Just Flirt

by Laura Bowers

  Oh, my dear, dear Wendy. The dude wants to bag more than your groceries, sweetheart—he wants to bag your booty. True, Superflirt does encourage all kinds of fun, harmless flirting, but with another woman’s man? No, no, NO! That’s just not cool. So please, immediately point Mr. Booty-Bagger back to his girlfriend, because you, my friend, do not want to be a home wrecker, no matter how wrecked that home already happens to be.

  On to the next one, posted by “anonymous,” as you’ll soon find out why:

  So, let me see if I understand this correctly. You drape yourself over a different dude every weekend and then say goodbye without another thought. Wouldn’t the correct terminology for someone who behaves in this fashion be a slut? —Anonymous

  First off—and I mean this with total love and sisterhood—up yours. Way up. Up, up, up. Second, I’m not doing anything wrong. I am not a tease nor do I sleep with these guys (per MY choice), and third, I’m not hurting anyone. I’m having fun meeting different people, and if there’s flirting involved, guess what, sweetheart? It’s my right! So go find another Web site to haunt, like www.iamajudgementalbitch.com, okay?

  Okay. Time for one more:

  Sure, flirting might be fun for the young and pretty, but it’s not something a divorced woman in her forties who has two teenage girls, stretch marks, and wrinkles can pull off. I hardly have time to see my friends—what’s left of them—let alone date. And what would my kids think? Sorry, but flirting is best left to the young. —Meghan9800

  Thank you, Meghan, for bringing up a fascinating topic: When is a woman too old to flirt? To answer that question, here’s a little test:

  1. Stick out the index and middle fingers on your right hand.

  2. Place said fingers gently against the inside of your left wrist.

  3. Feel for a pulse.

  4. If you find one, then YOU’RE NOT TOO OLD TO FLIRT!

  Okay, so you have stretch marks, wrinkles, and things I can’t identify with. And yeah, you’re divorced with kids. But neither of these facts mean life is over or that you’re not entitled to have fun! Meghan, honey, you are my new summer project. First off, I want you to download “Electric Bird” by Sia. Listen to every word. Twice, maybe three times. Then go treat yourself to a total day of beauty, including, but not limited to, a facial, manicure, pedicure, and highlights. Buy yourself a brand-new outfit and then go out to dinner with a girlfriend where you will smile at two different single men. Just not at your waiter, bartender, and for God’s sake, not at a Mr. Booty-Bagger.

  About your daughters. Look. Any teenage girl would admire a confident, bold mother who lives a life where age is neither an issue nor a hindrance. So in other words, stop using excuses to bury yourself in a hole, my dear.

  And I mean that with total love and sisterhood.

  3 Dee

  Thank God for quick-brew coffee makers. Seventy dollars for twelve cups in three minutes? Worth every penny, especially at five-thirty on a Saturday morning.

  Our cabin’s front screen door creaks open. From the kitchen window, I watch Mom stumble out onto the porch, bundled in a quilt with her hair gathered in a sleepy ponytail. She surveys the campground below and then sits in Dad’s rocking chair, where he used to watch the sunrise every morning. Back then, Mom was more of a night owl who stayed up late watching Law & Order reruns, but one week after his funeral, after the well-wishers had stopped visiting and the flowers had wilted, I was woken by the sound of her rocking slowly in his chair. If she was surprised when I joined her, she didn’t show it. “I need to do inventory so we don’t run out of anything,” she said, maybe to me, maybe to herself. “I can’t run out of anything.”

  I didn’t know what to say other than “Okay.”

  “Some of the tent sites need another layer of gravel,” she stammered. “And the hiking paths—your father said something about overgrown briars before he…”

  Before he died.

  Mom stared straight ahead. Her words sounded as wispy as the fog lingering over the fishing pond when she said, “Your grandmother Madeline thinks I won’t be able to handle the campground alone, Dee. She thinks I should sell it.”

  The mere thought made me suck in my breath. “Will you?”

  Her jaw tightened. “No. I won’t. I refuse.”

  Dad would have been devastated if she did. To John Barton, this place wasn’t just a business, it was home and every guest was kin. He grew up here, after his parents, Arthur and Madeline, built the campground in 1972, and to him, it was bad enough when they financed their Florida retirement eight years ago by selling twenty acres to Rex Reynolds, a sleazy land developer. At least my grandparents sold the business to Dad for a price below market value so he could keep the rest in the family and away from Rex. And on that morning with my mother, I vowed to make sure it stayed that way.

  “Mom, I’ll check the paths … but I don’t know how to do inventory.”

  “I don’t either,” she said in a small voice.

  There was a lot we didn’t know. Before, our home was my playground rather than a responsibility, and Mom only took care of the social aspects. Dad wanted it that way, to protect his girls from the dirty work. But we eventually did figure out how to do inventory—and fix leaky toilets, repair pool tiles, and pay bills, although we still struggle in that department. I quit softball because sports no longer seemed important, and we set out to prove Madeline wrong—we can handle the campground. And we can handle Rex, who came slithering around two weeks ago, now that his swanky development is nearly sold out and we have additional lots he wants to buy.

  Yeah, right. Not selling, snake.

  Once the coffee is ready, I fill two mugs and step out onto the porch. The smells of dewy earth and a camper’s early morning fire welcome me as I hand Mom her coffee. “Mmm, thank you,” she says, cupping her mug with both hands and taking a big sip. “Yummy. And can you believe it’s already been a week since school ended? You’re a senior now, Dee!”

  Me, a senior. It still hasn’t sunk in.

  “But it’s too early for me to get emotional, so let’s talk schedule,” Mom says. “How’s it looking for today, sweetie?”

  I sit down beside her. Flirt-wise? Not good. The only cute guy who’s checked in has two strikes against him: he’s younger than me and he has quite the disgusting spitting habit. Work-wise? Busy. We always go in a thousand different directions on the weekends. “Well, I’m going for a run before my shift in the store starts at seven and then Nat and I are taking the kids hiking to find pinecones for craft hour at ten. After that, we might hang at the river until the horseshoe tournament, unless you need me.”

  Mom rubs the brim of her mug. “Well, ah, there’s that one thing, remember? About training Roxanne how to use the register at eleven?”

  The coffee turns to sludge in my stomach. No, I didn’t forget. I just hoped it was only a delusion when Mom told me about her agreement to let Roxanne work on the weekends, because Mrs. Swain is determined to keep her away from video games while their new house is being built. I do not want to be anywhere near that girl, but Mom has enough stress to deal with. “Sure, no problem. Anything else?”

  “Well, I kind of have to find out if the insurance office is open today,” she says, sounding both guilty and embarrassed. “I misfiled our original bill and their overdue notice was buried in paperwork, so I’m late with the payment. Oh, and what about the tractor keys, has anyone found them? I’d hate to cancel the hayride.”

  “Yeah, Jake did. They were in—” I notice a pile of college brochures on the porch floor. “Um, Mom? What are those for?”

  She leans over, almost dripping coffee on her quilt. “Oh, right! A lady from the bank gave them to me. Her daughter is sixteen, but she’s been researching colleges and scholarships since she was ten. Ten! I’ve never done that, Dee!”

  I flip through the brochures. Yale, McDaniel, Duke, schools we can’t afford and that would never accept me, anyway, unless it’s for a janitorial position. “I’m going t
o Riverside Community College, so who cares?”

  She sets her mug down and scoots to the edge of her chair, the worry lines on her forehead deepening. “I care, Dee, you’re graduating soon! What if I screwed up your future by not giving your education enough importance?”

  Okay, now she’s getting ridiculous. “Mom, stop. You didn’t screw anything up. I want to go to Riverside just like I want to always help run the campground. What’s the big deal? It’s a great school. You went there.”

  Mom lets out a sarcastic grunt. “Yeah, for one semester until I quit because it interfered with my bar-hopping schedule, that’s the big deal. I want better for you, Dee!”

  Hmm. There has to be some reason other than college for her to be acting like this. “Okay, what’s really going on, Mom?”

  A squirrel dashes onto a rock. She watches as it scrambles up a tree and says, “Nothing. It’s just … maybe I should have listened to Madeline and sold the campground. She called yesterday to let me know that Chuck is putting in water slides next year, according to his Web site. Water slides! How can we compete with that?”

  Ah. My grandmother, who is living the high life in her snooty Floridian RV resort. That explains Mom’s mood, and the bags under her eyes. She pulls at the sleeves of her vintage Go-Go’s shirt that shows off her muscular arms. “Madeline also told me about a bad review we got online just because of a few potholes, but when I told her we can’t afford blacktop, she made me feel like a horrible business owner, so I got upset and hung up, which you know is going to come back to haunt me. Lord, I wish…”

  Mom doesn’t finish, but I know the rest.

  She wishes Dad was here. He was the charmer, the one who made her laugh and who could always calm the storms in her mind, a role I try to take over—emphasis on try. “Well, up hers, Mom! She doesn’t own the campground anymore, so you had every right to be upset. And so what if Chuck adds water slides? He’ll also raise his prices again. A lot of families can’t afford his rates, so where are they going to go?”

  “They’ll come here,” Mom finishes for me as soothing pink rays from the rising sun shoot through the trees. “You’re right. Thanks, baby.”

  I wrinkle my nose at her and say, “That’s why you need me around, to keep you sane. Besides, who else could bring you fabulous morning coffee like I do?”

  “Our friend at site fifteen.” Mom smiles, pointing to the tent site below where a twenty-eight-year-old we met yesterday had pitched his Coleman. “He seems willing to fetch my beverages, poor kid.”

  “Aw, I know! He was so smitten with you at check-in that he couldn’t remember his truck’s tag number! But jeez, Mom, you’re not the cougar type, and besides, it’d be such a pain to carry around a diaper bag with you everywhere you—” I stop, the rest of my teasing abandoned as clumsy silence blankets us. Mom slowly twists her wedding band and I stare into my coffee. This is the first time we’ve ever talked about her with another man, and even though we’re only joking … it doesn’t feel very funny anymore.

  * * *

  For the rest of the morning, the thought of Mom dating nags at me more than the woman who complained about her neighbor’s dog pooping two feet outside of the pet walk perimeter. Why? My mother is an attractive woman. Most attractive, widowed women eventually start dating again, so why should she be any different?

  Because. I don’t know why.

  During craft hour at the main pavilion, my mind keeps wandering and I end up watching fluffy clouds turn lazy circles while the kids go hog wild with the glitter. A gaggle—or is it a skein?—of geese fly by in a lopsided V formation, calling to each other with honking barks as they follow the leader. Is that why I can’t imagine a life without the campground, because I’m following my father’s lead? Is that why the thought of Mom dating freaks me out, because I’m afraid of change?

  “Dee, a little assistance, please,” Natalie says from the other side of the picnic table where she is wrestling a glue stick from a five-year-old boy who’s trying to eat it. She nods to a girl who has squirted the entire contents of her juice box onto a pinecone. “And where’s the paper towels, did you bring them?”

  “Oh, shoot, forgot. I’ll be right back.” I hurry toward the lodge, stepping right in the middle of a puddle from last night’s rain shower with my Old Navy flip-flops and feeling the chilly water tickle my toes in the most delicious way.

  Puddles are one of life’s many overlooked joys.

  The Cutson brothers are arguing over a tube of glitter when I return, so I bop them both on the head with the paper towel roll before wiping off the soaked pinecone. “Hey, Nat? Uh, after your uncle Dick died, how long did your aunt Loreen wait until she started dating?”

  “Oooo, you said a dirty word!” Tanner yells. “You said—”

  Natalie snaps her fingers at him while watching me. “Oh, six days. But she was seeing her dentist long before that, if you catch my drift.”

  “Did your aunt kill your uncle?” Lyle asks.

  “Bet she blew his head off,” Tanner says, taking a fuzzy red pom-pom and field-goal kicking it with his finger. He throws his arms up and screams, “Score!”

  Craft hour turns into craft chaos as the kids flick glittery pom-poms at each other, but I’m thankful for the distraction. Otherwise, Natalie might realize my question has something to do with Mom, and I’m not ready to talk about it. The glue-eating boy is happy for the distraction as well, but Lyle still notices him squirting Elmer’s on his fingers. “Hey, dork-face, don’t eat that! It causes cancer!”

  The boy turns to Natalie with fear.

  She nods. “Yep, that’s how poor Uncle Dick died.”

  * * *

  Soon it’s time for Roxanne’s training. Yippee. There’s no way out of it, though, so while Natalie changes into a glitter-free shirt, I head to the store, where we sell camping supplies, food and drinks, toys, and crafts made by local artisans. Ivy is sitting behind the counter, gazing out the window with a pair of binoculars and dressed for this weekend’s wild west theme in jeans and cowboy boots. “Miss Ivy, what are you doing?”

  “Oh, covering the store while your mom helps some know-it-all park his RV.” She lowers the binoculars and turns to me with red marks under her eyes. “I also defragged the computer and started some virus scans. You need to watch the cookies, kid.”

  “Right, I’ll tell Nat.” Natalie is the computer pro, not me.

  I grab a bag of pistachios and hop on a bar stool Dad made out of wood cut from a fallen oak. He also installed the rustic cedar paneling and copper countertop that give the store a relaxed, homey feel, as does the cowboy Celtic music softly playing on the stereo. Ivy hands me the binoculars. “Site thirty-two. The fool man almost backed into a tree.”

  I give them a try, but my gaze first falls on Jake’s garage, where he’s getting ready for tomorrow’s race. As he wipes his hands on a rag, I have to admit, there’s something so real about a guy who spends his day off working on an engine instead of his Call of Duty score. And he wasn’t ashamed to tell me about both his parents being laid off a year ago and how they sold their farmhouse in order to buy a smaller home in town, which is why he uses our garage. Now he races on a shoestring budget with his own money against rich guys like Danny Reynolds, one of Blaine’s friends and Rex’s son, whose equipment is nothing short of top-of-the-line.

  I admire Jake for that … even if he is a jerk sometimes.

  Okay, time to put away the binoculars if they’re going to make me think philosophically about Jake—who just yesterday told me how I would love his races because there’s plenty of guys for me to drape myself over. I set them on the counter next to a book on bird-watching that is open to a glossy photo of a Baltimore oriole. “Uh, bird-watching, Miss Ivy? I thought you hated any activity that requires a closed mouth.”

  Ivy slams the book shut with a backhanded swat. “Ha, ha, very funny. And yes, it was a bad idea. Whoever developed the concept is a complete moron. If I felt the need to see an oriole up clos
e, I’d go to Camden Yards.”

  “Then why did you buy it?”

  “My idiotic therapist,” she says wryly. “He believes it’s ‘cathartic.’”

  Cathartic? Yeah, right, just like the knitting, the yoga, and the Sudoku puzzles, all of which only agitate her more. Ivy used to be a workaholic until the investment firm she’d devoted most of her life to forced her into early retirement three years ago. She had never married, never had kids, never knew anything other than work, so when her therapist suggested traveling, Ivy took his advice to the extreme by selling her condo and buying an RV. Nothing is working, though, judging from the way she’s staring at Mom’s overflowing in-bin like a shopaholic stares at a clearance sign. “You know what is cathartic, Dee? Work is cathartic, so why won’t your mother let me help her with the bills and paperwork?”

  I know perfectly well why, even though Ivy always helps for free. Because Mom thinks it would prove Madeline was right—that she can’t do it all. So I avoid Ivy’s question by inspecting my pistachios and saying, “Hey, have you ever noticed how Jell-O Pistachio Pudding is made with mostly almonds and only two percent pistachios? If it’s made with mostly almonds, why didn’t they call it almond pudding?”

  Ivy contemplates this, the muscles in her jaw tensing as I shake a few nuts onto her palm. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says after a few moments. “Maybe some male corporate hotshot at Jell-O thought pistachio sounded better. And who knows, maybe a female co-worker suggested they call it Almond Pudding, but noooo, Mr. Hotshot trashed her idea.”

  Her hands twitch as she angrily crunches on a nut. “And then Mr. Hotshot told Miss Almond Pudding that perhaps it was time for her to retire, even though she had dedicated her entire life to the firm. But when she said no, I’m not ready for retirement, Mr. Hotshot pushed her out anyway and replaced her with a busty twenty-nine-year-old, that’s why.”