Just Flirt (6 page)

Hmm. There has to be some reason other than college for her to be acting like this. “Okay, what’s
really
going on, Mom?”

A squirrel dashes onto a rock. She watches as it scrambles up a tree and says, “Nothing. It’s just … maybe I should have listened to Madeline and sold the campground. She called yesterday to let me know that Chuck is putting in
water slides
next year, according to his Web site. Water slides! How can we compete with that?”

Ah. My grandmother, who is living the high life in her snooty Floridian RV resort. That explains Mom’s mood, and the bags under her eyes. She pulls at the sleeves of her vintage Go-Go’s shirt that shows off her muscular arms. “Madeline also told me about a bad review we got online just because of a few potholes, but when I told her we can’t afford blacktop, she made me feel like a horrible business owner, so I got upset and hung up, which
you know
is going to come back to haunt me. Lord, I wish…”

Mom doesn’t finish, but I know the rest.

She wishes Dad was here. He was the charmer, the one who made her laugh and who could always calm the storms in her mind, a role I try to take over—emphasis on
try.
“Well, up hers, Mom! She doesn’t own the campground anymore, so you had every right to be upset. And so what if Chuck adds water slides? He’ll also raise his prices again. A lot of families can’t afford his rates, so where are they going to go?”

“They’ll come here,” Mom finishes for me as soothing pink rays from the rising sun shoot through the trees. “You’re right. Thanks, baby.”

I wrinkle my nose at her and say, “
That’s
why you need me around, to keep you sane. Besides, who else could bring you fabulous morning coffee like I do?”

“Our friend at site fifteen.” Mom smiles, pointing to the tent site below where a twenty-eight-year-old we met yesterday had pitched his Coleman. “He seems willing to fetch my beverages, poor kid.”

“Aw, I know! He was so smitten with you at check-in that he couldn’t remember his truck’s tag number! But jeez, Mom, you’re not the cougar type, and besides, it’d be such a
pain
to carry around a diaper bag with you everywhere you—” I stop, the rest of my teasing abandoned as clumsy silence blankets us. Mom slowly twists her wedding band and I stare into my coffee. This is the first time we’ve ever talked about her with another man, and even though we’re only joking … it doesn’t feel very funny anymore.

*   *   *

For the rest of the morning, the thought of Mom dating nags at me more than the woman who complained about her neighbor’s dog pooping two feet outside of the pet walk perimeter. Why? My mother is an attractive woman. Most attractive, widowed women eventually start dating again, so why should she be any different?

Because. I don’t know why.

During craft hour at the main pavilion, my mind keeps wandering and I end up watching fluffy clouds turn lazy circles while the kids go hog wild with the glitter. A gaggle—or is it a skein?—of geese fly by in a lopsided V formation, calling to each other with honking barks as they follow the leader. Is that why I can’t imagine a life without the campground, because I’m following my father’s lead? Is that why the thought of Mom dating freaks me out, because I’m afraid of change?

“Dee, a little assistance, please,” Natalie says from the other side of the picnic table where she is wrestling a glue stick from a five-year-old boy who’s trying to eat it. She nods to a girl who has squirted the entire contents of her juice box onto a pinecone. “And where’s the paper towels, did you bring them?”

“Oh, shoot, forgot. I’ll be right back.” I hurry toward the lodge, stepping right in the middle of a puddle from last night’s rain shower with my Old Navy flip-flops and feeling the chilly water tickle my toes in the most delicious way.

Puddles are one of life’s many overlooked joys.

The Cutson brothers are arguing over a tube of glitter when I return, so I bop them both on the head with the paper towel roll before wiping off the soaked pinecone. “Hey, Nat? Uh, after your uncle Dick died, how long did your aunt Loreen wait until she started dating?”

“Oooo, you said a dirty word!” Tanner yells. “You said—”

Natalie snaps her fingers at him while watching me. “Oh, six days. But she was seeing her dentist long before that, if you catch my drift.”

“Did your aunt kill your uncle?” Lyle asks.

“Bet she blew his head off,” Tanner says, taking a fuzzy red pom-pom and field-goal kicking it with his finger. He throws his arms up and screams, “Score!”

Craft hour turns into craft chaos as the kids flick glittery pom-poms at each other, but I’m thankful for the distraction. Otherwise, Natalie might realize my question has something to do with Mom, and I’m not ready to talk about it. The glue-eating boy is happy for the distraction as well, but Lyle still notices him squirting Elmer’s on his fingers. “Hey, dork-face, don’t eat that! It causes cancer!”

The boy turns to Natalie with fear.

She nods. “Yep, that’s how poor Uncle Dick died.”

*   *   *

Soon it’s time for Roxanne’s training. Yippee. There’s no way out of it, though, so while Natalie changes into a glitter-free shirt, I head to the store, where we sell camping supplies, food and drinks, toys, and crafts made by local artisans. Ivy is sitting behind the counter, gazing out the window with a pair of binoculars and dressed for this weekend’s wild west theme in jeans and cowboy boots. “Miss Ivy, what are you doing?”

“Oh, covering the store while your mom helps some know-it-all park his RV.” She lowers the binoculars and turns to me with red marks under her eyes. “I also defragged the computer and started some virus scans. You need to watch the cookies, kid.”

“Right, I’ll tell Nat.” Natalie is the computer pro, not me.

I grab a bag of pistachios and hop on a bar stool Dad made out of wood cut from a fallen oak. He also installed the rustic cedar paneling and copper countertop that give the store a relaxed, homey feel, as does the cowboy Celtic music softly playing on the stereo. Ivy hands me the binoculars. “Site thirty-two. The fool man almost backed into a tree.”

I give them a try, but my gaze first falls on Jake’s garage, where he’s getting ready for tomorrow’s race. As he wipes his hands on a rag, I have to admit, there’s something so
real
about a guy who spends his day off working on an engine instead of his Call of Duty score. And he wasn’t ashamed to tell me about both his parents being laid off a year ago and how they sold their farmhouse in order to buy a smaller home in town, which is why he uses our garage. Now he races on a shoestring budget with his own money against rich guys like Danny Reynolds, one of Blaine’s friends and Rex’s son, whose equipment is nothing short of top-of-the-line.

I admire Jake for that … even if he is a jerk sometimes.

Okay, time to put away the binoculars if they’re going to make me think philosophically about Jake—who just yesterday told me how I would love his races because there’s plenty of guys for me to drape myself over. I set them on the counter next to a book on bird-watching that is open to a glossy photo of a Baltimore oriole. “Uh, bird-watching, Miss Ivy? I thought you hated any activity that requires a closed mouth.”

Ivy slams the book shut with a backhanded swat. “Ha, ha, very funny. And yes, it was a bad idea. Whoever developed the concept is a complete moron. If I felt the need to see an oriole up close, I’d go to Camden Yards.”

“Then why did you buy it?”

“My idiotic therapist,” she says wryly. “He believes it’s ‘cathartic.’”

Cathartic? Yeah, right, just like the knitting, the yoga, and the Sudoku puzzles, all of which only agitate her more. Ivy used to be a workaholic until the investment firm she’d devoted most of her life to forced her into early retirement three years ago. She had never married, never had kids, never knew
anything
other than work, so when her therapist suggested traveling, Ivy took his advice to the extreme by selling her condo and buying an RV. Nothing is working, though, judging from the way she’s staring at Mom’s overflowing in-bin like a shopaholic stares at a clearance sign. “You know what is cathartic, Dee?
Work
is cathartic, so why won’t your mother let me help her with the bills and paperwork?”

I know perfectly well why, even though Ivy always helps for free. Because Mom thinks it would prove Madeline was right—that she can’t do it all. So I avoid Ivy’s question by inspecting my pistachios and saying, “Hey, have you ever noticed how Jell-O Pistachio Pudding is made with mostly almonds and only two percent pistachios? If it’s made with mostly almonds, why didn’t they call it almond pudding?”

Ivy contemplates this, the muscles in her jaw tensing as I shake a few nuts onto her palm. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says after a few moments. “Maybe some male corporate hotshot at Jell-O thought pistachio sounded better. And who knows, maybe a female co-worker suggested they call it Almond Pudding, but
noooo
, Mr. Hotshot trashed her idea.”

Her hands twitch as she angrily crunches on a nut. “And then Mr. Hotshot told Miss Almond Pudding that perhaps it was time for her to retire, even though she had dedicated her
entire life
to the firm. But when she said no, I’m not ready for retirement, Mr. Hotshot pushed her out anyway and replaced her with a busty twenty-nine-year-old, that’s why.”

Oh, my.

Remind me to never bring up Jell-O around her again.

Thankfully, a trio of girls burst into the store to pay for a round of putt-putt before Ivy can crack a tooth on a shell. As they fight over the pink golf ball, Ivy sulks by the window until they leave—with three pink balls. She softens, though, when she sees something outside. “Well, well, well, and here comes another Miss Almond Pudding now.”

Huh? The only person I see is Roxanne Swain meandering down the stone-lined path, kicking stray rocks and going about as slow as a blood-filled tick. “Who, Roxanne? Yeah, right, how is she a Miss Almond Pudding?”

Ivy studies Roxanne with laserlike intensity before glancing at the clock hanging above a display of handmade pottery. Eleven-twenty. Roxanne is late. “Hmm,” Ivy says. “Maybe because she’s being forced to do something she does not want to do.”

What, work? Oh, boo-hoo, I work every day. And it’s hard to muster sympathy for someone who—no matter how nice I am to her—only speaks to me when necessary, like during our brief
Hey, I need to buy a bag of ice
and
Okay, they’re two dollars each
conversation.

However, her mother, Victoria Swain—a woman whose idea of dressing down is wearing Liz Claiborne casual wear—loves to talk. While spending a fortune yesterday on wind flags, awning lights, and tiki torches to liven up their sterile site, she told me all about Dr. Martin Swain’s position at Johns Hopkins Hospital. And how it was her idea to rent a motor home for the summer after their house in Baltimore sold faster than expected, leaving them homeless until Rex is finished building their new house. I forced myself to nod politely after learning that—
fabulous
—Roxanne is going to live on what used to be
our
beautiful land, but when Mrs. Swain said how nice it would be if Roxanne and I became friends?

Yeah. I don’t exactly see that happening.

The bell above the door jingles as Roxanne steps in, letting the screen slam shut behind her. She shoots me a bored look that makes me feel both awkward and stupid at the same time and then cringes when she hears the cowboy Celtic. “Uh, are you serious? I have to work
and
listen to that?”

Ivy ignores Roxanne’s rebel angst routine—maybe because of her Miss Almond Pudding theory. “Welcome! I’m Ivy Neville, but you can call me Miss Ivy. Now, why don’t you come here and Dee and I will show you how to use the register?”

Roxanne cracks her gum. “Fine,
Ivy
, but I’m going to the bathroom first.”

Big mistake, girl, big mistake
.

Pudding or no pudding, Ivy doesn’t negotiate with attitude. She frowns, straightening her spine to her full height—all five feet, eleven inches. “By all means, go ahead,” she says, her voice like candy-coated barbed wire. “In fact, why don’t I grab the cleaning supplies and show you how to freshen the ladies’ room while you’re there, how would that be?”

Give it up, Roxanne, you will NOT win this battle!

She must not realize this by the patronizing way she says, “Fine,
Miss
Ivy.”

Oh, boy, I can tell it’s going to be a long, long day. Especially when a yellow Isuzu Trooper with Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rearview mirror pulls up moments after Ivy and Roxanne leave. A woman in a pink minidress with poufy blond hair steps out and checks her reflection before prancing up the stairs in matching stilettos. She’s probably a salesperson or an artist wanting to sell her merchandise in the store. The woman enters, bringing in a cloud of perfume that smells like musky cinnamon. She smiles when she sees me. “My stars, you must be Dee! Aren’t you just the prettiest thing?”

She researched my name? Sharp, very sharp. But as much as I love huggers, it’s odd the way she strides past the brochure stand to hug me, her large breasts making my small ones feel claustrophobic and her silver bangles clanging as she pats my back.

“Now, sugar. Is your momma here? I’d love to chat with her.”

Oh, she must be a friend of my mother’s, although—wow—I can’t remember the last time Mom had a friend stop by, or even call for that matter. I check out the window to see if she’s still helping the man park, but instead, Mom is clinging to her cell as she runs toward the lodge. She bursts through the door, wiping sweaty bangs from her forehead as she says, “Dee, drop everything. I just got off the phone with—”

“Well, hello, Jane! Good golly, it’s clear where Dee gets her looks.”

Never mind. She’s definitely a salesperson.

Mom blinks in confusion as the woman shakes her hand with vigor and then takes a lime green business card from her purse. “My name is Mona Owens, proud owner of Mona’s Low-Key Karaoke,” she says in a voice that’s part beauty queen, part Dolly Parton. “I provide karaoke entertainment for your good neighbor Chuck Lambert on Friday nights, and I thought I’d stop by in case you were interested in hiring me as well!”