Bead onTrouble

by Barbara Burnett Smith

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  didn't attempt to leave the Rover. I think she was as surprised as I was. "He's in there."

  I stared at the car—he certainly was. At least someone was, There was just enough light to see someone very large inside and then the dark form separated into two.

  Damn. Ron Fairfield was making out with someone in the parking lot of a hardware store. Worse, the two shapes moved together again for more kissing.

  "We have to get out of here," I said, reaching for the gearshift.

  Shannan grabbed my hand. "Don't hit them--."

  "I'm not going to."

  "Let's wait until she gets out of the car, and then we'll hit her hard!"

  "Wrong." I wanted out of there so badly I forgot that I was in reverse, and when I pushed on the gas pedal the Rover shot backward. "Damn." I slammed the brake just before we hit the wall behind us. "Sony. Are you okay?" I took a breath.

  Shannan nodded, her face pale, her eyes still intent on the Lexus. "Fine."

  "Good. Then we're getting out—"

  "We can't go! He's cheating!" Shannan said. "Can't you see?"

  "He's cheating on your mother. It doesn't have any thing to do with you." I reached again for the gearshift.

  Shannan tore her glare away from her father's car and whirled to face me. "Yes, it does. He'll leave and marry her, and I'll hardly ever see him. He'll spend all his time taking her places, and, I won't even get a good-night call!

  Don't you understand? This affects my whole life. everything, Nothing will ever be the same again."

  Shannan had lost her father to another woman.

  She wasn't the first young girl to be in that situation, and she was right—this other woman, if Ron loved her and married her, would take away from Shannan's time. It would make a difference in the relationship she had with her dad, too, because divorces always did.

  What Shannan wasn't thinking about was that within a year She'd be leaving for colege and things would change anyway.

  I reached out to touch her arm, but she jerked away.

  "Honey," I said, "what this doesn't do is take away any of your father's love for you. Do you understand that? There isn't a woman in the world who could take your place in his heart."

  "It's happened to my friends. Their dads walks out and don't even look back! Christie hasn't seen her dad in months." She glared at the darkened car. "Whoever she is, I hate her! She's trying to ruin our lives. We have to find out who she is."

  Just then the dark forms slipped down out of sight. My anger shot up like a rattlesnake's tail. How could he hurt Beth this way? And what about Shannan? If that car started rocking there was no way I could stop her from physical violence, and I wasn't sure I'd want to.

  I clicked the button locking all the doors on the Land Rover. "We have to leave."

  "No!" Shannan started jerking at the door. "Let me out of here; I have to know who that is."

  "Okay, okay. Calm down. We'll find out." I took a breath and put the car in drive. For better or worse, I had an idea. "Put on your seat belt. Now."

  Shannan, confused and still in shock, did as she was told.

  "Hang on," I said, "and no matter what happens you are not to open that door. Do you understand? Now, promise me."

  "Okay." She nodded, but looked more puzzled than ever.

  "Okay. What good is it having this monster SUV if I don't put it to use once in awhile?" With that I put my foot on the gas and gently eased it forward. I intended to get right up behind Ron's car and bump it. Then I'd turn on my lights. The Rover was high enough that the lights would stop them from seeing us, but they'd know they'd been caught.

  Shannan saw what I was going to do. "You're going to—"

  "Yes, I am," I said.

  When we were within ten feet of the Lexus, Shannan changed the plan—she rammed her foot down on top of mine.

  "Shannan, no!"

  Too late. We shot forward and slammed Ron's car hard.

  On impact, Shannan and I jerked forward. As soon as I re-covered, I hit my headlights and the high beams. Two heads popped up from the backseat of the Lexus.

  I reversed the Rover, cut my lights and whipped out of the lot, tires squealing on the ramp.

  He had to have been blinded; they couldn't have recognized us.

  But I recognized them. Both of them.

  I turned the Land Rover around and as we were pulling out of the parking lot, Shannan said, "It was my dad all right" She took a shaky breath. "And May Feather."

  My own breathing was hardly calm. I was heading toward the highway, trying to think of the appropriate thing to say or do. I still couldn't believe that we'd rammed them. Or that we'd even found them. "Shannan," I said "We shouldn't have done that. I should have refused to take you there—"

  "I'm glad you did. I needed to know."

  "Except," I paused to add emphasis to my words. "You can't say one word of this to anyone tonight. No one. You can't tell your mom, and you can't call your dad."

  Shannan was pale in the lights of the oncoming cars.

  "Why? Mom deserves to know, and I have several things to say to my father."

  "I'll bet you do, but now is not the time. This is the kind of thing you have to sleep on. We'll both do a lot of thinking, and then tomorrow we'll make some decisions. As they say in the military, we want as little collateral damage as possible. We don't want your mother to be hurt."

  Shannan said, "But why May, of all people? And do you think this has been going on a long time? I mean, I know she's beautiful, but she can also be a bitch—that's what Jennifer says. My dad and May Feather. I can't even imagine them together!"

  "Then don't. This might be the first time they've ever met like this."

  "That's bullshit; I told you, he's been here before. I'll bet he met her those other times, too. She must have finished her stupid demonstration and run to his car. I'll bet Jennifer had to put everything away—"

  "That's Jennifer's job."

  "Why doesn't May live on some reservation with the rest of her tribe? And when I do talk to her, I'm going to say a few things that she won't forget. And she's too old to dress the way she does, like a slut. And she is a slut . . ."

  I let her vent until she wound down and we were almost at Green Clover. She eventually became silent, breathing heavily, thinking hard. I felt sorry for her, but sorrier for Beth, and furious with Ron.

  Damn him and May and the horse they rode in on. What were they thinking? And what was going to happen now?

  When we pulled under the Green Clover archway I slowed the Land Rover and said, "I'm serious, Shannan, you have to promise not to say or do anything until we can talk about this tomorrow."

  "why?"

  "I told you, because neither one of us is thinking clearly right now and whatever we do, we're liable to be very sorry about it afterward. I'm already very sorry!"

  "Don't be." She turned to me. "It wasn't your fault. It was mine."

  "I don't think that part much matters." I parked and almost jumped out of the Land Rover, so we were out of there in case Ron came driving up to drop off May. I locked the SUV and steered Shannan toward the main part of camp. "Come on, we'll get a soda." I made sure that she stayed beside me. The one thing I couldn't let happen was a confrontation between Shannan and her dad. Or May.

  I'd already done enough damage.

  "Dining hall or Saloon?" I asked. I felt as if I were walking through rubble, like the aftermath of a tornado, only it was the rubble of Beth's marriage and I was responsible.

  The fact that I hadn't caused the problem should have been a consolation, but I had unearthed it It was that bearer of had news syndrome_

  "Either one, I guess," Shannan said.

  "You know what I want?" I said, turning toward the Lazy L. "I want a glass of wine. Let's go up to the cabin." "Whatever," she said with a shrug.

  "And I'm dead serious, you can't say a thing."

  She stopped to look at me. "I promise I won't, not tonight. But, Tante
Kitzi, I want you to know one thing—when I do get to face my dad, there is going to be one huge explosion."

  I did ' d b i

  bi

  Five

  he cabin wasn't empty. Beth was there, mixing margaritas in a whirring blender. Shannan went T

  straight to her mother's side.

  "Mom, hi," she said. When she gave Beth a hug, it seemed both protective and as if she was seeking comfort.

  Considering the way Shannan had been acting of late it wasn't surprising that Beth was suspicious. "Where have you two been?" she asked.

  I wished my headache would go away along with the memory of the previous hour. "Just off walking," I said.

  "You know, around the camp."

  "Really? You both look like hell."

  "It's hot out there," I said, climbing into my bunk. "I think I'd look a lot better if I had one of whatever you're concocting." I was trying not to make eye contact because I was afraid Beth could read my guilt.

  "I'm going to the john," Shannan said, heading out the door.

  I sat up. "Shannan—" But she was gone, leaving me alone with Beth and worried about what to say.

  Beth watched me. "Are you sure you're okay?"

  "Fine, really. I just overdid."

  "You want your margarita here or at the Saloon? I was just going back up."

  "Here. I'm staying here." There would be big-time partying this evening; the Saloon would be like a mosh pit for beaders with everyone working on the things they didn't have time for at home. It's also where we catch up on each other's lives and families.

  Tonight wasn't the night for me to make idle conversation.

  In fact, I wasn't even sure I could walk back to the Saloon now that my knees had gone rubbery. Beth poured me a plastic cup of margarita, and I took a sip. The tingle made me squirm.

  "What do you think?" she asked. "It's low carb and low sugar."

  "It's good," I said, not caring a whit about carbs or sugar—my own interest was in the alcohol.

  Beth raised the pitcher as if to toast. "I've now lost two pounds, and these may become my routine dinner. Or lunch."

  The screen door opened and a thirtyish young woman stumbled in dragging what appeared to be a brand-new sleeping bag, a designer duffel, and a huge, black leather purse. The door slammed behind her. "Please tell me this isn't the Lazy L."

  The diversion took Beth's attention off of me.

  Beth said, "Okay. This isn't the Lazy L."

  "Thank God." The young woman was tan and sleek with the casual, but expensive sophistication I see in the high-tech computer firms; it's not the look most of the women at the bead retreats cultivate. In fact, she wasn't wearing any beads at all. Her jewelry was all silver, large and, unless I missed my guess, pricey.

  "But it really is the Lazy L," Beth added.

  "And this is the sleeping porch?"

  "Yes." Beth pointed toward an interior door. "That way is the party room, beyond that is the downstairs main cabin. If you want the second floor, take the stairs on the other side. They are a little more enclosed than this."

  The duffel made a huge racket as it plopped on the floor, and I stopped myself from rubbing my head. Next, the young woman dragged her sleeping bag and purse across the room toward the far bunk before she turned her attention to the cabin and its lack of amenities. "I keep remembering an article that my aunt sent me about Green Clover."

  "What article?" Beth asked.

  "It was from an old Texas Monthly. It said that some of the kids' camps in Texas were, well, instrumental in form-ing a child's adult life. Like, I think Camp Stewart was supposed to be the place you sent boys if you wanted them to be in politics. And, you know, there was one that favored banking—"

  "That old article?" Beth asked, putting the blender pitcher into the ice chest while she stowed the rest of the ingredients. "I think I was going to camp when that came out. Come to think of it, I'm still going to camp!'

  The young women continued her visual inspection of the cabin, although she seemed careful not to actually touch anything.

  Beth said, "It's not the Hilton, but the price is right.

  I've always found it warm and comforting, like old flan-nel pajamas."

  "I used to come here, but I didn't remember that it was quite so . . . uh, rustic!' The upscale look of her tight black pants and sleeveless white blouse made me think this might be our Tivolini buyer.

  I paid closer attention to the conversation.

  "Do you like rustic?" Beth asked. When the young woman merely swallowed, Beth continued. "Say something, or I'll have Kitzi do the Heimlich maneuver on you."

  "Oh, well, it's, uh, okay. But, my aunt's always bragging about the place, and I thought it had changed."

  "Not much," Beth said, stretching out on her bunk.

  Aunt? But, of course, she would have a connection with Green Clover since very few people heard about the craft retreats any other way.

  "I guess any empty bed will do." Beth and I were on lower bunks across from each other, leaving a third set at angles to us on the far wall. The woman selected the top bed of that set. "I'll sleep here." She moved closer to it, tossed her sleeping bag up on the mattress, then moved back. "Euuww. It's stained! Like maybe some kid ... you know."

  "Pee-stained mattresses," Beth said. "All part of the authentic camping experience. If you get here first, you get your pick of the best mattresses. However, I did bring a bottle of Febreeze, in case your stain is of recent vintage."

  She gestured to the bottle on the window board. "I always bring it for newcomers."

  The young woman reached for it_ "If you're sure." She sprayed her mattress relentlessly, jangling the silver bracelets on her thin, tanned arm as it moved back and forth along the length of the bed.

  Beth glanced at me and winked. As former counselors we knew that the mattresses never smelled, thanks to the junior members of the staff who were forced to haul them out into the sun, rinse them thoroughly with some magical concoction, then drag them back inside when everything was dry. The young counselors were told it built character, but primarily it built muscles.

  Beth and I had hauled mattresses one summer until we swore we were going to hitchhike to some distant land.

  Then, as if by magic, every mattress that had to be cleaned suddenly showed up on top of one of the senior counselor's beds. When accused of putting the mattresses there, Beth and I said that we were tired of lifting mattresses and putting them anywhere. No one ever saw who was doing it.

  Good news was that after about a week of that, the senior counselors gave the mattress cleaning job to some others, and Beth and I were switched to latrine duty, which wasn't much better.

  We'd had a lot of good times over the years maybe because Beth was one of those special people. When I thought of Ron choosing May over her, I couldn't believe it. Of course, Beth wasn't as beautiful as May, but then, who was? And who cared about that?

  Ron cared. Shallow, self-absorbed Mo-Ron.

  Beth covered her nose to fend off the amount of spray the yOung woman was pumping. "That's probably enough,"

  she said.

  "Oh, sorry." The young woman gave a selected spot one last squirt then handed the bottle back to Beth. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome. By the way, I'm Beth. Graduated from Camp Green Clover year of . ." she cleared her throat. "Well, some year. I'm not giving away all my secrets this early on. And this is Kitzi—another camper from eons ago."

  The margarita was taking effect, so I moved closer to the edge of the bunk to appear more sociable. "Hi," I said.

  'Welcome to the Lazy L:'

  "Hi. I'm Leesa. With two es." The young woman sat carefully on the empty bottom bunk. "Kitzi is an unusual name. Is it Russian or something?"

  "No, nothing so exotic."

  Beth explained, "Her real name is Katherine Zoe, and she used to be called Kit. Kit Z, so the whole explanation is pedestrian rather than Russian."

  "I've heard the name Kitzi b
efore," Leesa said. "In the society column in the Austin paper. You know, Kitzi Camden graciously opened her home for the ballet's Spring Fi-nale last night—or former Texas senator, Kitzi Camden, cut the ribbon on last night's gala to benefit some stupid charity or other." She rolled her eyes. "Like we care where Kitzi Camden was last night."

  Beth put her margarita on the floor with enough force that I was glad it was in plastic. "Maybe we should have used last names." She sat up straight, again. "I'm Beth Fairfield, and this is Kitzi Camden?'

  It was a bad night. First I'd rammed Ron's car, and now I was being insulted about being a Camden. I've had plenty of opportunities throughout my lifetime to develop a hard shell on the subject of my family name, but none of them took. Somehow I always think that people will see the very ordinary me, rather than the Camden name.

  What an optimist—instead of Katherine, my parents should have named me Pollyanna.

  "The Kitzi Camden?" Leesa asked.

  "I never quite thought of myself that way, but I'm the only one I know of," I said.

  Being a Camden isn't the norm, but I didn't realize it until I turned six. It was my birthday party, and the memory still makes me think of gardenias and ponies.

  My grandfather had been alive then, and when he wasn't busy being governor, he grew gardenias in his conservatory.

  For my birthday he'd had a florist make me a wrist corsage of them, which I wore during my party. The party was at his house—the Camden Manse as it's known to the public, all eight thousand square feet of it, surrounded by four acres of grounds. Back then I thought that if heaven was all it was reported to be, it would be like my grandfather's house.

  That was long before the extravagant parties that kids have these days, but my mother had gone to a lot of trouble to get some Shetland ponies for us to ride. With the corsage and the ponies, I was one happy little girl., and I wasn't a bit interested in opening presents or playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey. I only wanted to stay in the saddle and look over the party from my vantage point, which was several feet higher than usual.