Dakota Blues Box Set

by Lynne M Spreen

  At almost sixty, I still couldn’t attend a wedding without getting weepy. There was something about the hopefulness of the moment. No matter what came before, or what they expected to happen in the future, two people chose each other, to be bound by love and legality until one of them died. How much more serious could you get?

  And yet, there was lightness. A kind of joy bubbled up in me, remembering my own wedding in Barcelona, where Curt swept me into his arms after a kiss that brought tears to both our eyes. I thought of my first wedding and ached for its ruination. And I felt joy for these two women, good people who never thought they’d see the day when they’d be permitted by law to make this legal commitment.

  When Fern and Belle turned to each other and said their vows, a tear snuck down Fern’s cheek. Belle reached up and brushed it away. They exchanged rings and shared a kiss, and this time it was a bit less chaste.

  The ceremony ended, and they turned to Helen and me.

  “Something in your eye?” Fern asked.

  “Pollen.” I wiped my cheeks.

  After thanking Nancy and Howard, and making plans for the forwarding of pictures, we walked toward Helen’s car. “We have a reservation for early dinner at Spanish Bay,” she said.

  A white stretch limousine rolled up to the curb. “I think we’ll pass,” said Fern.

  Belle embraced us. “We’re on our way to Bora Bora.” She wore the biggest grin I’d ever seen on her. “It was Fern’s idea.”

  “Imagine that,” said Helen.

  “Come here, my smartass sister-in-law.” Fern gave Helen a big hug and turned to me. “Tell Curt we’ll expect to see him at Mount Rushmore this summer.”

  We waved as the limousine slipped into traffic.

  Helen wiped her eyes. “I’m hungry as hell,” she said. “How about you?”

  We left the park and drove to The Inn at Spanish Bay, where we took a table looking out over the golf links and the ocean beyond. While the waiter handed us menus and filled our water glasses, Helen said, “I have to confess, I’m a little sad that I won’t have Belle for a roommate. We were just beginning to catch up. It was like when we roomed together in college. And when I lost my husband, she came and stayed with me for weeks.”

  “Belle would be a good sister to have.”

  Helen nodded. “But I’ll be fine. I’ve adapted to living alone. Anyway, I have a suitor.”

  “The guy in the BMW?”

  Helen nodded. “He’s only seventy. It’s exciting, dating a younger man.”

  The waiter brought an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne, and we toasted the newlyweds. “I think I’m in shock,” I said. “I never expected Belle to stand up to Fern, nor Fern to back down.”

  “Me, neither. It’s a complete reversal for Belle. She’s been a frightened little mouse all her life.” Helen regarded me over her champagne flute. “Fern’s broken ankle was the tipping point. I think she realized there are worse things than being vulnerable.”

  “I used to think people didn’t change after a certain age. Guess I was wrong.”

  “It depends on the person,” said Helen. “When Stan and I married, a very long time ago, we were both quiet, insular people, and we were happy. After he died, I was lonely, so I joined a travel group. At first, I was anxious, but there were other widows in the group who were timid like me. Our first trip was to the Mediterranean, and since nobody eats dinner before nine, I was forced to adapt. Guess what? I discovered I was a night owl. I was perfectly happy sleeping until noon and having dinner at midnight. We go so long thinking we know who we are, but then, without warning, we change. It can be disconcerting.”

  “Change is hard,” I said. “But it can be freeing.”

  “That’s what Bill—my friend—says.” She twisted the champagne flute between two fingers. “You know, I didn’t really need a roommate. I was only trying to get her away from Fern.”

  I raised my glass to the wiliness of old people.

  “I love my sister, and I was worried about her. But now I’m not. So I’m free again.”

  The sun had settled behind broken clouds on the horizon, turning the sky a soft violet. I wished so badly that Curt could be there, enjoying the sunset with me.

  “Excuse me, Helen. I need to make a call.”

  She waved me off, and I slipped out the back door. A walkway led away from the restaurant, over gentle slopes and grass-covered knolls to the ocean. I found a bench overlooking the water and placed a video call to Curt.

  “Hey, babe! Look at this.” He turned the phone, so I could see it was beginning to snow outside. “I just built a nice fire. Wish you were here to enjoy it with me.”

  “Snuggled under a pile of blankets.”

  “Naked.”

  I closed my eyes, enjoying the chills that ran up my spine at the thought. Then I heard bagpipes. “Honey? Listen.” The music grew more distinct. The sound was getting closer.

  “I hear it,” he said.

  “Oh, look!” I turned the phone around so Curt could see, and the two of us, my video husband and me, watched a bagpiper in full Scottish regalia walk slowly toward us on the path. He dipped his head in a subtle greeting as he strolled past and disappeared beyond a low hill, the pipes fading. “Can you believe that?”

  My sweet husband was grinning. “And I was there with you.”

  “I love you so much. I can’t wait to get home and see you.”

  “Actually, Babe, I need to update you. Something came up, workwise.” Curt, who did environmental consulting for energy companies, had been offered a two-week assignment in Louisiana.

  “When do you leave?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “I’ll miss you, but I’m excited for you.” The farmhouse would be a dreary place without him, but I was proud of Curt, of his knowledge and curiosity, and of his energy, both mental and physical. He loved to fly in, analyze, and leave. He liked using his brain and hanging out with movers and shakers. Not to mention he charged his clients a ton, and they seemed willing to pay.

  We said heartfelt goodbyes, and I returned to the table. I told Helen about Curt and his consulting work, and she invited me to stay at her place for a few days. As we spoke, I saw that she was kind, like Belle, but not as pliable. In fact, it turned out Bill wasn’t her only suitor. At seventy-nine, Helen was playing the field. She laughed when I called it that.

  That night, we made popcorn and watched an old movie, Love Affair with Bening and Beatty. Halfway through, we took a break. I found that Rita had left me a text message.

  Salinas to LA tomorrow COD. Want to ride south and meet Grady?

  Although I’d looked forward to spending the next couple days in Monterey, I had deep roots in Newport and would love to see it again. I could get to know Rita better and maybe even drop in on my old friend Peggy at Global Health. Curt was going to be gone anyway, and it was winter in North Dakota.

  Would love to, I texted back. What’s COD?

  Crack of dawn.

  I groaned. On the one hand, I was retired. I didn’t have to get up early very much anymore.

  On the other hand...

  I texted her back.

  You know I’m a sucker for a road trip.

  Chapter 12 – Rita

  IN THE GRAY SALINAS dawn, the Peterbilt waited at the curb, the same place Rita had dropped Fern and me a couple days ago. I left the rental car with the early-bird office guy, threw my bags into the sleeper, and climbed aboard the truck.

  “Hey, how’re you doing, girlfriend?” Rita sat at the wheel, sporting a pink windbreaker, her hair tucked under a Dodgers ball cap. The smell of fresh coffee and light perfume filled the cab. Classic rock pounded from Bose speakers. She reached over and turned it down. “Ready for another go at the Grapevine?” The brake released with a great hiss. With a wicked grin, she steered into slow-moving traffic.

  “I’ll try to sleep through that part.”

  “You do that.” She turned the music back up, and we headed for the
freeway.

  Traffic was calm as we threaded south on the 101. The rising sun lit the low hills and verdant farm fields to the east. As before, we had a hard time talking because of road noise, so after a few attempts, I let Rita drive and allowed my thoughts to wander.

  Seeing southern California again was exciting. You can’t live in a place for thirty years and not feel attached. Memories surfaced, both good and bad.

  I’d been only twenty-something, holding my shiny new degree in Human Resources, when I left North Dakota for a career with Global Health Systems in Newport Beach. I met Steve at a Chamber of Commerce mixer, fell in love, and married him. At first, it was great. We had big plans for family and careers. We wanted to grow rich and retire early, hang out with our kids and grandkids, and travel the world.

  Life had other plans, though. I winced, even now, as the memory sliced into my heart. Four miscarriages, two separate careers, one divorce. By my fiftieth birthday, I was unemployed, broke, and living back in North Dakota with Aunt Marie. The plan was to lick my wounds and restart my life, but one day on a golf course, I ran into my childhood sweetheart. Curt was also single, and we started seeing each other, momentum carrying us in a comfortable, if predictable, direction. Then a certain ninety-year-old neighbor lady interfered. Frieda Richter wouldn’t give me any peace. She needed somebody to drive her south to Denver to see her new great-grandbaby and nominated me. I resisted, but she kept bugging me until I gave in.

  When Rita pumped the brake and cursed, I came out of my reverie to see a line of cars swerving around a newly-shredded truck tire.

  “They call that an alligator.” She pointed at the shred. “They can take out a car.”

  We managed to get around it without anybody going under our wheels, and things settled down again. Rita concentrated on her driving, and I went back to my memories.

  Road-tripping with Frieda was a blast. We met Fern and Belle, and the rest of the CRS Ladies. I came to some ideas about what to do with the rest of my life, and Frieda taught me a bunch of new rules for living strong as an older person. When our journey ended sadly and all too soon, I returned to North Dakota to grieve. Aunt Marie was happy. Curt was thrilled. And I was restless.

  Eventually, I bought my own pickup truck and fifth-wheel and headed down to Florida, having promised to rejoin the CRS Ladies at their winter camp. That was where my consulting business took off. I was working out of a beat-up RV parked in a campground in Key Largo, but my clients didn’t know that and they liked what I had to sell: HR consulting services. I found jobs all over the country and could work from my trailer.

  Curt had come south to visit me. We’d grown closer, but I drove him away in my single-minded focus on business. Somehow, I kept making the same mistakes and having to relearn the same life lessons, but when I realized what I was doing, I dropped everything and chased him down in Barcelona. We married in a quickie ceremony overlooking the Mediterranean and eventually moved back to his farmhouse on the northern plains.

  We’d been driving about an hour when Rita changed into the right lane just as a passenger car was accelerating down the onramp. I could see it below my window, but she seemed not to notice. I shouted, Rita corrected, and the car wobbled crazily before regaining control.

  Rita said something about suicidal drivers, but she was the one at fault.

  Fifteen miles from the Grapevine, we pulled into a rest stop for a bathroom break. Rita didn’t bring up the near-accident, so I didn’t either.

  As we came out of the restroom building, we saw that a woman had parked her rig next to ours and was washing the windshield. She looked to be about forty, a slender black woman with toned arms, working over the glass from atop a stepladder.

  She glanced down at us. “I wonder if you might have seen my teenager in the ladies’ room. I’ve been waiting for her to come out for a while now.”

  I shaded my eyes. “Tall, skinny, braided hair? On a pink phone?” I’d seen her just inside the door, thumbs dancing across the screen.

  “That’s her.” The woman shook her head in exasperation and climbed down. “All she wants to do is be on the phone all day long. All night, too.”

  “Typical teenager.” Rita gestured with her chin at the truck. “Are you the driver?”

  The woman nodded. “I thought she’d enjoy getting away with me for a few days. Change in the routine, you know? The school allows it as long as she emails the teacher her homework every day. It’s the only way I can spend time with my three kids.”

  “That’s rough,” said Rita, “but you’re on the right track.”

  “I hope so.” The woman folded up the ladder and hung it on the back of the tractor. “I’d better go get her. Drive safely.”

  “You do the same.” Rita and I climbed into the truck. Instead of starting the engine, she sat and watched as the mother and daughter came out of the restroom. The mother was speaking and gesturing, but the daughter, eyes glued to her phone, ignored her.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “That it can’t be easy for them. That mom is a hero, taking her kids on the road like that.” Rita started the truck. “I’m guessing she has a relative watching her other two. Or a friend. Or maybe somebody she doesn’t even know that well. Maybe she’s taking the daughter to protect her from somebody. I’ll bet there’s no father involved.” The truck lurched forward as Rita shifted through the gears, returning to the freeway.

  I wanted to ask her why she made such assumptions, but the truck was noisy, and anyway, she was looking away from me.

  I cast a sideways glance at her. She had both hands on the wheel, intent on the road. Years after becoming a driver, she persisted in this solitary profession. Surely, she had other options, and yet, she continued to drive. When we were in Key Largo, Rita had parked her rig and joined us for a few days. That’s where we’d met. In private, Belle hinted that Rita was afraid to come in off the road. Trauma and financial necessity got her out here, and here she stayed. I wondered if she ever thought of retirement.

  We were approaching the Grapevine, and I sat up straighter. Earlier, I’d planned to put on my headphones and close my eyes, but down on the flatlands, I’d realized I was needed.

  Maybe I wasn’t as sanguine as an experienced trucker, but it seemed that Rita was slow to notice a couple of dangerous situations. As we reached the summit, Rita cut off another rig. The driver laid on his air horn.

  “Asshole,” she muttered.

  “He probably thought you were going to hit him.”

  I hoped she’d take the bait and argue with me.

  She didn’t.

  I plowed forward. “Rita, is this a typical drive?”

  “It’s typical.” She stared at the road ahead.

  Frustrated and angry, I kept quiet. I wanted to tell her what I was really thinking, but she didn’t need another distraction.

  She drove more slowly after that, though. We didn’t cut off any more vehicles, and a couple hours later, she pulled into the driveway of the massive Santa Ana warehouse to unload her container.

  She backed the rig up to the dock and got out to confer with a man holding a clipboard. She got back in, turned her seat around, and propped her legs up on a suitcase.

  “What are we doing?”

  “They’re unloading us. They use robots.”

  The truck shook. “Can I see?”

  “Sure.”

  We climbed down, and I followed Rita up the stairs onto the loading dock. There, an unmanned, motorized vehicle drove into the trailer, lifted a pallet of cartons, backed up, turned around, and disappeared into a canyon of ceiling-high shelves. Moments later, a second vehicle appeared and headed toward us. It repeated the procedure, followed by a third, and a fourth.

  “So there’s no actual person unloading the truck?” I asked.

  “Not at this facility,” said Rita. “That guy with the clipboard manages the whole warehouse.”

  I stepped back. A row of trucks, perhaps three dozen i
n all, were in the process of being unloaded. As a former HR careerist, I was saddened to think of all the workers displaced by those machines, but it was reality.

  When our truck was empty, Rita slammed and locked the trailer doors. Thirty-five tons of cargo had been offloaded in minutes.

  We dropped the rig at the Costa Mesa yard, went into the office to talk to Rita’s dispatcher, and transferred our luggage to her SUV, a fire-engine red Cadillac XT5. When she told me it was a recent birthday gift from Grady, I took a chance and asked how old she was.

  “Sixty-three,” she said. “But I feel like I’m twenty.”

  We hit the Pacific Coast Highway heading south for Newport Beach. It was after six, and I was exhausted even though all I’d done was ride along. I didn’t know how Rita managed to drive cross-country numerous times a month.

  She was on her phone ordering up drinks. Told the bartender she loved him and hung up.

  I raised an eyebrow, and she grinned. “Grady makes a mean martini.”

  “Good. I’ll have two.”

  We drove in companionable silence through the bright lights of the rush hour in the purple hues of sunset. Every couple of miles I’d spot a landmark from my previous life: John Wayne Airport, Fashion Island, the back bay. And the ocean, my old friend, the cold and beautiful Pacific.

  “Only a couple more miles,” Rita said. “Then we can kick back. You’ll love Grady. He’s rich now, but he worked hard for everything he has. Very down to earth and kind.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him, but before we get there, I have to ask you something.” I half-turned in my seat. “Back on the Grapevine, you seemed jittery and anxious. A couple times, I was concerned.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “And in Palm Springs, you told me it was getting harder for you.”

  Rita didn’t answer.

  I waited.

  She slowed for a red light. “I haven't been sleeping enough, that’s all. I’m overtired. I need to catch up.”