RV There Yet? (13 page)

“I'll never look at a chocolate bar the same again,” Millie says dryly.

“Well, you certainly shouldn't. Truffles should never be compared with, say, a vending-machine chocolate bar. There is just no comparison,” I say.

“Can we talk about something else? I'm getting hungry,” Lydia interjects.

“By the way, mixing up the canned goods was just immature,” Millie says, looking at me.

“Took you long enough to find them,” I say.

“That's because I was doing other things. You and Lydia have been in charge of meals.”

I shrug.

“If you do it again, I'll put locks on the doors,” she threatens.

“And you think that could stop me? Have I mentioned how many times I've watched Houdini?”

Millie ignores me and starts talking about the map directions. Their words finally blend with Waldo's engine as I close my eyes.

“Do you want to stop at the outlet mall, girls?” Lydia's voice rouses me from my sleep. All someone has to do is mention shopping, and I'm there.

“Sure,” I say, rubbing my eyes.

“What did I tell you?” Millie says to Lydia with a laugh.

With a glance at my watch, I see that I've been napping for about thirty minutes. Quickly I grab my makeup bag—fortunately, I was able to retrieve everything that had spilled on the floor—and touch up my face as best I can.

Lydia pulls the RV into the mall parking lot, and my eyes feast upon endless clothing and shoe shops. My joy knows no bounds.

Just before we climb out of the vehicle, Lydia's phone rings. I spruce up my hair a little while we wait for her to finish the call.

“Derrick, calling to check on me,” she says with a smile as she flips her cell phone closed.

“That's so sweet how they keep tabs on you,” I say, spraying the last dab of spritz on my hair.

“Would you ladies mind going on ahead, and I'll catch up with you?” Millie asks.

With my hands on my hips, I say, “Don't rearrange my sock drawer while I'm gone, Millie.”

“Why would I stoop to your level? Besides, it's your shoes that need the help.”

“Nobody messes with my shoes and lives to tell about it.”

Lydia gasps.

Millie and I both look at her. “I'm kidding. Sheesh, don't take things so seriously.” I lead the way out of the motor home. “Besides, my shoes are meticulously stacked in my storage bin under the bed.”

Millie grunts loudly enough for me to hear.

“I
will
know if you move anything,” I call over my shoulder.

Lydia laughs. Millie ignores me.

We all know it's not true. I haven't had order in my life since—hmm, it's just not coming to me. All I know is, if I can make a grocery list of four things and actually make it to the store with said list, I'm doing good.

“Join us as soon as you can, Millie,” Lydia says.

“Will do.”

We close the door behind us and head for the closest dress shop. We browse from rack to rack in one store, then another. After shopping through several stores, Millie calls my cell phone to see where we are. I tell her, and she soon catches up.

“What were you doing all that time?” I ask while sorting through the hangers in search of a red top to go with the jeans I purchased in the last store. Millie fudges here. I stop moving hangers.

Lydia and I both look at her. “What's up?”

“The hair on the bathroom floor bothered me. All that hairspray DeDe uses”—she throws me a disgusted look, and I shrug—“makes it stick and turns the tile yellow. I had to clean it. No offense intended, Lydia.”

I gaze at the ceiling. “Somebody's compulsive behavior is showing,” I say in singsong fashion.

Lydia pokes me in the side. “No offense taken, Millie. Thank you for your help.”

When they passed out the gene for organization and cleanliness, I'm guessing I was in the back eating chocolate—either that or shopping.

I can think of worse things.

9

“Here goes nothing,” Lydia says in the RV that night as she
dunks her head into the sink so I can set to work on her hair.

Millie's outside hanging the lights on the awning. Though she won't admit it, I think she's really getting into this camping business. Lydia too. On the other hand, I am here merely because they are my friends. Period. It's all I can do not to jump out of the motor home when we pass a Hilton.

Lydia and I talk while waiting for her hair to dry 'til it's barely damp, then with newspaper spread across the floor, I plunk her in a chair and start parting her hair so I can apply the color, beginning at her roots.

“Now, if the smell of this gets to you, DeDe, you tell me.” She's pinching the end of her nose and talking as if she's all stopped up.

“What? The fact that the smell could singe your nose hairs makes you think it will bother me?” I laugh. “I'll be fine. It's not as strong as the solution for permanents. I was kind of worried about Cobbler. Though I don't know why after what she did to my hand.” I'm still bitter about that. Might I suggest a punishment to fit the crime, as in ban her from Deputy Fife? Have her debeaked?

Lydia groans. “Oh, I hadn't thought of the fumes bothering Cobbler. Maybe I should set her cage outside.”

The evil side of me wants to agree, though I'm wondering just how much pleasure I'd have watching Cobbler keel over beak-first when a squirrel lands on her cage. I'm just not that cruel.

“I don't think I'd do that since there are other animals out there. But maybe we should turn off the air-conditioning for a few minutes and open the door to keep the ventilation going.”

“You're right. You want to do that?” Lydia asks.

I'm itching to say, “With pleasure,” since most of the time I feel as though I'm living in a meat locker. But I simply agree and walk over and slide open a couple of windows.

“I'm sorry Cobbler hurt your hand, DeDe.”

“I'll live,” I say. “Just barely, mind you, but I'm a survivor, so I'll pull through.” I continue squirting the color on Lydia's hair.

“One more push, and we're good to go.” I'm feeling kind of like Picasso here as I squeeze out the final bit of color, though I resist the urge to kiss the tips of my fingers and shout, “Voilà!”

I pile Lydia's hair up on top of her head as best I can. “Boy, we don't want to get any color on the floor. Do you have some plastic wrap?”

“Kitchen drawer, second one down to the left of the stove.”

With a quick tug on the drawer, the brass handle comes off. “Uh-oh.”

Lydia turns around with a drip of hair color running down her temple. “What's wrong?”

“I think your RV's body parts just aren't what they used to be,” I say, waving the handle.

Lydia bites her lip to keep from laughing. “Bless Waldo's heart. We're all getting older. Oh well, we'll replace it later. Just stick it in the drawer so we don't lose it.”

Dropping the gold handle and the loose screws from the other side into the drawer, I pull out a box of plastic wrap. After tearing off a large piece, I wrap it securely around Lydia's head so she won't drip all over the place. She's a sight to behold, that's for sure. If Millie sees this, she'll run for her camera, no doubt about it.

“I'll set the timer on the stove for twenty minutes,” I say.

“I got the lights all put up,” Millie announces when she steps inside. One glance at Lydia and Millie's eyes grow wide.

“I suppose I look as ridiculous as I feel,” Lydia says, showing a definite need to be encouraged here.

“Uh, yeah,” Millie responds with complete honesty. Her feet stay planted. Not moving even an inch toward her camera. Smart lady. She could bring out Lydia's dark side.

“You're fine, Lydia. Besides, these are the things we women have to go through to be beautiful.” I give her a sideways hug and usher her over to the chair at the table. “You sit here, and I'll get you some iced tea.”

She sits down. Millie grabs her picture box. After we look at them once more, she files them in the box.

“Oh, could I see that again?” I ask, pointing to the picture of the dinosaur.

“Yes, but be careful that you don't get smudge marks on the print. Hold the picture at the edges.”

I stare at her a moment, then look down at the dinosaur. Suddenly their teeth look very much the same. After looking at it again, I hand it back to Millie. She puts everything away, then glances at the cabinets.

“What happened to the handle on the drawer?” Millie asks.

“It fell off,” I say, gathering the tea glasses and ice.

“Well, why didn't you put it back on?”

Turning, I stare at her. “I was in the middle of dyeing Lydia's hair, Millie. Kind of hard to reattach the handle when I have on gloves stained with dye.”

Millie sighs and gets up. “I'll do it. Is it in the drawer?”

“It's there.” I want to comment on her compulsion, but I decide not to since she's been a little sensitive lately.

Millie sets to work on the handle while I get the tea.

“A family has moved in next door. They have two teenage daughters. I hope that doesn't mean every young buck in the county will be clamoring to get to them,” Millie says, making a face as she turns the screw to attach the handle to the drawer.

I laugh and place the glasses of iced tea in front of Millie's and Lydia's places. “Leave it to you to think of that, Millie.”

Lydia jumps in. “That's wonderful! I think I'll bake a couple of pies tonight and invite them over,” she says, already rising and grabbing the recipe box. Her sudden movement causes more drips to slide down her cheek. She wipes them off with a napkin. “Blueberry. Got it.” She pulls the card from the box. “I'm glad I bought the blueberries at the grocery. We're all prepared.” Smiling, she sits back down at the table.

“You know, Lydia, it's easy to see where your passion lies. You just sparkle when you're in the kitchen,” I say.

Her hands feel her cheeks. “Do I?” She smiles. “I must say I love cooking.”

“I understand. That's how I feel about my chocolate. I love mixing the filling, or whatever I happen to be working on, into a syrup over the stove, then transferring it to the machines to strengthen the texture and change in color.”

Lydia sits up with excitement. “Oh my goodness, DeDe, what you do with chocolate is pure art in its finest form.”

“They taste good too,” Millie adds with a grin.

“Okay, if you two are trying to get more truffles, you're on,” I say, going to the bedroom and retrieving my box. No use making them take from their own boxes, since I can get all I want back home. “Who wants what? I have raspberry, mocha, cordial, and caramel truffles left.”

“You're a doll,” Lydia says, reaching for the mocha.

“I could never work around this all day. I'd weigh five hundred pounds,” Millie says, grabbing the cordial.

“That's why I have to work out,” I say. “Unfortunately, I haven't had the time since we've gotten together. I'd better make time soon, or I'll have to kiss these truffles good-bye. And we know that's not gonna happen.”

We all laugh together.

“There was an article at the library that talked about how chocolate is made from cocoa beans. Are all cocoa beans the same?” asks Millie, ever the information gatherer.

“That's a good question, Millie. Actually, they are different. The Dominican Republic cocoa has a low chocolate flavor with bitter and astringent accents. Let's see, Venezuela has lightly colored cocoa with a chocolate and slightly bitter fruity flavor. Ecuador is distinctively fruity. Brazil's cocoa beans have a cocoa flavor accented with a sharp acid taste. And Africa has a gold standard of cocoa, a balanced mix of strong chocolate, sour, and fruity flavors.”

“You know, you're smarter than you look,” Millie says.

“How badly do you want that truffle?” I ask as she's about to take a bite.

“Kidding. I'm kidding.”

The timer on the stove goes off.

“Time's up,” I say, giving the towel to Lydia.

“Oh dear, I hope I don't live to regret this,” she says.

“You won't, I promise. You're going to look beautiful. Okay, you need to dunk your head into the sink,” I say, trying to get her mind off things. With some hesitation, she complies. I test the water, and when it's warm enough, I apply just enough to her hair to work up a good lather. After that, I rinse it thoroughly, making sure all color is washed down the drain, right down to the last tinted bubble.

“Oh, I think you're going to like this, Lydia,” I say, noticing how it's lightened her hair a bit.

“I hope so,” she says in a muffled tone with her face pressing against a towel.

Grabbing another towel, I wrap it around her head, and she stands upright.

“I'll go blow-dry it so I can get started on these pies.” She heads for the scrubbed bathroom—compliments of Millie's compulsion.

After a few minutes, Millie pipes up, “You coming out, Lydia?”

The bathroom door cracks open, and she steps out into the hallway and into the kitchen as though she's afraid of what we might say.

Millie gasps.

I can't believe the difference. “Lydia, you look drop-dead gorgeous,” I say, meaning it.

“Really, do you like it?” Her hands absently reach for her hair.

“I can't get over it,” I say. “You remind me of Heather Locklear.”

Lydia laughs and primps her hair.

“Yeah! It makes you look ten years younger,” Millie adds.

Lydia appears genuinely pleased. “Guess I should have done this a long time ago.” She touches her hair once more and bites her lip. “You sure it's not too much?”

“No way. It's gorgeous,” I say.

“Well, all right, if you two say so,” Lydia says.