“Fern won’t allow it. The way things are going, Belle’s going to have a stroke or a heart attack. And then I’ll have to fly out there and kill Fern.”
Christopher, four, started wailing, and I could hear Sunshine’s indignant seven-year-old voice in the background.
“Oh, great. Hang on.” Jessie was a mother, wife, and business woman. As she refereed the fight, she sounded frantic. I stared out the door of the barn. Remnants of snow clung to the edges of the driveway.
Jessie got the kids settled and came back to the phone. I asked if the rest of the CRS Ladies knew.
“Yes, and they offered to help, but Fern told them to stay home, that she and Belle were managing fine. Which they’re not. Now everybody’s upset and worried.”
The CRS Ladies were an RV travel group of older women. CRS stands for Can’t Remember Shit. Jessie was our token young ‘un.
Looney squealed and kicked, her hoof thudding into the wooden stall. Curt let out a curse.
I held the phone away. “Everything okay back there?”
“Just your mare trying to kill us,” he yelled back.
From the first day, she was a handful. She drove Curt crazy. “What good is a horse you can’t ride?” I guess I hadn’t thought it through. My main goal in adopting her was to save her, not serve myself. So I hired an equine psychologist, trying to help Looney settle down. Although I still couldn’t ride her, she seemed to be making progress as long as I worked with her every day. Hopefully, her bad attitude was due to pregnancy hormones, and she’d sweeten up once her foal was born.
Regardless, I loved her manic intensity. She reminded me of myself, except I never kicked or bit anyone.
Jessie’s voice brought me back from my reverie. “I offered to fly out and help,” said Jessie. “I thought the kids would cheer them up, but Fern said it wasn’t a good time.”
“Which meant she didn’t want you there.”
“Yeah. Belle was really unhappy. She loves those babies, but you know Fern. I even offered to leave the kids home and come alone.” Jessie’s voice trailed off.
We both knew that wouldn’t happen. My young friend was a control freak. Although she’d found her soulmate in Ryan, she didn’t trust anybody to manage her children for any length of time.
I thought about my calendar. Ever since I sold my consulting firm and “retired,” I’d been busier than a gopher on a golf course, helping local businesses and doing pro-bono job training in town, but I would make time to help Fern and Belle.
“Let me talk to Curt, and I’ll text you back.” I tried to sound optimistic as we said goodbye. I didn’t want to go, and Fern wouldn’t want me there. But they’d saved my life, back in Moab, and I couldn’t let them struggle through this crisis alone.
I’ve been accused of having an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, but it was hard for me to see it as a true failing.
Curt latched the stall door and walked across the barn toward me. I ogled my husband from his leather cowboy boots to his faded Levis that fit perfectly in all the right places.
He stopped in front of me, close. Very close.
I continued the survey upward to his still-trim waist, angling north to broad shoulders and strong arms that kept me safe. My appraisal ended at deep-set gray eyes that saw right through me. We’d been friends for thirty years, married for the last five, and I still couldn’t get enough of him.
I blinked, trying to refocus my brain. Curt pulled me to my feet. As we walked outside, I noticed a hitch in his stride. “Did she get you?”
He winced. “Right knee. Again.”
“I’m sorry, honey.” If that stupid horse was going to kick anybody, it should be me for having rescued her in the first place.
“I’ll be fine,” said Curt. “What’s going on?”
“Jessie called. She said Fern and Belle were camping in the desert. Fern did a swan dive out of her RV and hurt her ankle. They’re staying in Palm Springs while she recovers, but she’s a hard case and Belle’s about to have a nervous breakdown. Jessie wanted to fly out but she’s not able.”
“She wants you to go.”
“It would only be for a few days. I’ll leave tomorrow morning if I can get a flight.” I grimaced, remembering. “Friday is the governor’s birthday dinner.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He kissed my forehead. “I’ll go by myself. Show the flag, and disappear when the speechifying starts.”
Curt was always in my corner, supportive of my ideas, and not threatened by my wild forays. Like when I moved from Dickinson to Key Largo to Jekyll Island to Savannah, he patiently waited for me to come home to North Dakota. I treasured his strength and calm because we were at that age where drama lacks appeal.
Anyway, he was standing in front of me, waiting, so I gave him a quick kiss, which turned into a longer one, as we stood outside in the frosty driveway, dry cold air swirling dead leaves around our feet. Even a prairie winter couldn’t cool my feelings for him, and thank God he seemed to feel the same way about me.
Slowly, we broke apart, but he grabbed one of my belt loops and pulled me back to him for a last hug. My head on his shoulder, I heard him sigh.
“I’m going to miss you, too,” I said.
When I finally got back inside, I texted Jessie.
Flying to Palm Springs in a day or two, I typed. Will try to help.
Jessie texted right back. Good luck. Fern said no visitors.
What about Belle?
She would love if you came but Fern’s the problem.
Too bad. I’m going.
You are brave. Jessie sent me a happy face, and I smiled. We both knew Fern could be a human buzz saw, but I had to try.
I hoped I could do some good.
I hoped I wouldn’t be wasting my time.
A FEW DAYS LATER, STRAPPED into a jet circling the Palm Springs airport, I was excited to be back in California again. Despite the risk, I couldn’t wait to see Fern and Belle, who almost felt like parents to me. Belle was the softer of the two, while Fern ran the RV club like a benevolent autocrat.
I could handle it, given who’d raised me.
The jet lined up with the runway, fighting powerful crosswinds coming in off the Mojave.
What’s the worst that can happen? I asked myself as the 737 slammed onto the tarmac, bounced once, and decelerated with a roar. Fortunately, the wheels stayed on, the jet stopped, and I made my way to baggage claim to retrieve my clubs. While planning my visit, I’d Googled the address, and was delighted to see the house where Fern and Belle were staying was right on a fairway.
My golf bag slid through the Oversized Luggage window while I dialed Belle’s number. I had the phone in one hand and was wrestling the bag with the other when she answered.
“Karen? What’s wrong? You sound out of breath.”
“Surprise! I just landed at the Palm Springs airport.”
There was a long stretch of silence. I glanced at my phone, thinking the call had dropped. It hadn’t.
“You’re here? We weren’t expecting...” Belle’s voice trailed off.
I reattached the strap to the bag and hefted it onto my shoulder. “Belle? Are you there?”
“So you’re visiting the desert. How wonderful,” she said flatly.
“Can you talk?”
“Just a moment.”
I heard muffled voices as Belle spoke to someone, most likely Fern.
I’m just going outside for a minute. I’ll be right back. No, just a minute. Less than a minute. Okay. Yes. Yes. Okay. A door slammed. Belle came back on. “I’m here.”
“Jessie told me Fern broke her ankle.”
“Unfortunately, yes. She did.”
“So I came to help.” I waited for Belle to object.
“That’s very nice of you, but it isn’t possible. She won’t allow visitors.”
“That’s what Jessie said,” I said, “but I’m here anyway.”
“Dear heart, I love you, but you shouldn’t have come.�
� Belle was on the verge of tears, and it made me mad to think of her suffering.
“Belle? I’m sorry if this is awkward, but I’m worried, so you can tell Fern or not, but I’ll be there in a half hour, okay?”
“I understand.” Belle hung up, and I stood there staring at my cell phone, wondering if I had come all this way just to create hard feelings. Neglect was not an option. Besides, Jessie was counting on me, and by now she’d have told the CRS Ladies. They’d expect me to help Fern and Belle get through this.
Retreat was not an option.
I rented a car, threw my clubs in the trunk, and drove through In-n’-Out for my dinner—the fresh, juicy burgers they’re famous for. I plugged the address into my GPS and cruised through town with my windows open. It was late December, but the cool air seemed downright balmy to a girl who’d lived in North Dakota the past few years.
Being that it was high season in the desert, the Bentleys and Rolls Royces were out in force. Fun to see, and it kept me from worrying about my next move.
I rolled through the gates of Desert Crest Country Club, a cozy little community where modular homes belie the fact that everything there was expensive. Most of the homes had garages, and some even had postage-stamp lawns. Many of the palm trees were wrapped in Christmas lights. The place was cute. I could live here, until April anyway, when temperatures went to triple digits.
I saw the familiar black-and-tan Silverado sitting in the driveway of a lush triple-wide. It got to me a little. The first place I saw that truck was Moab, and I remembered Frieda riding away in it, heading for a distant campsite and lunch with her new friends. Right before everything fell apart.
I parked in the street and knocked on the door. The porch light flicked on, and the inner door opened. Belle’s hair, now almost completely gray, hung in lank strands. Instead of the upright posture I so admired, her shoulders were slumped. She stepped out onto the porch and hugged me, hard. When she pulled away, we both had tears streaking our cheeks.
She swiped at her tears and smiled. “It’s good to see you,” she whispered. Then she took my hand and hauled me into the lion’s den.
Chapter 2
FERN WAS KICKED BACK in the living room recliner when we walked in. She gaped at me, the remote in one hand, the TV blaring. An aluminum walker stood next to her chair.
“Holy shit,” she said. “Look who’s here.”
I went over to hug her. She didn’t return it. “I’d fix you a drink,” she said, “but I can hardly wipe my own ass these days.”
I flinched. Fern was always blunt but never crude.
With a wry smile, she said, “Get tired of the cold weather?”
Her short, salt-and-pepper cut was a little longer than usual, a little scruffy, but still attractive. She wore a blue silk blouse over a mid-calf denim skirt. In spite of the gray circles under those icy blue eyes, I thought I saw the old Fern, the alpha female I’d met in Moab, camping next to the Colorado River.
She aimed the remote at the TV and changed the channel. A bloody Middle Eastern city appeared, blown to bits and overrun with soldiers. “Did you come to check up on the decrepit old people?”
I shrugged off my sweater. “I wanted to see how you’re doing and if I could help.”
“You can’t.” Fern waved the remote at the front door. “So you may as well turn around and ride on out of here.”
“Fern,” said Belle.
“I didn’t invite her.”
I stood in the living room, holding my purse and sweater, remembering something from my childhood. My Dad got hurt once, working for Dakota Gas. He broke his wrist removing an old valve or something—I wasn’t sure since I was only eleven at the time. He was out of work for a while, and he made Mom miserable every single day. One night she cooked him a nice spaghetti dinner, and they started arguing about something. He turned his plate over on the white linen tablecloth.
The parallels between Fern and Dad were creeping me out. Mentally, I shook myself. “Nobody invited me. It’s a surprise visit. I thought I’d hang around for a few days.” I tried to pretend I wasn’t rattled. “Nice house. How did you find it?”
“It’s Rita’s winter place,” said Fern. Her skin looked sallow. She’d lost weight and seemed smaller.
I perched on the edge of the sofa. “Oh, did you see her? How is she?”
“Who knows.”
“We haven’t seen her,” said Belle. “She’s in Texas. The rental agency let us in. Rita said she’d try to come by if she could get a load to deliver out this way.”
We ran out of things to say, and Belle offered to show me the guest bedroom.
Belle set off down the hall, so I followed. When we were alone, I said I’d planned on getting a hotel and didn’t want to impose.
“Everything in town is taken,” Belle said, “and even if you could find a vacancy, it’s unbelievably expensive. Nothing under two hundred a night.”
Leave it to Belle to think of finances. She and Fern lived frugally. Their one big retirement purchase had been the truck and RV, and they never seemed to go out to dinner or buy new clothes. We’d had that in common at first; I’d been broke for most of the time she’d known me, but things had changed. Curt and I were doing great, now that we were married, but I didn’t want to offend her, so I said I’d stay.
I went out to the car, retrieved my carry-on, and unpacked. In addition to the trundle bed, a student desk stood in the corner with a lamp, and a bookshelf filled most of the far wall. What a great opportunity to learn more about Rita, I thought. I went through the titles. Two shelves were filled with murder mysteries. The other three shelves were crammed with books you’d expect to see in a therapist’s office.
Codependent No More, an oldie but moldy.
The Dysfunctional Family. Aren’t they all.
The Sociopath Next Door. That one stopped me until I remembered why Rita quit teaching and started driving a truck. Not many women went into that line of work in their mid-fifties, but she’d needed to make a living after losing her teaching job. Rita had taught English at juvenile hall until a student—an older kid, big, a grown man, really—had viciously assaulted her. The resulting trauma had ended her teaching career. She’d flopped on her brother’s couch until her disability ran out. Ernesto, a trucker, became increasingly frustrated with her lethargy. He began taking her along on short-haul assignments until eventually, she earned a professional driver’s license and took over behind the wheel.
Trucking brought Rita out of a near-suicidal malaise. She now drove cross-country for a national firm. Her bookshelf spoke of catharsis and recovery. I admired her so much.
I stepped back, feeling like a snoop. The Ladies were expecting me to involve myself with Fern and Belle, not Rita. So I put a smile on my face and headed back to the living room.
Belle had cooked her special recipe of sage chicken with new potatoes, a meal she stretched with the addition of dinner rolls, and salad. We sat at the table in the family room while Fern ate in the recliner, watching a home remodeling show. Belle tried to engage her in conversation, but Fern either ignored us or answered in monosyllables. When we finished, I helped clear the dishes. Neither of them had done more than pick at her food.
Belle set the walker in front of the recliner. Fern pushed a button and the chair rose up like some kind of beast and stood her upright. As Fern shuffled down the hall to the restroom, Belle hovered around, murmuring encouragement.
When she returned, Belle asked her to please turn off the television and visit. With a big sigh, Fern set the remote on the end table and folded her hands at her waist. She used to have a belly, but it was gone.
“How’s farm life treating you?” she asked.
I caught her up, making a big deal of the impending birth of Looney’s foal. “Curt still has an office at the University, but mostly he putters around our little farm. He’s still doing environmental consulting, so he’s gone for short periods.”
“And yourself?” asked Fern, not
looking at me.
“I still do a bit of business consulting in town, but most of the time, I’m a farm wife.”
“And how do you like that?” asked Belle. From her smile, I could tell she was happy for me, and I started to answer, but Fern spoke first.
“She hates it. She’s not geared for the sticks.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “For the first time in my life, I get to play house. Curt and I are nesting. I’m as happy as I’ve ever been.”
“Bully for you,” said Fern, scowling.
Belle, ever courteous, changed the subject. “I talked with Jessie recently. She updated me on the CRS Ladies, and said they’re hoping to get together in a couple months, as soon as we’re able to travel.” She cut her eyes at Fern. “We might camp at Mount Rushmore. You and Curt could join us.”
“That would be great. We could air out the new Roadtrek.” Relatively new, anyway. I bought it after my journey with Frieda ended, although I hadn’t had the heart to drive it after returning to North Dakota. Curt had built a special garage for it next to the barn, and he took it out occasionally and kept it maintained, but I hadn’t used it in a long time. Too many memories.
“Doesn’t that sound like fun?” Belle said to Fern. She didn’t answer. Her fingers inched toward the TV remote.
I was getting tired of her attitude. “Fern.”
“What.” The way she said it, it wasn’t a question.
“How did it happen?”
“Did what happen?”
Jesus Christ. “How did you fall?”
She shrugged. “It’s no big deal. Wasn’t watching where I was going.”
Belle said, “She looked away as she was going out the door of the RV. The step came sooner than she anticipated, and she fell all the way down.”
“Ouch.”
“Let’s not relive it, okay?” said Fern.
“But are you healing?” I asked. “What did the doctor say?”
When Fern remained silent, Belle said, “At our age, the healing is so much slower.”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Fern glanced at Belle. “She’s the one who’s screwed up.”
Dakota Blues Box Set Page 54