Running Into A Brick Wall

by Jacqueline DeGroot

  Dinner was exceptional if I do say so myself and I dawdled at the table picking tasty tidbits from the cast iron serving pan I had used to cook everything in. The day was winding down and the sunset, just off to the right, promised to be spectacular. The only thing missing was . . . well, clearly for me it was a man—one very special and very desired man.

  I mentally sifted through my battery drawer, the one under the fridge, just off the floor. I wondered if I had enough batteries to replenish my little “silver bullet.” Originally a gag gift when my girlfriends threw a going away party for me when I left work and married Jared, I had held onto it for sentimental reasons. They’d mischievously had it engraved with my initials. While packing to leave Virginia and Jared, I had come across it and thrown it into my backpack. It had quickly become indispensable, literally my best friend at hand. I’d even had to replace the batteries—twice. I smiled at the thought of that awkward moment. I’d had to surreptiously open it in the store to see what kind of batteries it took, as they were the flat hearing-aid type. The saleslady saw me, recognized what it was, laughed and handed me the package I needed. I’d asked for the larger, economy size, so I’d have spares. Now what had I done with them?

  Fireworks lit the sky in an area southwest of where the park was and I wondered if they were coming from the Air Force Base. Then I cleared the table in anticipation of creating my own individual fireworks. I wondered if Brick was taking matters into his own hand on this beautiful summer night too. He would still be in D.C., probably getting ready to go out to dinner with colleagues. Attractive agents like Vanessa came to mind.

  But I didn’t worry about him, just as I hoped he didn’t worry about me. Things would work out for us, of that I had no doubt. I was willing to wait. Hell, when I thought about my life on the road, I couldn’t believe how relatively short it had been considering all I had done and the people I had met. By rights, I should still be mourning the death of my marriage, not anticipating a life on the road with Brick. But my marriage had died years ago, it had just taken a few years to get the courage to walk way—okay . . . run away.

  A family walked by and I was drawn to the little scene. A fair-haired boy about five was riding a bike with training wheels, the father gingerly guiding him with his hand on the back of the seat. He was wearing a golf shirt, long pants and golf shoes, and I wondered if he had spent his day at Desert Canyon Golf Course just up the road. A little girl with long blonde braids was clutching a disheveled doll baby, dragging her feet and scuffing the toes of her sneakers on the pavement as she walked beside the mother who was pushing a fancy top-of-the-line stroller. She looked tired, but happy.

  I focused on the little girl because of her size and coloring. She could be mine, I thought. Easily. I realized—not for the first time—that I wanted a little miniature of me like that. The mother smiled over at me and then looked down at her daughter and smiled at her while she answered a question. I wanted what she had, I thought. I want that man, that little girl, and possibly that little boy, too. But not the stroller, definitely not the stroller. It was too ostentatious; I would be more the papoose carrying type, one of those organic ladies who were into natural childbirth who carried their babies swaddled in a sling at their breasts.

  Breasts . . . that made me think of a baby nursing. Then my mind segued to Brick’s lips sucking and tugging and I tripped going up the steps leading into my RV. Well tonight I might get some kind of satisfaction on my own, but without the man of my dreams in my arms, covering my body with his, I certainly wouldn’t be starting that family.

  The next day I woke to a bright sunny day and set off to do some sightseeing. Sometime during the night I confirmed my earlier decision to treat myself and stay an extra day. I was told there were plenty of restaurants and shops to browse through and quite a few outfitters in the area that could set me up for just about any sport. So I spent the day riding my Vespa and enjoying the sights. Driving by the scenic overpasses I saw people fishing the Snake River and the South Fork of the Boise River. It looked to be a grand day and everyone was reveling in it.

  I found a nice deli to buy an Italian sub and took a bottle of water from my saddlebag. Then I sat on the edge of a fountain enjoying the cooling mist from the water hitting the rocks at my back. I couldn’t remember being at peace like this. It was lovely having no place to be and having no one to answer to. The longing I’d had last night for a family of my own was gone, it was as if another woman had fantasized it instead of me. I guess there were times when you wanted a part of each. Today, I wanted to just be with me.

  Around three I decided it was time to head back to camp. I could feel my skin warm and tingly from the sun and knew after my shower I’d have some nice color. Looking at my gas gage I thought now would be a good time to fill up, as I never knew where I’d be next when I wanted to use the bike. I remembered seeing a gas station on the way back and pulled in behind several others who had the same idea. I stopped at the air hose first to check the tire pressure then selected a pump.

  In an effort to keep track of my expenses I always use my debit card, even if it’s only going to be a few bucks, which it generally was for the Vespa. While I was waiting for my card to be authorized I pulled out the receipt someone had left in the slot and almost fell out of my sandals when I saw the name printed on the receipt. Robert W. Brynes.

  Could it possibly be? Could he have been so close? A chill went up my spine and all the joy from the day drained out. I looked at the amount on the receipt—$75. I recognized the amount as the most you could usually charge at a time at these automatic pumps. Unless it was a truck or SUV of some kind, it had to be an RV to have taken on this much gas. What were the odds? I looked around but there was no truck or RV in sight. Most of the cars at the pumps were small sedans and the ones parked right in front of the mini-mart were compacts.

  I continued to stare at the receipt. Chances are he hadn’t even gone inside. I noted the time, and inched my cell phone out of my front pocket. Six minutes. I had missed him by six minutes. Had Jillie been with him? Had they been staying in the area or were they just passing through on their way to The Rally? I folded the receipt and slipped it into my pocket along with my phone. The display, having timed out for my PIN, was back to welcoming me and asking me to insert my card. I pressed clear and started all over again.

  The Vespa took twelve dollars. It was the first time I could remember having the pump shut off in my hand without me noticing. I blinked when it jerked in my hand. How could a day with so much promise turn so ugly so fast? How could I go from being so elated and content to being so itchy, restless and scared? The dread of all that was ahead hit me with the force of a mallet. I was suddenly drained. I didn’t even know if I could make it back on the Vespa.

  I replaced the nozzle and waited for my receipt. Then I snapped my helmet back in place and found the energy to lift my leg over the manifold. On autopilot, I put the key in the ignition and turned it over. The sound of the engine jolted me back to the present and I shook my head to clear it. I had a job to do. I had to get back, pack up and be ready to move out at first light. I had to find Jillie and there was no point in wasting any more time. If they were this close there was only one place they would be heading.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Back at Mountain Home I went to the bathhouse and took a long, pelting shower. I hadn’t ridden the Vespa like that since the last time I was out West after I’d taken Angelina back to Utah. I’d forgotten how hilly it was, which seemed to play havoc with my back even though I tried to maintain good posture, but I couldn’t help being bounced around on a lot of the older roads. Still wrapped in my robe I stretched out on the sofa and took a nice long nap. It was late when I woke, the sun was setting with pale pastel streaks. I bypassed dinner for cheese and crackers that I snacked on while putting on my workout clothes then I went outside with my Yoga mat to get the kinks out of my back. I was holding Pigeon pose when the cell phone that I’d placed on the picnic tabl
e began vibrating against the planks. It was late, the sun all but set, there was only a glimmer of purple left to be snuffed out on the horizon. Who could that be, I wondered as I stood and walked over to the table.

  I didn’t recognize the number at first, then with surprise I realized it was Randy, the guy I’d met at Las Cruces, the man who had steered me to this rally in the first place with his phone message left while I was in the hospital in Virginia.

  “Well hello, there. You gettin’ everything set up?” I knew the early bird arrival dates were July 12th and 13th, and that most vendors liked to set up a few days before in anticipation of extra sales. I was planning on getting there the morning of the 12th.

  “Yeah, everything’s pretty much done on my end. Hey, I thought I’d warn ya about somethin’.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “I saw this Byrnes guy, even chatted him up a bit. He just got here a little while ago. I saw him unloading all his stuff in the warehouse where the vendor’s are setting up. He’s a strange one all right. I told him I had some kids looking for friends to play with until the Rally opened and the programs for the kids were underway. I asked if he knew of any young kids they could play with and he said he had a daughter and maybe they could play with her, just maybe. He must keep his daughter on a tight leash. They have a whole slew of things planned for the Youth Activity Program—pizza parties, games, crafts, magic shows, puppets, even a carnival of sorts, but he says he’s not sure he’s going to let her do any of it. Says there’s too many perverts at these things, which is so not true. I’ve never heard of an incident at any of the hundreds of rallies I’ve worked at.”

  “So what does this mean, will I even be able to meet this daughter? I wonder if he ever lets her out in public.”

  “Yeah, I actually saw her—she was helpin’ her ma wash the windshield on their rig. She’s cute, but she seems shy.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “I don’t think you’re going to get close to her unless you stay with the vendors. Even though there’s over three hundred of us, we’re a close-knit group, most of us know each other from other rallies. There’s a level of trust among the vendors, they look out for each other. Most will cover each other’s booths for breaks even though they’ve never met before. If you could be living on site with the vendors, you’ll have a much better chance of seeing this girl. If you stay in the main area with the attendees and volunteers you’ll be suspect every time you wander this way.”

  “But how can I be a vendor? I don’t have anything to sell, and I haven’t even applied, surely they’re filled up by now.”

  “No, I heard one of the workers say they have ten spots left. You can download the application and email it, I’m fairly certain they’ll let you in even at this late date.”

  “But what will I sell?”

  “I don’t know. Do you make anything RVers could use? Can you demonstrate something and sell it, even if it’s jewelry or pottery or some such? Kitchen items seem to go over well at these things, micro-fiber towels, special candles or soaps . . . how-to books . . .”

  I thought for a moment and an idea flew into my head. “How about a camping cookbook?”

  “Yeah, that would work. But what’re you going to do, go buy some RV cookbooks and then resell them? I don’t think there’s any money in that, so you’ll seem a little odd doin’ that.”

  “How about if I sold my own cookbook?”

  “You have your own cookbook?” His tone was incredulous.

  “I’ve got some family recipes I’ve been doctoring for RVing that I’ve put on my laptop, I’ll combine them, do some quick formatting, and get Kinko’s to print a hundred copies. Will that work?”

  “Hell, if it’s any good, you could easily sell a thousand.”

  “Randy, stay on track—the idea here is not to sell books, the idea is find Jillie, verify she’s Brick’s daughter and find a way to rescue her.”

  “Yeah, got carried away there. Anyway, cookbooks would be just fine. And you’ll need some kind of sign and a booth of some sort.”

  “A booth?”

  “Just go to Wal-Mart and get one of those canopies they sell in the camping department for sixty or seventy bucks. Then all you’ll need is a table and a chair to put under it. You’ll also need a bank bag to make change so you’ll look the part. A lot of people will be miffed you don’t take charge cards, but as you said, the idea is not to sell books, the idea is to live among the vendors so you’ll have the opportunity to run into this Byrnes’ girl.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for calling Randy. I really appreciate all you’re doing for me.”

  “Hell it’s not much. Besides, if it weren’t for you, I think I’d’ve left Charlotte by now, and that wouldn’t have been good for the kids.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “We’re seeing a counselor twice a month now. She gets to yell at me and then I get to yell back. Then the doc tell us what we have to work on for the next two weeks and we go home and cuddle.”

  “Not making love yet though?”

  “She says not until she gets the prosthetic legs. She wants to have legs instead of stumps when we do it. She’s been fitted and they’ve been ordered. I’m anxious to see if we can get back what we had before the accident.”

  “You two have gone through a lot, but it’s getting through the tough times that makes a marriage work.” As I said that I thought of my own marriage. There was no getting through the tough times for Jared and me. He was the one responsible for the tough times, and he’d never been interested in doing anything more than continuing them. My interests didn’t lie with reconciliation, they never had. Once I’d finally forged the courage to leave, I’d known that there would be no turning back.

  “I wish I could hire you for my team or set you up with someone else’s but if Charlotte ever got wind . . .”

  “I know. I know. ‘I’m too pretty by far,’ as you once said.”

  “She’s always been jealous of pretty girls, now she’s jealous of any girl with legs. So you’ve got double daggers in your future if she spots you and recognizes you from before. So of course, once you get here, I don’t know you.”

  “Well thanks again. I won’t be expecting even a nod or a wink if I see you, unless I want a skillet thrown at me!”

  “Take care, Jenny. And be careful around this Snooks guy, he looks like he could be real mean.”

  Snooks was the name Robert Brynes went by. It wasn’t until I’d spent a week in Pahrump in a hotel room calling Wal-Mart Vision Centers non-stop that I’d learned his real name.

  “How will I find him?”

  “Booth 213. And the man does indeed have different colored eyes. He’s selling some cleaning products, specialty oil products; tire stuff, and additives for RVs, and some new plumbing system. Everybody always has something new for plumbing.”

  “Well, after living in an RV, I can say that I appreciate anything that makes things flow smoothly in that arena.”

  He laughed. “Tell me about it, I’ve got three boys—I damned near have to wear a snake on my hip.”

  I laughed and wished him well then I hung up to ponder my project. It was too late to do anything with a printer today but I could get my RV cookbook ready for printing. Over a few glasses of wine I came up with a catchy title: 5 Ingredients, 5 Minute Prep, 5 Kisses.

  Inspired by Randy and his family, I found some clip art and fashioned a young woman sitting in an easy chair with her family surrounding her, her husband on his knees kissing her hand and three young boys (plus a girl to make it five), all were angling to kiss her cheeks.

  I stayed up until two in the morning doctoring recipes, adding a few more, setting them up in sections, doing a table of contents and typing an index, and then formatting and paginating everything so it looked like a real cookbook. When I was done I had sixty-five pages of easy-to-prepare, five-ingredient recipes that I thought were scrumptious. I decided ten bucks would be the sale price and put that
on the cover. Then I saved my file to a disc and to a flash drive, shut down the laptop, and dragged myself to bed. All was quiet, all was calm, but I knew that in a matter of just a few days, it would be anything but.

  Lying in bed staring at the ceiling, I prayed I was doing the right thing by not telling Brick. Because right now, it would only take a word from me, and he’d be there. I wouldn’t have to publish a book, buy things for a booth, and travel another couple hundred miles. And he’d have Jillie in his arms by nightfall.

  Only the chance that I could be wrong in all this stopped me. I didn’t think the man could stand another bad tip, wild goose chase, or false lead. Once I knew for sure that the girl with Robert Byrnes and his wife was really Jillie and not Anna, he could come in on a white charger and steal her away. I’d be fine with that. Hell, I’d be deliriously happy with that.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Of course I didn’t sleep a wink what with plotting and planning and worrying about getting the damned book ready. I knew Boise would have the best chance for a Kinko’s-type printer, so after breakfast, I went online to check it out.

  I found a FedEx shipping center that was combined with a Kinko’s on North Milwaukee just a few block off Interstate 84. I called and found out I could email the file and pick up my spiral bound books in about four hours if I prepaid using my debit card over the phone. The bill was $368.

  By the time I factored in the cost of the canopy and the fee I had to send with the vendor application, I would have over $500 invested in this scheme. Thank God I already had a collapsible table and chair. How did writers make any money doing this? They had to factor in gas and traveling expenses, which I was already committed to. But of course, that was not the goal here. I basically, just needed a cover. And selling a cookbook with recipes I had compiled myself was a good one. I’d have no trouble answering questions and mingling with both the crowd attending and the vendors behind the scenes. With any luck, I’d actually sell some books and recoup some of my costs.