Bike Week Blues (2 page)

“What does he do for a living?”

“I’m not sure. He may have been with law
enforcement or the courts in some fashion. He doesn’t talk much
about his past. Too painful, I suppose. I know he quit his job to
take care of his wife. She went through a living hell of surgeries
and chemotherapy. The experience tore him up—she was in a lot of
pain. Even with painkillers, she suffered tremendously.” Penny Sue
shuddered. “Gives me the creeps to think about it. Anyway, he’s
come into some money—maybe from his wife’s life insurance—and is
looking to start a new life. He wants to invest in a motorcycle
dealership in Georgia. He’s down here to talk to people and do
market research.”

“Is that what y’all have been doing to the
wee hours of the morning?”

“Basically, we’ve been sitting on the deck
at the Riverview Hotel, rocking, and talking.”

“About...”

“Our childhoods, my husbands, philosophy,
Harley-Davidsons—which reminds me, my new bike is going to be
delivered today.”

“Your what?” Ruthie and I said in
unison.

“My new Harley.” She lifted her chin
regally. “It’s being delivered to the New Smyrna dealership. It
came in yesterday, but they had to prep it. I bought one of the
Centennial bikes, a white pearl Fat Boy.”

I gritted my teeth for control. A white
pearl
Fat Boy!
Though we’d packed on a few pounds over the
years (all except Ruthie, who was still disgustingly slim), Penny
Sue had gained the most, much of it in her posterior. In college,
she’d been a buxom beauty with slim hips; now she was buxom with
hips to match—an hour glass figure with a slightly larger bottom
than top, which made the thought of her riding a Fat Boy ironic
or—to be kind—synchronistic, as Ruthie might say. “Penny Sue,
motorcycles are dangerous. Do you know how to ride one?”

She rolled her eyes. “Please, give me and
Harley-Davidson some credit. They have a rider education course. I
took it at the dealership in Marietta.” She sipped her coffee with
a smirk. “I finished at the top of my class.”

I should have guessed. The last time we were
together at New Smyrna Beach, Ruthie and I discovered that Penny
Sue had taken a terrorist avoidance driving course. We also learned
she carried a gun and could shoot the wings off a fly (her words).
So, why did a motorcycle surprise me? Especially since Penny Sue
had money to burn and her new soul mate was a Harley devotee.

“I bought some really cool biker clothes.
Want to see them?”

Ruthie and I nodded tentatively. “Can our
hearts take it?”

“Of course. Don’t be silly.”

We followed Penny Sue into her bedroom where
she pulled one of her largest Hartmann suitcases from the closet.
Who knew what the thing cost—had to be over a thousand—it was big
enough to hold a body.

“I was going to spring this on y’all later,
after I got the bike. But ...” Penny Sue swung the suitcase onto
the queen-sized bed.

Though I’d lived in the condo for over four
months and been instructed to “use it like it was my own,” I’d
never had the nerve to move into the master bedroom. I’d chosen the
second bedroom, with twin beds, the one that Ruthie and I shared on
our first visit, and shared now. Somehow, the master suite had
Penny Sue’s name all over it. Not to mention, she was such a
sloppy, disorganized person, no one—especially Ruthie—could stand
sharing a room with her.

“Now, turn your heads,” Penny Sue instructed
before opening the suitcase, a sure sign something sexy or devilish
was about to appear.

Ruthie and I did as instructed. We could
hear her rustling stuff in the background. A minute passed—geez,
how much was there?—then two.

Finally, Penny Sue sang, “Ta da!”

Ruthie and I turned around and gasped. White
leather covered the bed. At the bottom, closest to us, lay a pair
of white, leather, thong underwear. (I shuddered at the thought of
a slim leather strap bisecting my butt. These biker people must be
a lot tougher than me.) Directly above it was a white, strapless
bustier—a throwback to saloons in the Wild West—complete with
lacing up the front. A pair of fingerless gloves, a white leather
jacket, and a red, white, and blue leather vest with
Harley-Davidson emblazoned on the chest. Centered above it all was
a black and silver open face helmet with a Harley emblem on the
front.

Awestruck by all the white, Ruthie and I
couldn’t speak.

“What do you think?” Penny Sue finally
asked.

“There are no slacks or shorts,” I
observed.

“It’s all white,” Ruthie said incredulously.
“You’re going to wear white before Memorial Day?”

Penny Sue folded her arms defiantly. “That
tradition is strictly passé. The old stuff about wearing dark
clothes in the winter and light clothes in the summer made sense in
the olden days. People needed dark clothes to absorb sunlight in
order to stay warm in the winter, and light clothes to reflect the
heat in summer. But, this is Florida. It’s warm year round, so
light clothes work any time.”

My jaw sagged. That this lecture passed
through the lips of Penelope Sue Parker, a fourth generation
Georgian who’d been
presented
by The Atlanta Debutante Club,
was beyond belief. This was the woman who’d endlessly chided me for
wearing patent leather shoes after five, carrying a straw purse in
the fall, wearing white after Labor Day, and on and on
ad
nauseam
.

In fact, the whole spiel didn’t make
sense—the answer was too pat. Though an intelligent woman, there
was no way Penny Sue would spout off about the reflection and
absorption of light. She’d obviously given this matter a lot of
thought.

“Come on, what’s with the white, really?” I
asked.

She pulled her shoulder length hair to the
side and began twirling it with her finger, a nervous gesture I’d
seen before. “I want to be different. I figure all the other women
will be wearing black. In white, I’ll stand out from the
crowd.”

The twirling intensified. There was
something else. “And?”

Penny Sue twittered, her finger hopelessly
tangled in her hair. “It’s from the wedding collection.”

Ruthie and I did a double take. “Wedding
collection?”

Penny Sue reared back. “An affirmation. Rich
is the one, I know it. Like you say, Ruthie, ‘You have to own it
before you can have it.’”

The phrase was one of Ruthie’s favorite New
Age adages, and Penny Sue was using it to justify what she already
intended to do.

“The wedding collection. You truly believe
Rich is number four?”

Penny Sue stood up straight with a serious
expression, and said, “I do.” It came out the way one might say at
a wedding ceremony. At that moment, I decided to help her with
Rich—not get, like a possession, but facilitate their relationship.
Penny Sue was outrageous and full of herself, but a nicer, kinder
person one would never find. Although, I’d only met Rich briefly at
dinner the other night, he struck me the same way. For once, it
seemed like Penny Sue had found a soul mate, and I would do
anything to help her in the quest. DAFFODILS, notwithstanding.

The doorbell rang before I could voice my
support. Penny Sue, anxious to escape from our questioning, ran to
the door and threw it open expectantly. There was an audible gasp,
then an uncharacteristically weak, “Leigh, it’s for you.”

* * *

As I entered
the hall, Penny Sue
whispered, “It’s a monster!”

I scoffed at the dramatics and brushed by
her to the front door. One glance and I broke out laughing. It was
a monster, of sorts. “Come on in.” I pushed the screen door, its
rusty spring stretched with a loud twang.

A hulking man entered. He had flowing black
hair attached to a ridged prosthesis with bushy eyebrows that
covered his forehead. He wore black padded pants, knee high boots
with spikes on the toes, and a metallic sash draped across his
chest. A large squirt gun-like weapon hung from his shoulder. He
was also holding a manila folder.

Speechless for once, Penny Sue peered from
the bedroom doorway, her eyes and mouth in the shape of big
O’s.

“Ruthie, Penny Sue, meet Carl, Fran’s son.
He’s a Klingon.”

The big man struck his chest with his fist
and growled, “tlhIngan jIH!”

Penny Sue drew back, her face twisted with
confusion. “Huh?”

“I said, I am Klingon.” Carl grinned
mischievously and extended his hand. She gingerly took it.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Klingon.” She looked
at me. “I thought you said your friend, Fran, was Italian.”

“Carlo Annina by birth; Klag, son of K’tal,
defender of the Klingon Empire by choice,” Carl boomed.

Penny Sue’s brow furrowed with confusion.
“Klingon? Is that one of those former Soviet republics?”

We all howled. “
Star Trek
, Penny
Sue.” Ruthie said. “You must have heard of
Star Trek
.”

Clearly piqued, she squared her shoulders.
“Of course, the space show.” Penny Sue waved expansively. “I just
didn’t recognize this particular alien. I was always partial to
Mork, the spaceman played by Robin Williams.”

Ruthie twittered. “Mork? You’re thinking of
Mork and Mindy
; that’s old as the hills and a completely
different program.”

“Old as the hills” got her. Leos pride
themselves for being on the cutting edge. To even hint that a Leo
may be out of the loop, or God forbid, wrong, is sure to draw a
leonine roar.

“Well, which show is it?” Penny Sue demanded
tersely.

“The one with Captain Jean Luc Picard.”

“Jean Luc. The sexy, bald guy?”

I nodded.

“I remember now.” She turned to Carl,
smiling smugly. “You’re pretending to be Woof.”

“Worf,” I corrected.

She cut me a look. “Whatever. So, you’re on
your way to a masquerade party?”

“In a manner of speaking. My buddies and I
do role-playing games down at the Canaveral Seashore and Merritt
Island Refuge. Today we’re fighting the Romulans. This time we’re
going to win the Battle of Khitomer. We’ve devised a brilliant
battle plan. We’re going to surprise them by going in from the
water. Kayaks. In a hundred simulations, we triumphed every
time.”

“Carl is an expert in computers,” I
explained.

Penny Sue stared past him to the black
Harley motorcycle he’d arrived on. “Kayak? Where’s your boat?”

“I’m meeting the team at the shopping
center.”

“Oh,” she said, still suspicious of Carl and
his getup. “Is that a stun gun?” She pointed to the contraption
hanging from his shoulder.

“Paintball. Harmless, washes off.” Carl
handed me the manila folder. “Mom asked me to drop this off. She
has a doctor’s appointment and won’t get to the center until this
afternoon. She said you needed these receipts for the monthly
reports.” He clicked his heels together. “Got to run—the battle
starts at nine. We like to fight before it gets hot.” He struck his
fist to his chest again. “Qaplá! See you around.”

“I hope not,” Penny Sue muttered as she
closed the door. “That guy is weird. I sure wouldn’t want to meet
him in a dark alley.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I need
a Bloody Mary. He scared me half to death.”

“Wait,” I said. “Aren’t you picking up your
new Harley today?”

“Right, I’d better stick to coffee. I have
to stay sharp.”

Penny Sue compromised with a Virgin Mary,
swearing her nerves were fried after all the commotion. Truth be
told, my nerves were pretty frayed, too. I was used to living
alone. Though I loved seeing my friends, I found Penny Sue’s
histrionics were already wearing thin. I actually thought of having
a real Bloody Mary, but didn’t want to be responsible for getting
Penny Sue started. Penny Sue on a bike was a scary thought when she
was cold sober—regardless of her claim that she’d passed the Harley
rider’s course. As far as I could tell, she had a good helmet,
gloves, jacket, but no slacks! Lord knows what a real Bloody Mary
would bring out in that situation.

Penny Sue nibbled on a bagel. “Isn’t Carl a
little old for such foolishness? What does his mother think? If my
child went around dressed like that, I’d have him committed.”

I sighed with exasperation. “He doesn’t
dress like that all the time, for goshsakes. He’s a renowned
software engineer. Carl had a hand in the development of global
positioning systems—you know, GPS—that they put in cars. It’s a
game, Penny Sue. A lot of kids, especially science fiction fans, do
role playing.”

“That big guy’s hardly a kid. How old is he,
anyway?”

“I believe he just turned thirty.”

“Thirty? I’d been married and divorced twice
by then.”

“Imagine how much heartache you’d have
avoided if you had pretended to be a Klingon.” I took a bite of my
bagel. Ruthie swallowed hard and buried her face in the
newspaper.

Penny Sue regarded me with narrowed eyes. I
glared back, chewing.

Carl was a nice young man, and I wasn’t
about to let her make fun of him. Over the last few months, when
I’d been in Florida alone, he and Fran had helped me more times
than I could count. Whenever there was something heavy to carry or
furniture to move, Fran and Carl were there. Never a complaint or
expectation of anything in return. They were good people.

Penny Sue—with no children—simply didn’t
realize that the new generation was different. They didn’t feel the
pressure to be paired off and get married by the time they were out
of high school or college. In fact, they were almost androgynous by
olden standards. They pursued other interests and took their time
in making commitments. A lot healthier, if you ask me.

Which made me think of my own children. Ann,
my younger, was an intern at the American Embassy in London. As far
as I could tell, marriage was the farthest thing from her mind.
Zack, Jr. was in Vail trying to figure out what to do with a degree
in philosophy. Though his girlfriend from Vanderbilt had recently
moved in with him, neither seemed in a hurry to tie the knot.