “And you thought the two of you had nothing in common. Imagine that.”

The Townsend tot seared me with the intensity of his gaze. And not in the typically Townsend
you’re one
hot tamale
way.

Face it, kid, I thought. Time to take your plastic shield and fake lightsaber and go spar with someone your own size. Like Yoda.

“Tressa Jayne! Good to see you!” Uncle Ben gave me a tight bear hug. “Found any more dead bodies lately?” he asked with a broad smile and another hard squeeze.

I shook my head. “They’re getting harder to come by, Uncle Ben,” I replied. “But I’m always on the lookout.”

He laughed. “Same ol’ Tressa,” he said.

Aunt Kay put an arm around Taylor and one around me. “Just look at you two girls. All grown up. Yourcousin Sophie is so excited to see you. She would have come, but she had classes.”

Sophie, my aunt and uncle’s only child had recently turned twenty-one, and was in her second year at North-ern Arizona University studying business. Three years ago Sophie had been—how to put this—on the robust side, taking after Uncle Ben’s side of the family. Quiet and shy, Sophie had been easy to overlook. Well, apart from her size, that is. Sophie held the distinction of being only the second person ever to best me in a roasting-ear eating contest. She was more efficient at removing the kernels on those cobs than a brand-new John Deere combine.

“I’m anxious to see Sophie again, too,” I said, won-dering if she’d finally won the battle of the bulge and, if so, whether she would let her favorite cousin, Tressa, in on her little weight-loss secret.

We collected our baggage and decided on seat as-signments for the two-hour climb from the valley to Flagstaff. Rick’s father, Don, had made arrangements to rent a Suburban for the trip up the mountain. It held nine, but with luggage that dropped to seven. Gram wanted to ride with her daughter so they could discuss wedding plans. Twin sister or not, my dad wanted no part of a two-hour wedding chat, so he decided to re-serve a seat in Uncle Ben’s vehicle, slow-going or not. Craig concurred, so the group split along gender lines. My grandma, mother, sister, and sister-in-law were with Aunt Kay; my dad and brother were with Uncle Ben. I opted for a quiet, peaceful ride and snagged a seat with Uncle Ben. One of the Townsends would have to ride in our vehicle as well. Glutton for punishment that I was, I volunteered Ranger Rick. When given the opportunity, I always opt for the scenic route.

I grabbed Townsend’s hand to haul him toward Un-cle Ben’s vehicle. “You’re with us,” I told him. “It willgive you the perfect opportunity to put into motion what we talked about earlier,” I added, for fear he would get the idea that I wanted him along purely for his purty face. What an ego.

Townsend got a confused look. “Come again?” he said.

“Craig,”
I hissed, pulling Rick along. “You know. El bambino. La niña. The baby. Fatherhood. Baseball. Apple pie. Chevrolet.”

I could tell I’d lost him.

“I’ll draw you a picture in the car,” I said, thinking it was maybe a good idea to also write a script for him. Sometimes men were so uninspired.

We were about to pile into our respective cars when I heard, “I want to ride with Tressa.” I looked down to see Nick Townsend standing by our car.

“Don’t youmean Taylor?” I asked. He shook his head.

“No. I want to ride with
you,”
he said.

A whiff of the smelly middle-schooler hit the ol’ ol-factory, and I fought to keep from gagging.

“That’s so sweet, Nicky,” I said, “but your Uncle Rick is riding with us and there won’t be room. Maybe on the way back,” I promised, deciding that my Uncle Frank’s Slurpees would be served in Hades before that happened.

“That’s okay,” Townsend said, backing away from his ripe nephew. “You go ahead, Nick. I’ll ride with Grandpa.”

I shot Townsend an
I’ll get you for this
look.

“Fine,” I said. “You’ll want to change that shirt first, though. Right, dude?” I added.

“Naw. I’m good,” Pepe Le Pew said, and piled into the back of Uncle Ben’s SUV. He patted the seat be-side him. “All aboard, Tressa!” he said, and I muttered a few not-intended-for-younger-audiences words un-der my breath and climbed in.

Just my luck, the kid was a chip off the ol’ Townsend blockhead. Good grief.

“Better fasten your seatbelt, Tressa,” he instructed once I’d taken a seat.

I buckled up. I had a feeling it was gonna be a bumpy ride.

Aunt Kay had two spare bedrooms with full-sized beds, and my cousin Sophie had room to host one. My folks had dibs on one of Kay’s spare rooms, and Craig and Kimmie on the other. Initially Gram was going to bunk with Sophie for two nights (so not Sophie’s choice) before moving with the wedding party to The Titan Hotel, a legendary log hotel built in the early 1900s and within walking distance of the south rim of the Grand Canyon. Later it was decided that since we were “guests,” Sophie would share the sofa bed in the rec room with Taylor or me.

Taylor and I duked it out for a spot with either So-phie or Gram for the duration. After a rock, paper, scissors marathon, I won. Sophie and the sofa bed was my choice. Like you didn’t see that coming. I’d been housemates with Hellion Hannah for over six months now, and no way was I going to spend four nights with someone who is “underpants optional” in sleeping at-tire, or listening to my grandma’s graphic prognostica-tions on how her wedding night would play out. One for the ol’ fast-forward button here, folks. Bleah.

The short ceremony would take place in the impres-sive hotel lobby with the massive stone fireplace as backdrop, the odd moose or buck head on the wall as a witness. Ranger Rick would feel right at home.

The Townsends had reserved rooms at a nearby re-sort hotel near the south rim for the first few days of their stay so they could spend some time exploring the canyon and local tourist spots before moving to The Titan. The Web site tour of the hotel spotlighted a humongous heated pool and gorgeous terrace, views to die for, several classy restaurants, plus amenities like a Jacuzzi hot tub—not to mention room service—and had me drooling like Butch and Sundance when a stray bitch wandered by. (Uh, yoo hoo! I’m talking about my two hairy Labradors here. Straighten up, y’-hear?)

Always one to look for the upside, I consoled myself by the fact that a certain relentless ring bearer with a forte for getting under my skin—talk about your in-herited traits—would be miles away from Flagstaff and yours truly.

We all met up at Aunt Kay and Uncle Ben’s house to unload the vehicles, use the restrooms, and grab a bite to eat before the Townsends took off to check in at their luxury accommodations. My aunt and uncle live in a northeastern section of Flagstaff with a country club golf course visible from their front windows and a spectacular view of Mount Eldon from their bedroom. The couple had relocated to Arizona more than twenty years earlier when Uncle Ben decided his muse was calling him west to the land of sharp, evocative contrasts and ever-changing beauty. Here in a state with red rocks, towering green pines, and flowering cacti, Uncle Ben found a connection to the land andpeople that filled the well of his creativity. See? Only here a day and I’m already waxing poetic.

Meanwhile, the professorial position at the college filled his wallet and paid the bills until he’d estab-lished enough success with his paintings and sculp-tures to quit and devote his time to his art. Aunt Kay, a marketing coordinator for the Flagstaff Public Library and an avid reader, thrived at her job, which included bringing popular authors in for book talks and work-shops. So the westward migration had paid off for the Stemples, not unlike the California gold rush did for some lucky “there’s gold in them thar hills” prospec-tors way back when.

The Stemple home was a three-level structure with kitchen, dining, living room and large great room on the walk-in level, three bedrooms and two baths up, and one bedroom downstairs off a long rec room. A collection of haunting yet compelling Native Ameri-can kachina dolls and masks were displayed through-out the home.

I wheeled my suitcase to the short set of stairs lead-ing to the lower level and looked at the sleeper sofa with a frown, bummed that Ranger Rick and Naughty Nick would be enjoying all the perks of a full-service hotel while I’d be fighting for blankets and bed space with a cousin so not of the kissin’ variety. Inanely I wondered if my future stepcousin had his own room with a queen or was stuck rooming with the groom. And I wondered if I had the courage to ask.

I got a whiff of something very bad and winced. Eau de Ralph—and I don’t mean Lauren. The Townsend twerp. When he wasn’t shoving his DVD player in my face yelling “you gotta see this!”—“this” involving slithering serpents and flashing fangs—or purpose-fully wafting his odorous shirt front in my face, the kid chattered nonstop.

“Uncle Rick says your nickname is ‘Calamity Jayne.’ He says you’re always in some calamity or another. What does that mean? How did you get that nick-name? Do you like it? How come you don’t look like your sister? Your sister’s hair is shiny and straight. Why does yours have all those kinks? Were you adopted? How did it feel to find all those bodies? Did you get re-ally scared? Did you pee in your pants? Do you like my Uncle Rick? Lots of girls do. He’s had tons of girl-friends. Dad says the state should start making him buy doe tags to help the state coughers. What does that mean, anyway? Coughers? Are there like people who are paid to cough for the state? I could do that job. My mom says I’m a mucous factory.”

That I could believe. By the time we drove into Uncle Ben’s driveway, I was ready to do a Thelma and Louise.

I took my hoodie off, unzipped my suitcase, and rummaged around for a clean T-shirt. I grabbed a white T-shirt trimmed in turquoise that read,
It’s all
about the boots
with a pair of silhouetted cowboy boots. I love novelty shirts, don’t you?

I had pulled my contaminated T-shirt over my head and tossed it aside when I heard a mucousy clearing of the throat and turned to find Nick Townsend, who should be known out west as “he who has a large oral cavity,” staring at me, the telltale flush of embarrass-ment on his cheeks. A Townsend who blushes? Who’d-a thunk it?

“Uh, your aunt told me to come down here to use the restroom,” the youngster explained, averting his eyes from the area of my sports bra.

“In there.” I nodded toward the john and the kid bolted.

“Scared another one off with your striptease, huh, Calamity?” I caught sight of Rick Townsend at the bot-tom of the stairway. He took a couple steps in my di-rection. “Maybe your routine needs some practice. I’m willing to offer my services. You know. Observe and critique.”

I shook my head. “I just bet you would,” I said, re-calling his nephew’s comment about the collection of doe tags and thinking Townsend had probably already been treated to a private show a time or two. “But I’m very selective about who I perform for. Besides, I’m an engaged woman, remember? I wouldn’t want you to feel dirty,” I added.

“About that,” Townsend said, taking a few more steps in my direction. “I get why you agreed to pretend to be Manny DeMarco’s girlfriend. It was a sweet ges-ture. But what I don’t get is why it’s taking so long for you to break it off with him.”

“It’s complicated,” I said. “His aunt was away all win-ter and the timing just didn’t seem right. Now Manny is off somewhere and no way am I gonna break the breakup news to a woman with a history of near-death cardiac episodes,” I added. “No freakin’ way. Not with my history.”

Townsend moved in closer and put a hand on my bare arm, my clean T-shirt clutched to my chest.

“You know what I think?” he asked, close enough for me to smell his aftershave and his musky, manly scent.