RV There Yet? (22 page)

Millie humphs, but I ignore her.

“Those motorcycles are driving me crazy,” Lydia says.

With a glance out the window, I see a group of four or five cycles riding beside us. All of the guys but one are wearing red kerchiefs around their heads, black leather jackets (can't they be a bit more creative?) with silver studs, the whole bit. But they're not young; they look fiftyish.

“Why are they driving you crazy?” Millie asks.

“They just keep weaving in and out. I mean, why don't they pick a lane and stick with it? I finally passed them, and now they're beside us, no doubt getting ready to pass again.”

“And no helmets. I'm telling you, why cyclists don't wear helmets is beyond me. It's so unsafe,” Millie says.

“It kills the hairdo,” I say.

“That man without the kerchief doesn't have any hair,” Lydia says, pointing. “Well, if you don't count that lone patch of gray that's pulled into a braid down his back. Why on earth do men do that?” she says.

Right then the bald man—aka Willie Nelson wannabe—with the mere wisp of a braid starting at the base of his head and running a couple of inches down his back, waves at Lydia. She gasps and jerks, causing the motor home to swerve.

“That man waved at you,” Millie says in disbelief. “You're turning red.”

Lydia's right hand touches her face. “I am not.”

“Yes, you are. You're blushing.” Millie just can't leave her alone.

“Do you know him, Lydia?” I ask.

“Why, no.”

“He must think you're cute,” I say, trying to make her feel better. “It's the hair. I told you that color is good for you.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake, I'm not cute. I'm old. Besides, that's probably just his way of saying, ‘Ha-ha, I've passed you,'” Lydia says, absently fingering her hair.

“We're not old. We're in our prime,” I argue.

“Oh, that's right.
You're
forty-nine—but not for long.” There is a definite sneer to Millie's voice here.

“Can I help it if I'm younger than you?” I ask, rubbing it in more than I should, but time is running out.

Millie belts out the final blow. “You'll be getting AARP material by the time you return home.”

“You win,” I say, thinking all the while that I'll take the handles off the cupboards—maybe even hide them. Just call me vicious.

“Growing older isn't so bad,” Lydia says, switching on her handheld fan and lifting it to her face. “I mean, we're smarter—”

“Well, most of the time,” Millie says, throwing a glance my way.

“That does it. I'm switching your blouses to your underwear drawer and putting your underwear in with your jeans. We'll see who has the last laugh.”

“All right, you two. That's enough. Besides, we are smarter.
All
of us.” She emphasizes the word “all” to include me, I'm sure. I stick out my tongue at Millie. “We're not only smarter we're more carefree. Don't worry about the things that used to bother us.” She passes the guys on the motorcycles again.

“That's true. But I can't believe you're saying that, Lydia,” Millie says.

“Although I'm still struggling with that one, I'm working on it,” she says cheerfully. “You and DeDe have inspired me with your own victory over fear.”

If you don't count that fear-of-failure thing, sure.
“Don't be so hard on yourself. You've done really well considering all you've been through,” I say.

“Still, I admire how you aren't afraid to try new things, Dee. You decided to follow your dream, come what may, and look at you. You're running your own business! It took me months to color my hair.”

She has me there.

“And, Millie, you've had a divorce to deal with, and instead of allowing it to make you bitter, you're better. You're always so together. Organized and in control. I want to be like that when I grow up,” Lydia says.

“I can't believe you're saying all that, Lydia. You've managed to run a home with two energetic boys and then hold the family together knowing you were losing your husband. Well, I just don't know how you've managed,” I say.

“That's right, Lydia. I never could have coped with it all,” Millie adds.

“Well, I couldn't have done it without the Lord, that's for sure,” Lydia says.

So far, Millie and I have managed to steer Lydia's conversation away from the Lord, but I'm wondering how much longer we can keep the subject at arm's length. Her compassionate heart just won't let us go that easily.

“Why are we slowing down?” Millie asks in regard to the obvious change in our speed.

“I don't know. I'm pushing on the gas, but Waldo's slowing.” Lydia's worry lines deepen.

“Do you think we can make it to the next rest stop?” I ask.

“I'm maintaining a speed of forty-five, so we'll get there eventually.”

Just then the motorcyclists pass us again. This time they holler out and wave toward Lydia.

“Good grief,” she says.

“They are totally taken with you, Lydia,” Millie says with a chuckle.

“Well, they weren't just looking at me. They were checking out you and DeDe too.” There's no denying the twinkle in Millie's eyes because the men are fussing over us. She and Lydia are glowing like schoolgirls. It's probably good for them. Me? I just want to go home.

It's embarrassing the way everyone is passing us as if we're standing still. As if we didn't look old enough riding in an outdated model RV, now we're cruising at the pace of a turtle. I'm telling you, this is the trip of a lifetime, no doubt about it.

We finally crawl to the next rest stop. Once we get there, Lydia lifts the hood of the RV as though she knows what she's looking for, which of course, she doesn't.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

Lydia chews on her pinkie nail. “Um, I don't know. I was hoping something obvious would show itself.”

“Like a two-inch little man standing on the engine pointing to a part and telling us what's wrong?” I ask.

“That would be it,” Lydia says, laughing.

“You ladies need some help?” The bald motorcycle man with the tiny braided ponytail slips up beside us.

“What? Oh no, we're fine,” Lydia says, keeping her head turned away from him while slamming the hood down.

The man backs away, arms up. “No harm intended, ma'am,” he says. “Just trying to be neighborly.”

Lydia reminds me of a little girl who's lost.

“You got some trouble?” An old man comes up to us now. He's thin and gaunt, a bit stooped over, but has a kind face.

Lydia turns to the older guy. “Well, we were having a little trouble,” she whispers to the man before raising the RV's hood once again.

Ponytail Man shrugs and joins his friends back at his motorcycle.

The old man tinkers around the area a little bit, then turns to Lydia. “Sounds to me as though you might have a problem in the fuel system somewhere. Might need to replace the fuel pump,” the old man says, closing the hood. “You got far to go?”

“We're headed for the next town,” Millie says.

“You should make it there. May have to pull over and let the engine cool off, then start traveling again. But I'd get it looked at once I got there, or it could freeze up on you and leave you stranded somewhere.”

Lydia gasps.

“Just take it easy. Of course, you won't be able to go very fast,” he says.

We thank him, and soon we all go on our merry ways. There is one thing that bothers me, though. Why did we trust that old guy and not Ponytail Man? I mean, how can you really know who to trust?

“I don't think that's right, Millie,” Lydia says. “We got off on that exit, but I'm thinking we should have stayed on the highway until here,” she says, pointing.

“I don't know. That detour got me all messed up,” Millie says, exasperation in her voice. “We're lost.”

“Welcome to my world.”

“Well, I'm not a man, so I'm going to pull over and ask someone.” Lydia pulls into the next gas station.

She jumps out, leaving Millie and me behind. Millie is beside herself. “We're an hour over schedule. We've wasted all kinds of gas trying to find that stupid campsite,” she says. “Not to mention we have to be careful with this fuel system problem. I think we messed up a half hour ago, but Lydia seemed to think she knew where she was going.”

I'm not about to touch that one. She and Lydia will have to hash this one out all by themselves. Millie gets up and goes into the bathroom. She's straightening things in the medicine cabinet.

“Well, that's not great news,” Lydia says, slamming her door shut. “We've missed a couple of turns. It will take us another hour to get there.”

“I told you we should have turned back there.”

“It doesn't help to cast the blame, Millie. It is what it is, so let's just not say another word about it,” Lydia says.

Millie and Lydia are having “words.” Part of me rejoices that there's a ruckus and I'm not involved, and the other part of me hopes we're all still friends by the journey's end.

Hopefully the RV will make it another hour before it gets attention. Most likely, that's on all our minds. It's barely chugging along in between our stops to cool it off. Lydia's and Millie's hot flashes were bound to rub off.

Lydia has switched off the radio, and the only sound in the RV is the grinding of the air-conditioning and occasional grunts and groans. I'm not sure if they're coming from the motor home or Millie.

We're a half hour into our trip when a police siren blares behind us. What? Is there a target on our back side?

“Oh, not again,” Lydia says. She pulls to the side of the road.

This guy is nothing like Barney Fife. He means serious business. I can almost hear the squeak of his holster and jingle of his keys when he walks. He tells us that driving too slow can be as hazardous as going too fast. Lydia explains the RV's problem and that we hope to get it in for repairs at the next town. The officer nods and turns to leave, then he swivels back to Lydia.

“By the way, women traveling alone shouldn't have broken windows in this day and age,” he says with all the authority of Marshal Dillon in a
Gunsmoke
episode. At which time I slink farther down into my seat. The good news is, we got away with another warning, but our luck may be wearing thin.

After wasting too much time and precious gas getting lost, we manage to find the place. The office attendant tells us where we can get the motor home checked, so we call the place and they fit the RV in for repair. We soon find out that, yes, the motor home has a fuel pump relay problem.

Okay, so the old guy was on the up-and-up; still, one can't be too careful.

The repair shop is able to fix the problem, and we're back at camp just as twilight settles upon the town.

“I think I'll check out the lake area,” I say once the awning is rolled out and the lights are in place. I'm barely a few steps away from the RV when my phone rings. It's Rob. Millie and Lydia are still in the RV. My heart pounds wildly. A rush of adrenaline shoots through me. I shouldn't do this. I know I shouldn't do this. “Hello?”

“Hey, DeDe, how about we all go?” Lydia calls out behind me.

Nervously I disconnect the call and punch off my phone. “That would be great,” I say, hiding my cell phone and trying to calm my nerves.

Lydia locks up things, and we head off for the lake. “Listen, girls, I'm sorry about my attitude earlier. I was just tired and frustrated,” Lydia says.

“It's no problem. I was too,” Millie admits.

The walk to the lake is filled with thick, shady trees, shrubs, and wildflowers. Soon we step into the clearing. A partial moon sails from a star-studded sky, its light reflecting upon the water below. Lydia takes a deep breath. “Oh, this is nice.”

“Yeah, it is.” Though I'm still trembling, I can feel myself start to relax. We needed to stop at a place like this. “How far are we from Estes Park, did you say?”

Staring at the lake, Lydia answers, “Between four and five hours.” She turns to us. “We're almost there. Aspen Creek. Our youth camp. I'm so excited, I can hardly stand it. Doesn't that seem a lifetime ago?”

“It sure does,” Millie agrees.

“Hey, you guys remember when we had that lip sync contest where we acted out ‘Stop! in the Name of Love'?” I ask.

“I still can't believe we let you talk us into that, DeDe,” Millie grumbles.

“Oh, you survived. Besides, you really enjoyed yourself, if I remember correctly—and I do.”

We laugh.

“And how you ever came up with all the choreography, DeDe, I'll never know. Genius. Pure genius,” Lydia says.

“Yeah, that was pretty neat. Though I kept turning left when I was supposed to turn right, and I used the wrong hand at the wrong time. I was so uncoordinated,” Millie says with a sigh.