Chapter Six
I sat outside the park’s laundry room and read the book I’d picked up on the Alamo. Like the Lewis and Clark expedition, familiar to every child who was educated in the Montana school system, myths abounded about the Texas fight for independence from Mexico.
Heat and the various aromas of laundry detergent continually drifted from the open door. I would have preferred to go back to the RV, but ever since the incident in Indiana, we’d agreed to stay with the laundry.
It had been Diane’s turn to do the laundry, and competition for the few machines had been high. She’d put a load into the dryer and dashed back to the RV to get some lunch. By the time she got back, she was astounded to see that a woman had removed our intimate clothes—fortunately dry—from the dryer so she could use it for her clothes.
But worse, she was folding our undies and socks.
I was glad it had been Diane. Liz would have thrown up.
Diane pointed out the sign that said not to touch other people’s clothes, and rescued our garments.
The woman got all huffy, insulted that her good deed hadn’t been appreciated.
People. I never could quite get the hang of how some of their minds worked.
Today I waited right where I was, armed with water, a book, and snacks.
It was our weekly cleaning and stocking up day. We rotated the chores. By now, both Liz and Diane were competent enough to dump the gray and black water tanks of the RV into the park’s sewer system. Diane did most of the straightening. Liz thought chaos was the normal way to live.
Shopping was a chore Liz had reluctantly shared with Diane, but still didn’t trust me with. I shopped for cost, not quality. For years, I’d been buying cheap cuts of meat, canned vegetables, sacks of potatoes, large jars of store-brand peanut butter, and white bread that was perfect for rolling into balls .
It made Liz shudder.
I was also a bit of a failure at helping with dinner. Both my sisters claimed I had no imagination when it came to food.
Which is why even trying to be friends with Rodrigo made no sense. What did I know about the culinary traditions of Mexico or southern Texas? These women had been raised from childhood knowing the right amount of spices to add to make basic food taste amazing.
Growing up, I’d believed that salt and pepper were the only two spices available to use.
Rodrigo had a housekeeper-slash-cook, as well as someone who could prepare the most amazing barbecue on the planet. Did the housekeeper come before or after his wife’s death? He struck me as a traditional man through and through so it made sense he’d expect the woman to cook and clean. I already had that merit badge and didn’t need another. Marrying someone like Trixie Lynn, who was working to appear like a throwback to the 1950s, made a lot more sense for Rodrigo.
I should abandon any idea of friendship, however brief, with the man. I’d get my sisters to go hiking. That would take care of the wanderlust I felt. Or find a trail ride. Maybe I could learn dressage while we were here.
I laughed out loud. Dressage was a rich person’s game. Everything had to be just so, including the strange garments people wore when they rode.
In my life, boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt were the preferred riding wear, with a heavy Carhartt jacket in the winter and a slicker tied to the saddle in case it rained.
And what was with helmets? A cowboy hat was a good investment for keeping the sun from a rider’s eyes. A few times of being thrown from a horse—either through the horse’s or one’s own stupidity—taught a person to land someplace other than their head.
Nope. No charming, rich rancher for me. I’d go it alone.
The timer on my phone dinged, and I got up to rescue the laundry before someone else snatched it up.
~ ~ ~
With food in the fridge, a clean rig, and enough room in the tanks to spend quality time in the bathroom, it was time for cocktail hour. I mixed up a healthy batch of G&Ts, while Diane got her beloved fire pit going. Liz poured us bowls of salsa, with one more for the table so anyone stopping by could have a snack.
It was a custom we’d started right at the beginning of the journey. We loved our downtime, a chance to talk to each other in ways we’d never been able to as adults. Sometimes disagreements arose, but the more we were together, the easier it was to navigate them.
We always waved at people walking by, shouting hello to those we’d met, inviting them to come back with their own chairs and drinks—an impromptu party.
It was still early days at this park, so I was glad when I saw Genna, her husband, and their medium-sized dog walking by.
I waved her over, and introductions were made. The dog was a love, just like her owner. Genna’s husband seemed to be a nice man, although he appeared to lean toward the geek clan with awkward movements and little conversation.
Soon we had a small gathering, Diane and Liz chatting about places we’d been and listening to the travels of others.
Genna and I chatted about her fiber guild.
“I never knew such a thing existed,” I told her.
“I think they’ve always been around,” she replied. “People did a lot of knitting and weaving in the 1960s and early ’70s.”
“Granny squares,” I said with a laugh. “I remember doing lots and lots of granny squares as a kid. I think I even made a blanket.”
“We all did,” Genna said. “It was part of the back to the land movement.”
“I was already on the land,” I said with a grin.
“It must have been fun to grow up on a ranch.”
“It was a lot of work,” I told her.
“Things aren’t always as glamorous as they appear on television.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I replied.
“But all that effort seemed to have skipped a generation. My kids never understood my passion for knitting or spinning,” she said.
“I tried teaching Megan—that’s my daughter—but she gave up when it was time to purl. Never could get the hang of it.”
“I don’t know whether it was the slow food movement or what, but the fiber arts seem to be back in fashion,” Genna said. “Maybe it’s a reaction to parents buying cartloads of cheap clothing for their kids in big box stores.”
“I never got that,” I said. “Although as a kid, I would have been jealous. I’m the youngest.”
Genna groaned. “With two older sisters. Hand-me-downs. ”
“Totally.”
We chatted a few more moments, then she and her husband left.
Someone else mentioned they were having line dancing lessons tonight at the community center. Liz clapped her hands and said it was a great idea.
Great for her. She didn’t have two left feet. The last time I’d been on a dance floor was when Michael and I had done the obligatory one at our wedding reception.
~ ~ ~
But a few hours later, I found myself back on a dance floor. There was no arguing with Liz once she made up her mind.
The teacher radiated youth and enthusiasm while gyrating her body. The five men who were there focused with laser sharpness on her hips and ass as she did so, a fact that annoyed me no end. Some men were only tired of sex when they got in bed with their wives.
I’d placed myself at the back of the crowd, Diane beside me. Liz was in the front row, as close to the instructor as she could get.
I tried. I really did. But my left foot and right foot have never made good partners. It was only a matter of time before disaster struck.
I stepped on Diane’s toe twice before she moved away from me. Somewhere during the bends for the electric slide, I managed to slap the ass of the woman in front of me.
She wasn’t amused.
But true calamity didn’t strike until the Macarena. I’d gotten the dance moves down perfectly … well, as perfect as they were going to get for me.
Then the instructor got fancy. At the end of every set of movements, we were supposed to jump a quarter turn to our left.
My sense of left and right have the same sense of compatibility as my feet do. In other words … none.
It was when I jumped right, immediately realizing it was the wrong way, then tried to correct, that I fell.
Hard.
With a loud thump.
No grace at all.
The air was knocked out of me, and I lay on the floor like a turtle on its back, arms and legs flailing above me. I sent up a thank you prayer that I had had the good sense to wear pants.
“Are you okay?” Liz asked as she and Diane rushed to me .
“Do I look okay?” I asked.
“Anything broken? Sprained?” Diane, ever practical, asked.
I tested my limbs and shook my head.
“Well, then let’s get you off the floor.”
I looked around at the circle of eyes staring down at me and groaned.
“Make them go away,” I whispered to Liz. “They don’t want to see this.”
She nodded and stood.
“She’s fine,” Liz said. “She just needs a little rest. Why don’t you all go back to the dance?” She stared at the instructor, who got the message.
“Let’s go from the top!” the instructor yelled brightly.
One by one, the pairs of eyes went away.
Once they’d enthusiastically gone back to waving their arms and jumping in the right direction, I heaved myself to all fours and made it to standing.
“I think I’ll sit the rest of this out,” I said.
“Let’s just call it a night,” Diane said.
“I’m okay with that.” Liz smiled. “I know you don’t hurt now, but some aspirin and water wouldn’t hurt.”
I nodded and the three of us returned to the trailer where they insisted I lie down on the couch. Picking up my phone, I noticed I’d missed a call from Rodrigo.
I listened to his voicemail.
“Who’s that?” Diane asked as she handed me a glass of water and two ibuprofen.
“Rodrigo. He wants me to go riding.”
“You should go,” Liz said. “You love to ride.”
“You told us how beautiful his horses are,” Diane added.
“There are too many reasons not to go,” I said, gulping down the pills with some water.
“There’s only one reason you’re not going,” Liz said.
“In your opinion.”
She shrugged. “You’re scared. You’re a fraidy-cat.”
“We’re not ten,” I said.
“Doesn’t mean you’re not afraid. I dare you to go.”
I waved away the dare, but it got my dander up just the same. I wanted to leap off the couch and prove her wrong then and there.
I glanced at Diane.
“I double-dare you,” Diane said .
I groaned and flung my arm over my eyes. They knew how to get to me.
I’d never been able to resist a double dare.
Unless I found a really good excuse, I was going riding.