Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 06 - Cozy Camping (5 page)

Just then, we heard the door of the Fifth Wheel open and immediately slam shut. We watched silently as Fanny Finch, carrying a bathing suit and beach towel, headed up the road toward the pool area. She walked quite briskly and it was clear she was livid. When Fanny got to the gate leading into the pool area, she slipped inside it and disappeared from our sight.

Wendy broke the stunned silence by asking, “Do you reckon she’s going to go for a swim while she waits for her husband to calm down?”

“Probably,” Wyatt replied. “That is usually the best course of action. It gives both parties a chance to cool down until they can discuss whatever provoked the argument in a civil manner.”

Witnessing the spirited spat effectively squelched the light-hearted camaraderie we’d been engaging in. Everyone stood and folded up their lawn chairs, wished each other a good night, and retired to their own motorhome. I couldn’t help wondering what had started the Finch’s dispute. I couldn’t understand how anyone could get along with someone as full of herself as Fanny Finch. I didn’t care if she’d written
Gone With the Wind
. As far as I was concerned, she was still no better than any other person in the campground. If she were Margaret Mitchell, the actual author of that famous classic, I might have been tempted to modify my statement a touch − but she wasn’t!

I just prayed that being parked next to Fanny Finch and her husband didn’t take the joy out of our vacation in some unforeseeable way. But I’d also prayed I’d be celebrating our anniversary on a Caribbean cruise, and here I was in a Wyoming campground instead and enjoying almost every minute of it. Sometimes there was a good reason for not having your prayers answered the way you want them answered. Could this vacation turn out to be one of those times? I wondered.

* * *

After a good night’s sleep, I fixed French toast for breakfast and then called Wendy to see if she wanted to go for a swim with me. She did, and she met me at the pool gate about five minutes later looking very attractive in a two-piece blue and white bikini that had less material than the last hot pad I’d purchased.

In comparison, I felt like a ninety-year-old lady in my matronly one-piece suit with the hip-camouflaging skirt and high-cut front that completely covered any hint of cleavage—not that I had an over-abundance of cleavage to cover. In Kohl’s dimly lit dressing room, I thought the yellow with black trim swimming suit had looked decent enough on me. But in the presence of my daughter and other swimmers in the unforgiving light of day, it looked frumpy and outdated. If I gained ten more pounds, I’d probably resemble a school bus and require a back-up alarm stitched into the suit.

I was reluctant to unwrap the beach towel from around my body and put my swimsuit-clad body on display. I was relieved when Wendy remarked on how cute the suit was, and how nice it looked on me, as I slowly revealed myself. I complimented her on her suit, as well.

There were four other women and one man in the pool. The man’s flabby abdomen lapped over the rim of a red, white, and blue Speedo that was twenty years too young and forty pounds too small for him. I was afraid the waistband would snap like a banjo string strung too tightly past its limit. It was the most unpatriotic display of our flag’s colors I’d ever seen.

The chubby man stepped onto the diving board and executed a painful-looking belly flop. He then glanced around to see if the other swimmers had watched and admired what I’m sure he thought was an Olympic-quality swan dive. He might even be delusional enough to think he looked like Greg Louganis in his skimpy swim trunks. The two middle-aged women standing in the shallow end doing water aerobics looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and quickly went back to the routine they were performing. The third woman, a very attractive redhead, had on a bone-dry bikini, and her long red hair was blowing slightly in the breeze. She had no beach towel with her and I was pretty sure she’d only come to rest and relax with the book she was reading, not to partake in any swimming. As I walked past her, she glanced up, nodded at me, and returned to the book she held out in front of her to shade the sun from her eyes. She almost appeared to be hiding behind the book whose cover bore the image of a handsome, dark-haired man strumming a guitar.

The last of the four women was donning a black swimming cap and paying no attention to the man, who crossed her path on his way to the ladder as she swam toward the deep end with a well-executed butterfly stroke. She looked like she was involved in an intensive training routine to compete in some form of swim meet.

Wendy jumped right in, but I stuck a toe in to test the temperature of the water, which was as chilly as I had expected it to be, with the cool Wyoming evenings. Inch by inch I worked my way down the steps into the pool, wondering if Wendy’s method of entering the water would have been preferable to prolonging the agony of taking so long to submerge. Granted, it was a heated pool, but anything more than five degrees cooler than what you’d find in the average hot tub was too cold for me. I was a cold-blooded person—sometimes in more ways than one, I’m ashamed to admit.

When the woman doing laps swam toward me looked up, I was surprised to see it was Fanny Finch. She stopped swimming long enough to stand up in the pool and shout at the man who had just leapt off the diving board a second time, looking like a bloated bullfrog jumping into a pond.

“Please quit embarrassing yourself, Avery! I swear, if I didn’t need you to be my driver, I’d leave your hideous hide at home.” The man dried himself off and strode purposely toward the gate. He left the pool area without a word to Fanny. I wondered if Avery was just her driver, or had the misfortune to be married to her as well.

I didn’t have to wonder long, though. The two women in the shallow end had stopped exercising and were standing with their mouths open in obvious disbelief. Wendy, who was warming up with some water aerobics near them, glared at the verbally abusive author. Fanny turned to the three of them, and asked, “Would any of you like a worthless, overweight husband who looks like the American flag was painted on his fat bum? I happen to have one I’m willing to let go—cheap.”

Wendy continued to frown at Fanny, and the other two women, mouths still agape, shook their heads woodenly and didn’t speak. The redhead in the chaise lounge appeared oblivious to the entire exchange even though I’d noticed Fanny turn her way as she spoke, as if the comment was made specifically on the stunning sunbather’s behalf.

I turned away as nonchalantly as I could and begin to swim toward the deep end of the pool. Within seconds, Fanny passed me as if I were parked at a red light. She was doing the American crawl, but I was the one who looked like I was crawling. As fit as Fanny was, it shouldn’t have surprised me that she swam like Esther Williams, albeit in a snooty writer’s body.

I was winded after swimming two laps, and it shocked me how quickly I had run out of gas. As I dragged my weary body up the ladder, I made a vow to try to get myself into better shape. Working on my endurance by swimming laps while staying at the campground would be a good way to start on my new resolution. I decided that I’d try to get in as much pool time as I could before we headed home.

When Wendy and I left the pool about fifteen minutes later, the two women exercising in the shallow end had already departed and Fanny was in the middle of what seemed like her hundredth lap. The sunbather was hastily packing her book, bottle of water, and sunglasses into a beach bag, as if preparing to head back to her campsite. It seemed almost as if she didn’t want to be left alone with Fanny Finch in the pool area. Having witnessed Fanny’s rude and mean-spirited remarks to her husband, I couldn’t blame the red-headed beauty. I wouldn’t trust the venomous author either.

I was anxious to get back to the motorhome and tell Stone what we’d witnessed. Wendy and I parted ways with plans to meet at her motorhome after we’d had a chance to put on dry clothes. The men were going to the rodeo after lunch, and we gals were left to amuse ourselves until they returned. We’d been invited to go along with the guys, but had unanimously agreed that watching the daily rodeo’s highlights on the Cheyenne TV station each evening was all the bull-riding and calf-roping we needed to see. As far as I was concerned, if you’d seen one guy fly off a bucking horse, you’d seen them all. Besides, I had a tendency to cheer for the animals, and that didn’t always sit well with the folks in the stands around me.

After we all gathered outside Wendy and Andy’s rig, Wyatt winked at Wendy before turning toward Veronica, and saying, “I’ve got good news and bad news for you, sweetheart. A little birdie told me that Vex Vaughn is your favorite country singer and I was able to snag six tickets to his concert on Thursday night.”

Veronica squealed and turned into Wyatt’s embrace in pure bliss. “You are the best, honey! I am super excited to go see him perform! Did you get good seats?”

“Well, that’s the bad news, I’m afraid. The only tickets I could find are in the standing-room-only section.” Wyatt sounded apologetic with his response.

“Awesome!” Veronica said, with a fist pump as an exclamation point. “That’s even better. I want to get as close to the stage as I can, just in case he throws a guitar pick or something into the crowd.”

I muttered under my breath as Stone groaned loudly and dramatically. I’m sure he was as excited as I was to stand in a frenzied crowd of Vex Vaughn’s adoring fans for two or more hours, no doubt being doused in beer by screaming young women as our toes were being stomped on by their leather boots. At five-foot-two, I wouldn’t be able to see anything over the sea of cowboy hats anyway.

His mood unaffected by our discontent, Wyatt was grinning from ear to ear, delighted that he could bring such happiness to his girlfriend. I didn’t want to rain on this young couple’s parade, so I would be a good sport and suffer through the concert silently, with a forced smile on my face and a feigned lilt to my voice.

I turned my attention back to Wyatt, to whom Veronica clung as if he were a porcelain throne on prom night. The detective looked at Wendy and me, and said, “It was Emily who secured the tickets for us, from a customer who had six tickets to sell. Could you gals pick them up at the office? Andy, Stone, and I want to catch the next shuttle bus to the fairgrounds so we can walk around a while before the rodeo begins at one.”

“Are you going to try to win Veronica a teddy bear by knocking over three bottles with a baseball?” I asked Wyatt in a teasing manner.

“I doubt it,” Veronica said with a chuckle. “More likely he wants to chow down on hot dogs and funnel cakes.”

Everyone laughed, knowing Veronica had no doubt hit the nail on the head. The man was a bottomless pit when it came to food. “Well, I did have my mind set on snacking on a foot-long chili dog with shredded cheese, onions, and jalapeños on top,” Wyatt said.

“Just promise us you won’t ride the Scrambler afterward,” Stone said to his buddy. “I don’t want to be anywhere around when you start spraying everyone with that conglomeration you call a snack.”

“I promise you I won’t go anywhere near any ride that spins in circles. I’m at that age now that I can barely tolerate a Ferris wheel without tossing my cookies.”

* * *

I volunteered to go pick up the tickets so I could express my appreciation to Emily for going out of her way to accommodate us. While Wendy and I were swimming, Veronica had been baking oatmeal raisin cookies for the group, and they were absolutely delicious. After gobbling down two cookies, I’d told the young lady she’d missed her calling as a bakery chef and that I’d like for her to give me some cooking lessons some day when she wasn’t tied up with work at her own inn. But for now, with nothing else pressing, the two younger gals decided to accompany me.

The young blond woman I’d seen working the desk the day before was alone in the office ringing up a teenage boy’s potato chips, Coke, and postcards. She smiled at the young man and wished him a fun day at the rodeo before turning her attention to us. I told her our names and in return, she introduced herself as Kylie Rue and said she’d only been working at the campground for a few weeks.

“You must be a quick learner, Kylie,” I said. “You appear to be very professional for a gal who looks like she should still be in high school.”

“I’m not
that
young, I’m afraid,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be twenty-nine on my next birthday, which is the day after Christmas. That kind of sucks in a way, but I certainly clean up in gifts in late December.”

“I’ll bet you do. We’re the same age, girlfriend. Except I’ll be thirty in mid-August, so I’m still an elder to you, since my birthday is just about three weeks away,” Wendy said to Kylie.

“Time seems to pass quicker and quicker the older I get. I’ll be thirty before I know it,” the office helper said.

Kylie had a youthful and bubbly disposition, and it amused me the way she talked about her age. I put my hand on top of hers, and said, “Don’t rush it, sweetie. Your birthday is still five months away. When you’re my age, you’ll be saying you just turned fifty-one until the day before your fifty-second birthday. Are you from around here? I detect a faint touch of a southern accent in your voice.”

“Yes, you’re right, Ms. Starr,” she replied. “I just moved out here from Longwood, Florida, but I’m originally from Tennessee. I was fortunate to land this job so quickly.”

“Really?” I asked. “What did you do in Florida?”

“I went to cosmetology school and got a job at The Hair Affair Salon, but after several years of dealing with disgruntled old women… um, no offense, Ms. Starr, I’d had enough and decided to move out here. I wanted a change and to experience new places, starting with Wyoming. I hadn’t anticipated being so homesick, though. I’m adopted, but I couldn’t love my mom and dad any more than I would if they were my biological parents. I miss them even more than I thought I would, but I’m hoping I’ll get over that eventually. And, Ms. Starr, I apologize again for the disgruntled old women comment. That was a little insensitive of me.”