RV There Yet? (28 page)

“I do,” she says defensively.

“Exactly. You're the organization queen.” I toss her a smile and hope she can't read on my face that I think the color-coded thing is just plain weird.

“Thanks, DeDe.”

Whoa. Hold everything. Millie and I are having a bonding moment.

Lydia stands and washes out her coffee cup. “I guess we'd better get going.”

“Yeah, you're right.” I pull my reluctant self from the kitchen chair and make a mental note to contact Shelley later today.

“Lydia, I've assigned you the task of chief cook and bottle washer,” Beverly says with a huge grin. “You're such a great cook—”

“Pretty and she can cook too,” Eric says with a wink. He's dressed in ripped jeans and a T-shirt that quotes Shakespeare: “Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty.” Somehow Eric doesn't strike me as the Shakespeare type.

Lydia ignores him. “That will be fine, Beverly.”

“I'll take you to the kitchen when we leave here, show you where the supplies are, and help you set up. You will be providing the meals for all of us. A couple of the church ladies will help you as needed.”

“Sounds good,” Lydia says.

“Oh yeah, and I called the RV place to order your new window and screen. Should be here before you have to leave,” Beverly says.

Millie throws me a look, but Lydia keeps her eyes on Beverly. “Thank you.”

Beverly looks at her chart. “Organization is not my forte, so I was hoping, Millie, that you would oversee the work and be the manager, so to speak. I will be busy in the office, making a list of all our contacts once the camp opens again. Would you mind that job?”

Millie looks as though she's been awarded an Oscar. “I'd love it. You know how I enjoy order.”

“DeDe, I thought you could help with the painting, starting in dorm one. Will that work?”

“Sure,” I say. “I'm glad to do whatever.” The fact that painting alone sounds very boring to me is probably better left unsaid. “Do we get chocolate breaks?” I ask, ever hopeful.

“If you'll provide the chocolate, I'll provide the breaks,” Beverly answers with a giggle.

She then goes over a list of to-dos with the Biker Boys, Eric, and Steve. No one can deny it's very admirable that the Biker Boys came along to help Eric, even though they have no real ties to the camp.

“I know it looks a little overwhelming,” Beverly says.

That's the understatement of the year.

“But I don't think it will be all that bad. We'll be up and running again in no time.”

Someone
is in denial.

“Okay, that's it.” Beverly closes her notebook with a snap. “Oh, Steve?”

Dressed in jeans, a short-sleeved T-shirt the color of a mocha truffle, and a smile, he turns around.

Another heart blip here. Hey, whose heart wouldn't blip at the thought of a mocha truffle?

“I have you painting with DeDe, is that all right?”

A choke cuts off my air supply.

An ornery glint touches his eyes. “That's just fine, Beverly,” he says with his eyes fixed on me.

Somebody just gulped, and I think it was me.

Beverly tells us where to pick up our supplies, and we head out of the building together, along with everyone else. I'm hoping I don't look too tacky in my work clothes. The jeans are a little scruffy and old. My dingy white T-shirt has a faded red-and-blue design on it, but these are work clothes, after all. I'm having a good hair day, though, so that's good.

“So how do you like RV life with Herb Alpert?” Steve asks as we walk together.

It takes me a minute to get what he means. “Oh, you mean Millie?”

He laughs. “She's the one.”

“Have you heard Herb Alpert?”

“Yes. I have some of his old records.”

And when was the last time I heard someone talk about
records
? “Okay, have you heard Millie?”

He winces. “Point taken.”

I laugh. “Millie's a good friend, though I admit her trumpet playing does take some getting used to. Bottom line? Despite Millie's faults, I love her.”
After all, she loves me in spite of my faults.
'Course, I don't play the trumpet
.

“One thing for sure, she takes her job seriously,” Steve says.

“That she does. Millie's always worked hard. Actually to her detriment. Sort of a workaholic.”

“I can relate to that,” Steve says. “I suppose that's why my first wife ran off with someone else.” He picks up a twig in our path, throws it, then turns to me. “That's the way it goes.”

“I'm sorry, Steve.”

“It's old news.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“She left around five years ago. We tried counseling a couple of times, but it didn't work. I was willing to do whatever it took to pull our marriage back together. Guess I just didn't try soon enough, though. She ran off with another guy.” Pause. “Oh well, ancient history. How about you? Pretty as you are, I know you've been married, probably a couple of times?”

Hold everything. Did he just say, “Pretty as you are”? Mr. Biceps himself just said that to
me
? A vision of Rob is trying to break through here, but it's just not coming.

“No, never did.”

“Just didn't find the right one?”

“Work got in the way, and then when I found someone—well, it just didn't work out.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Thanks.”

We step inside the dorm into the first bedroom. In big black letters stretched across one wall are the words “Elaine was here.” Another wall has “Melody loves Ed.” Another says, “Mrs. Woodriff wears grandma underwear.” I try not to laugh. Looking at the cracked paint and gouges on the walls, I can almost hear Millie, Lydia, and me giggling as we talk about boys and camp life. Visions come to mind of me painting my toenails while lounging on the bed, Millie glancing through a magazine, and Lydia staring at the class ring Greg gave her. It was a lifetime ago, and yet it was only yesterday.

“Looks as though this could use a good paint job,” Steve says, surveying the room.

“Sure does.” In the middle of the room stand wooden bunk beds, scarred, splintered, and faded with age. The stained, sagging mattresses have seen better days, but then, haven't we all?

“Well, I see you've found where to start,” Millie's voice breaks into the room. We turn around to see her standing in the doorway; glasses perched on the tip of her nose, camera aimed at the walls, taking the “before” pictures so we can document our progress, no doubt. “First thing you need to do is sand the walls, taking off any peeled paint. Then we'll wash them down to prepare them for painting. I've got sandpaper, buckets, and rags just down the hall for you.” She's so happy one would think she'd just won the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes. “Any questions?”

“I think you've covered it all,” Steve says good-naturedly.

“Great. I'll check on you in a little while.” With that, she turns on her heels and prances off to her next assignment.

“She's enjoying this entirely too much,” I say.

“You noticed that too?” Steve laughs. “Well, I guess we'd better get started before Attila—er, uh, Millie, comes back.” He winks at me, and we both laugh as we head down the hallway.

“Oh, come on, Millipede,” Eric says just outside the dorm building door. “Let me repair some drawers or cupboards or something. Please?”

“Eric, you are not going to work in the kitchen with Lydia, and that's final.” Millie's voice snaps with every word.

Steve turns to me and raises his brows. We grab our buckets of soapy water and the sandpaper and head back to the room.

“Sounds like Millie will have her hands full with this job.” I grab the sandpaper and pick a corner to start working.

“Something tells me she can handle it,” Steve says with a gut laugh.

“Here's something I thought you might like while you're working,” Beverly says as she enters, placing a jam box in the middle of the room and pushing a button to start an old Andrae Crouch tape.

“Wow, I haven't heard him since—”

“Camp?” Steve asks with a grin.

“Right.” I smile back. “Thanks, Bev. You're the greatest,” I call over my shoulder amid the scratchy sound of sandpaper against drywall.

“Let me know if you need anything.” Beverly calls back, her footsteps fading down the hallway.

“So tell me about you, DeDe. What's going on in your life?”

With a pause, I turn and look into Steve's twinkling blue eyes. Everything in me says to run, but my feet just refuse to obey.

21

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?