RV There Yet? (2 page)

And why is that again?

When I see Lydia Brady running out of her house dressed in jean shorts and a plain pink pullover, the breeze blowing her wavy, shoulder-length hair away from her green eyes and flour-speckled face, I remember.

Chocolate comforts me for a moment, but friends encourage me for a lifetime. Close friends. Friends like Lydia Brady and Millie Carter.

We've stayed in touch since our camp days over thirty-some years ago. It's true that at one point we dwindled down to a Christmas card, but we reconnected at the camp reunion six years ago and have stayed in touch through phone calls and e-mail ever since.

Since Lydia's husband, Greg, died last November, our bond has been even tighter. We're determined to see one another through the worst and the best of life. In the last six years, our friendship has seen us through divorce, job changes, kids, and now death. Nothing can separate us.

Well, except maybe this RV thing.

After paying the cabdriver, I push open the taxi door, causing it to squawk in protest. Lydia rushes to my side and hugs me fiercely.

“Oh, sorry,” she says with a laugh, “I got flour on your pretty silk blouse.”

“No problem,” I say, brushing it off.

“Silver looks great on you, DeDe, makes your dark eyes stand out. Looks nice with those black pants too.” Lydia looks down at her own top, then touches her hair. “I should have dressed better to meet you girls.”

“You look wonderful,” I say, giving her one more hug.

She brightens.

In spite of all she's been through, Lydia does look good. She's put on a little weight since the last time we were together, but then, haven't we all? It surprises me to see that she's let her hair go gray, but she still looks pretty. Older, but pretty.

'Course, who am I to talk? I have a few more wrinkles—er, uh, laugh lines—than I did in November. But, hey, I laugh a lot.

My luggage rollers squeak as I pull them over a sidewalk bumpy with age and littered with stubborn weeds that have pushed through the cracks.

“Millie should be here shortly,” Lydia says, her words coming out in short bursts of air. “I can hardly believe it's been a month already since we talked about this, and here we are.”

“Speaking of which, are we sure we want to do this? Could I entice you with a little gourmet chocolate, perhaps, to give up the idea?” Our gazes collide. “I'm teasing here, but then again, maybe not. You, me, Millie, packed in an RV. For endless days?”

Picture sardines in a can. Speaking of which, I've never appreciated sardines. Yet here I am feeling sorry for them. All crammed together in those little metal cans.

“You don't mind, do you, DeDe? I mean, you want to do this, right?” We step inside Lydia's home, and I set the luggage aside. The wrinkles between her eyebrows deepen at the question.

My heart constricts. Lydia, ever the peacemaker. “Of course I want to do this. Would I miss the chance to get together with my best friends?” Well, maybe I considered it, but she doesn't need to know that. And just for the record, David, Tony, Ralph, and George had nothing to do with it. Well, okay, maybe Tony, but only a little.

Her face softens. “I was afraid, you know, because of the RV and all.”

“What? Just because my idea of roughing it consists of a hotel room without a view?”

Lydia laughs and leads the way toward the kitchen. “That would be it.”

When we step close to the room, we are greeted by a glorious aroma. “Something smells delicious and vaguely familiar.”

“I'm not surprised. There's chocolate in the air,” Lydia says with a chuckle. “Cappuccino cheesecake with fudge sauce. We'll have some after dinner.”

My mouth waters. Closing my eyes, I lift my nose in the air, take a deep breath, then practically start to purr. It's my natural Pavlovian response to chocolate. “I owe you my firstborn,” I say.

“You don't have a firstborn,” she says with a laugh.

“Well, if I ever get one, you're down for first dibs.”

Another grin.

“No, wait. At my age if I ever get one, medical science will want first dibs.”

“Oh, you!” Lydia playfully hits my arm. “That's why you're so good at running your business, you know. You're passionate about chocolate.”

“How pathetic is that, Lydia? I mean, some people are passionate about world peace, some want to rid the world of poverty, others strive to wipe out disease. Me? My life is devoted to chocolate.”

Lydia grabs some glasses from the cupboard, fills them with ice cubes and tea. “There's a place in this world for chocolate connoisseurs.”

“Yeah, it's called a kitchen.” The wooden chair at the table scrapes against the ceramic-tiled floor as I pull it out and sit down.

Lydia laughs and shakes her head.

“All kidding aside, chocolate is a serious business,” I say in defense of my profession. “Why, did you know that the Aztecs and Mayans were the first to discover the value of the cocoa plant? That's only because
I
wasn't born yet, mind you, but still.”

Lydia chuckles, and I hurry on.

“It was brought into the United States in the 1700s. So it's been around for a while. Lucky for me, or I'd be out of a job.” I'm totally enjoying my little wealth of knowledge until I notice that Lydia isn't really paying attention to me. With a glance out her kitchen window, she points.

“You can see Waldo from here,” she says.

I walk over to the window to see my new home for the next few weeks. One glance and I suddenly understand that “bucket of bolts” concept. Her RV looks tired. It could spring a leak. It needs assisted living. The tan-colored motor home has taupe and blue horizontal stripes around its midsection. Can we say stretch marks?

Maybe I'll just visit a day or two and go home.

“I know he doesn't look like much,” Lydia says, seeming to read my mind. “He is, after all, fifteen years old, but, hey, I'm no spring chicken and I do okay,” she says with a laugh. We both look out the window once more.

It surprises me to see Lydia's RV sitting in a pile of weeds. Her lawn would normally qualify for a magazine photo shoot.

“I need to work on the lawn,” she says. “Just haven't had the time.”

I'm wondering what she does with all her time now that the boys are out of the house and her husband is gone.

Lydia picks up a glass and hands it to me. Then she grabs one for herself. “Let's sit down at the table.”

The wooden chairs creak as we settle into them at the bare oak dining room table that used to be laden with tablecloths and candles.

“You doing okay, Lydia?”

Her eyes lock with mine. “I'm fine, really. Greg has provided well for me. My church activities and friends keep me busy. Oh, and did I tell you I joined the Red Hat Society?”

“Is that one of those groups where the ladies are fifty and up and they wear red hats?” I ask.

“That's the one.” Lydia laughs. “I'm telling you, those girls know how to party! They even go on cruises together.”

“Sounds enticing, but since I'm only forty-nine, I'm not eligible,” I say with a wink.

Lydia's left eyebrow arches. “Not a problem. They accept women younger than fifty, but instead of red hats, they wear pink ones.”

“Well, there you are,” I say, thumping back against my seat. “Won't happen. Pink washes me out.”

“You don't know what you're missing.” Lydia says the words like a jingle for a commercial.

“Actually, there is a group near my area that I've been thinking of joining. They buy a lot of chocolate from my store. That tells me they're a fun group with good taste. By the time I get back, I'll be fifty, and I can wear a red hat.”

“That's right. You were always the birthday girl at camp.”

I nod, and we grow quiet, each sipping our iced tea, remembering. The ticking clock on the wall echoes through the room. Lydia studies the cuticle on her index finger. “I still miss him, you know.” She lifts a hesitant smile. “Things are so different now.”

“I'm sure that's something one never gets over. I mean, losing the one you love.”

She waits a moment, as though she's had to mentally pull herself up by the bootstraps. “Well, one thing I know for sure—Greg would want me to do this trip. He always wanted me to go out with my girlfriends.” Her eyes take on a faraway look. “Sometimes I wonder if he knew I would have to go on without him one day.” She glances toward me, eyes shining again. “You remember Greg. He continually fussed over me. Like he thought I was too fragile or something.” She goes to the refrigerator for the pitcher and adds more tea to her almost-full glass.

My heart aches for Lydia. She and Greg had a wonderful marriage, a model family. Now she's alone. True, I live alone, but then, that's all I've ever known. You don't miss what you've never had. Oh, there was the dream of that once . . .

The doorbell rings.

“It's Millie!” Lydia says, barely sitting down before she hops up again. We both rush for the front door. Once it opens, a bright flash greets us.

We're stunned with blindness for a moment.

“Sorry, but I wanted to get your expressions on our first meeting of this trip,” Millie says, clicking off the camera that's dangling from her neck.

The door frame helps me maintain my balance. Lydia steps aside and lets Millie stagger through the door with her luggage.

“Wow, you look great!” Lydia says, hugging her sideways to steer clear of the camera.

“How can you tell? All I can see is a blaze of light.” My fingers continue to grip the door frame for support.

“Same old DeDe,” Millie says, laughing and pulling me into a hug.

The light dissipates, and I see that Millie does look great. In fact, there's something different about her. I know what it is. She's not dressed in her usual beige polyester. Woo-hoo, the old Millie is back! She's smiling. Millie hasn't smiled since—well, for a very long time, that I can remember.

“Oh my goodness, it's true! You really do have teeth!” I say.

She laughs in spite of herself. “Well, don't get used to seeing them. I show them sparingly.”

She chuckles again and reaches up to touch the blonde fringe at the base of her neck, running her fingers through the hair at the side of her face. Wispy bangs fall just above shapely eyebrows that top wide blue eyes. With a handkerchief, she blots her forehead, revealing faint lines where smooth skin used to be. Dark-framed eyeglasses are perched upon her head the way some people wear sunglasses.

Millie sees us looking at them, and her fingers reach up to pull them off her head. “I always forget I have these things up there. But it sure comes in handy to have them when I need to read something.” She pulls an eyeglass case from her handbag and stuffs the spectacles inside. “Plus, you know how I'm always losing them. If I stick them on my head, I can usually find them.”

Though Millie is one of the most organized people I know, she has a flaw that just doesn't match up. She has a problem with losing glasses the way most people misplace pens. When nonprescription glasses appeared on the scene, she thought she'd died and gone to heaven. Cheap glasses have relieved her of the heavy guilt she once carried for losing prescription glasses. Now if she forgets where she put her glasses, she can afford to go out and buy a new pair—especially if she finds a sale where they go for a dollar a pair. She says she keeps a pair in every room of her house.

“So good to see you, Millie. You've lost weight,” I say, stepping back to look at her.

She takes a minute to catch her breath. “It's easy to drop forty pounds after a divorce.” She shrugs.

“I'm glad we have God to help us through these things,” Lydia says, placing her arm around Millie and ushering her into the next room.

I haven't talked to God in years. Wouldn't know His voice if I heard it—though I'm pretty sure I would suspect something was amiss if He sounded like George Burns.

“Oh my, that smells good, Lydia,” Millie says once we arrive in the warm and delicious-smelling kitchen.

“It is good, if I do say so myself. But you have to eat your dinner first,” she admonishes like the mother she is.

“No problem there. I'm starved,” says Millie. “Those peanuts on the airplane just don't cut it for me anymore.”

Lydia says a prayer for our food, then Millie gets up and snaps a picture. “Just wanted to record our first meal together.”

We laugh and settle into light conversation over a dinner of grilled chicken, potatoes, broccoli sautéed in butter and spices, homemade dinner rolls, and crisp salad heavy with tomatoes, cheese, and all the fixings.

“Have you girls entered the hot flashes and cold-cream phase yet?” Millie asks, wiping her face again with the handkerchief.

“I've got the cold cream down but haven't had the hot flashes. What are they exactly?” I ask, buttering another roll.

“It's where your head heats up pretty much the same as a block of charcoal in a grill,” Millie says, continuing to pat her face. “What about you, Lydia—do you get them?” she asks.

“Yes, I get them. My internal temperature seems to always be running several degrees hotter than everyone else's.”

“That would explain why I've been freezing since I arrived. Of course, being from Florida, I just figured it was a climate adjustment—that whole going from south to north thing.”

“I also struggle with sleeping at night and sometimes concentrating on things. I'm so forgetful,” Lydia adds.

No doubt losing Greg has something to do with the sleeping and concentration problems. “Maybe you should try some choco-rv late. Chocolate can get you through anything, you know. Especially the smooth, rich Belgian chocolate we buy.” I've never been one to linger on heavy issues.

“You always did think chocolate was a cure-all.” Millie digs through her handbag, pulls out her glasses, and places them on the bridge of her nose to look at the recipe card for Lydia's dessert. She stops a moment and looks at me. “You don't make the chocolate at your place, do you?”