Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 06 - Cozy Camping Page 2

  “We could buy you a suit at a Wal-Mart in Cheyenne. Any town with over twenty residents has at least one Wal-Mart. Then I could teach you to float, dog paddle, and tread water, at the very least. And once you’ve mastered the basics, we could move on to some of the standard swim strokes. I’m sure you’d be relieved not to have to be so afraid of water. Besides, not knowing how to swim could potentially be dangerous, I’d think.”

  “Oh, no, thanks for the offer, but I’m afraid I’d sink like the Titanic,” Veronica replied. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to mess up my hair and makeup. It’s an arduous task to maintain this kind of natural beauty. It may be a bit difficult for you to appreciate, but I feel it’s crucial to always look presentable when I leave the house.”

  Ouch, I thought. That barb stung. Why hadn’t I thought of that? No one should be caught camping while not appearing as if they were attending a black-tie ball at the White House. Who knew it took so many gels, lotions, potions, and gobble-de-gook to maintain such a “natural” beauty? And what had Veronica meant by her last statement? No, regardless of how “crucial” it was, I didn’t make it a habit to apply tons of mascara, eyeliner, and foundation, every time I left the inn. And I didn’t feel the need to touch up my lipstick every five minutes as Veronica seemed to do—if I even found it necessary to wear lipstick in the first place. Today, like nearly every other day in my life, lip gloss to moisten my lips was sufficient to serve my purpose.

  But, even without makeup, I didn’t feel like I looked completely hideous. I had short curly hair that I occasionally turned into a work of art—using that term very loosely. And I stood just a few inches over five feet, a good six or seven inches short of Veronica’s stature. And, yes, I really did need to make a better effort to lose those extra pounds. Yet, with all that going against me, I still managed to face the public without feeling like I should be on display at a freak show. I had enough self-esteem to get by, albeit nothing like the level of pride in herself that Veronica appeared to possess.

  Perhaps Stone should have given more thought to the idea of inviting Wyatt and Veronica along on this trip. I loved Wyatt to pieces, and in general, I got along fine with his girlfriend as well. But Veronica seemed more concerned about her looks than in having any excitement or joy in her life. I hoped having her along wouldn’t put a damper on our vacation. But for now I just nodded and walked into the now-empty restroom stall.

  The men were standing next to the motorhomes waiting for us to return. For some reason, Veronica had found it necessary to spend five or six minutes at the washbasin, reapplying foundation, as well as dabbing a little powder on her nose and forehead. Had she not figured out there was a bathroom and several mirrors in her motorhome? I guess it was just a “crucial, arduous task” that needed to be taken care of before presenting herself to the three men waiting impatiently for us in the parking lot.

  I don’t mean to sound disparaging of Wyatt’s girlfriend. They made a wonderful couple, both tall and incredibly good-looking, and they seemed to have a lot of interests in common. For instance, Veronica liked to cook, and Wyatt liked to eat. It amazed me that someone who enjoyed cooking as much as she did could manage to ingest so little of the end product. And they both enjoyed watching movies, although his tastes tended to be a bit bloodier and more edge-of-your-seat thrilling than hers. But for Veronica’s sake, Wyatt suffered through an occasional chick flick, too.

  I reminded myself I just needed to concentrate on Stone and me enjoying ourselves, and let Veronica and Wyatt do their own thing throughout our vacation. After all, we were celebrating our anniversary, and I planned to have a restful, laid-back vacation so we could unwind a bit from the pressures and responsibilities of owning and operating a lodging establishment. But you know what they say about best-laid plans…

  Chapter 2

  Friday was a pleasant, fairly uneventful day on the road. Although the scenery in western Nebraska never changes all that much, we did spot a variety of wildlife, including deer, antelope, wild turkey, a coyote, and a road-killed bobcat.

  When I spotted a rare albino raccoon in a tree not far off the shoulder, I made Stone turn around and go back, with the other two motorhomes in tow, so I could snap some photos of it. I thought it’d be a cool thing to post on my Facebook page. As it turned out, the albino raccoon was a highly disappointing Wal-Mart shopping bag hung up on a branch and flapping in the breeze. After a few sarcastic remarks about my optometrist, Stone pulled back onto the interstate and we all continued our journey west.

  As you can imagine, Stone did not slow down or even flinch when I told him I was sure I’d seen a moose behind a row of trees next to a cornfield. He did find time, however, to make yet another chiding comment. “That’s amazing! A moose right here along I-80 in the flat plains of Nebraska. What are the odds?”

  “Um, zero?” I asked, slightly embarrassed.

  “Pretty much,” he replied. “I think you were referring to that oil well pumping in the field back there… not that it bore any resemblance to a moose.”

  The most interesting event of the day was when we spotted a barred owl sitting alone in the grassy median. Fortunately, I wasn’t the only one who saw it or we would have whizzed right by and left it in its precarious location. Knowing the location of this barred owl was not normal, particularly in the bright sunny afternoon, Stone had pulled over, and the other two couples followed suit. I could just imagine them saying to one another, “Reckon she’s spotted a giraffe up ahead?”

  When Stone got out and approached the owl, he noticed it was alive but unable to fly. When it struggled to get away, Stone backed off, not wanting it to cause further injury to itself. Apparently, it had been struck by a vehicle and sustained damage to one of its wings.

  I snapped a few photos of the odd-looking creature and pleaded with Stone to seek help for the poor thing. I just couldn’t stand to leave an injured, helpless owl to fend for itself when it was in such a hopeless situation. Stone agreed with me, as did the other four in our party.

  We were just a couple miles east of Sidney, Nebraska, where there was a large Cabela’s sporting goods store located right next to the interstate. We decided to stop there to find help for the owl. With the assistance of a member of their staff, Stone was able to contact the Nebraska Fish and Game Association, who assured him they’d rescue the barred owl and transfer it to a wildlife rehabilitation center for medical assistance.

  Stone gave the game warden the owl’s location, including what mile marker it was closest to, and then the three men decided to browse through the store, since we were there already anyway. I believe Stone’s justification was the necessity of moving around to prevent blood clots in our legs, as he’d mentioned a concern about earlier. I was wondering if he’d be as worried about the potential health hazard had we stopped at a Vera Bradley store to find assistance for the stranded owl. I doubt he’d have had the patience to wander around the store for forty-five minutes while we three ladies admired the newest brightly patterned purses and clutches.

  Veronica retreated to the restroom located at the front entrance of the sporting goods store, presumably to refresh her makeup, while Wendy and I looked around in the store’s clothing department. I found several shirts I liked and Wendy found a jacket she couldn’t live without. I don’t know about the other two couples, but that damned owl cost Stone and me almost six hundred dollars.

  We filled the entire storage compartment up with Stone’s purchases, such as fishing equipment, a new pair of binoculars, some hunting paraphernalia, and a lot of camping equipment I didn’t think was particularly necessary to have in an RV park. A propane lantern? Really? Couldn’t we just flick on the light switch inside the motorhome? It even had exterior lights if we needed light while sitting in our lawn chairs under the awning at night. When it came to sporting goods, Stone was a salesman’s new best friend.

  * * *

  When we finally reached the campground at eight-thirty Friday evening, the Cozy Camping RV P
ark was a total zoo. We had heard Cheyenne Frontier Days was a popular annual event, but we had no idea of its true magnitude until we pulled into the campground’s driveway.

  Our three rigs sat behind several others still waiting to pull up to the sidewalk leading to the office so their drivers could go in and register for the sites they had reserved. There was a “Full” sign at the entrance gate, so people without reservations wouldn’t waste their time waiting in vain.

  There were people everywhere I looked, and recreational vehicles of all sizes and shapes seemed to occupy every square inch of the park. I could sense a frenzied titillation in the air, similar to the droning buzz of a fluorescent light bulb. I could feel a sensation, like static electricity, that caused the hairs on my arms to stand straight up, and was instantly awash with excitement for the week ahead. As if looking into an imaginary crystal ball, I had a premonition that our anniversary vacation would turn out to be even more memorable than Stone had anticipated.

  As we pulled up closer to the office, I saw an area full of tents, and for a split second, I had visions of water leaking through the roof while folks tried to sleep during a thunderstorm, with all types of creatures slithering in to get out of the rain. I actually saw a young lady sitting next to a fire pit waving a charred hamburger patty back and forth as if it were a Polaroid photo. I wondered if she’d dropped it on the ground and was trying to displace ants and dirt from her supper.

  Across from the tent area was a family struggling to set up what Stone told me was a pop-up camper. The young couple was arguing and doing a lot of pointing, eye rolling, and head shaking, while four young children ran amok in the vicinity. One little boy was picking up rocks and throwing them at the travel trailer parked next to them. It looked more like a chore than a vacation to me, and the notion of six people occupying that canvas-topped camper made me shiver.

  Thank you, Lord, for the good sense you gave Stone to rent motorhomes and not pop up campers or tents, I thought. I also greatly appreciated the fact he’d rented a separate motorhome for each couple. We were just too old to have that much fun.

  When we pulled up to the second spot in line, Stone asked if I could handle going in to register for our site. From his tone, he clearly thought it would test my capabilities.

  “Yes, I’m pretty sure I can handle that,” I said, laughing as I exited the rig with my Mastercard and our confirmation slip in hand. When I walked into the office, a tanned, well-toned woman, most likely in her mid-to-upper thirties, was at the counter complaining about her site. I waved at Emily Harrington, who cheerfully returned my greeting before turning her attention back to her loud and obnoxious customer.

  The unhappy customer’s hair was bleached so blond it was nearly white, making her look older than she probably intended. The fact that she had no frown lines, crow’s feet, or any other visible sign of movement on her forehead made me think she might have gone overboard with Botox as well.

  “When I called to make my reservation, I specifically asked for a site next to the pool, under a shade tree, with a concrete patio and grill. We have no tree, no grill, and are at least ten sites down from the pool, so I am not happy at all!” The woman spoke to Emily in an assertive and intimidating fashion that I found unnerving.

  A young and, no doubt, naturally blond-haired gal waiting on another customer looked up and glared at the discontented woman as if she’d just seen her whack a puppy on the head with a stick. I’m sure she was thankful to be helping an exuberant jolly old man in a cowboy hat instead of the broad who was hammering Emily with her grievances.

  I was uncomfortable even being near the cranky woman, and felt sorry for Emily, who stood behind the counter. Soon, however, I realized she was not fazed one iota by the customer’s rude behavior. She responded calmly and matter-of-factly.

  “I assume you’d like to be next to the shower house and laundromat too?” Emily asked.

  “Well, of course I would!” The irate woman replied, obviously not picking up on the scoffing tone in Emily’s voice. “That’s what I requested when I made reservations over the phone.”

  “Then perhaps you should have called for a reservation more than a week ago. My husband and I own this campground, and I remember taking your call myself, because it was nearly midnight and you woke us both up. I told you then that I had only one site available, and that was only due to a last minute cancellation. You were lucky to get a site at all, as we fill up very quickly for Frontier Days.”

  “Listen, lady, I am not here for some silly rodeo. I’m here for a book signing at Barnes and Noble tomorrow morning. Two other authors involved in the event had no problem securing nice sites, and I am way more successful than either of them,” she said. I could sense the muscular woman’s sense of self-importance was hefty. Based on my first impression of this customer, I knew she wasn’t someone I’d want to befriend. I also knew I didn’t want to tick her off in a dark alley either.

  “And the other authors’ names?” Emily asked.

  “Norma Grace and Sarah Krumm—two wanna-be best-selling authors.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember their names. Very congenial ladies, I might add. They called months ago to reserve sites—in plenty of time to secure premier ones—something you would have been wise to do, too.”

  “I’m a very busy woman, and I didn’t have the time to spend on trivial little details like that. The point is that I did get a site, and it is not at all what I requested.”

  Emily glanced up and looked straight into the customer’s eyes, as she replied. “Obviously, it’s not such a ‘trivial detail’ now that you’re here and are finding out you should have taken a few moments of your precious time to reserve a site when your friends had the foresight to do so. And I’m sure every customer in the park would like a deluxe site like the one you requested, which I told you at the time was impossible. The vast majority of them are just happy to have been able to get a site with full hookups in a high quality, well-appointed Good Sam park. There are hundreds of RVs parked out in overflow lots and fields with no hookups at all, that were unable to secure a site in a real campground such as this one.”

  “Perhaps you don’t know who I am,” the customer said haughtily, while placing her hands on her hips in an attempt to show her superiority.

  “Perhaps I don’t care who you are,” Emily said, without flinching or even raising her voice. “You could be Mother Teresa and your husband the Pope, and you would have still been assigned the same site.”

  “Humph! I don’t appreciate your smart aleck comments, lady. I happen to be Fanny Mae Finch, the renowned author. I’m practically a household name,” the surly woman replied.

  “Not in my household! Sorry, never heard of you.” Emily spoke as I echoed the same words in my mind.

  Perfect retort, I thought. I wanted to applaud, and say, “Campground owner one, pompous ass zero.”

  “Well, you must be illiterate, then. My new novel is currently on the New York Times Best Seller list,” the egotistical woman stated, with obvious pride in her self-proclaimed awesomeness.

  “How nice for you, Ms. Finch. Do you want the site or not? You’re holding up the line. There are plenty of people who would love to have your site if you’d like to take your business elsewhere.”

  “I do not appreciate your attitude at all. Have you not heard the mantra of most professional business owners, that the customer is always right?”

  “Well, Ms. Finch, you are about to be right! Right out the exit gate of this campground, that is!”

  “You know, I could write an article about how rude and unprofessional the staff is in this so-called RV Park. Cozy Camping? Really? What fantasy world are you living in, lady? Even the man on the golf cart outside had the gall to tell me I needed to pull up because I was blocking the driveway. As you just suggested, I sincerely do have half a mind to take my business elsewhere.”

  “Please do, because I have more than half a mind to give you a refund and send you on your way so you
can enjoy looking for a site in a town that’s been booked up for months. The closest RV Park where you have a prayer of finding an open site in is probably forty-five minutes south of here in Fort Collins, Colorado. Otherwise, you can rent a dry-camping site in an overflow field up the street. That way you can also write a book about how much you enjoyed parking in a field full of rutted, dusty roads, anthills, and prairie dog mounds, with no electric, water or sewer hookups and no shower house to use. You might even be gifted with an antelope’s calling card at the bottom of your doorsteps some morning. And don’t look around for a laundromat, a café and coffee shop, or a bus to transport you downtown or to the rodeo grounds, either. We offer those amenities, but for use by our paying guests only. Guests not staying in our park are not allowed on the premises to take advantage of any of our facilities. Hey, maybe that book will hit the best-seller’s list too!”

  I had to admire this businesswoman’s composure. Wendy and Veronica were now standing behind me and had only heard the last response by Emily. Having not heard the entire conversation, they were probably thinking she didn’t have the social graces necessary to deal with the public. I would fill them in on the entire exchange later. I’d become very fond of both of the Harringtons when they’d been guests at our inn just before Christmas. Emily was a kind woman, but like me, she was not the type to take undeserved crap from anybody.

  I watched Fanny brush an imaginary object off the sleeve of her jacket as if it were spittle that had shot out of Emily’s mouth. The white fur coat she wore, even though it was in the lower seventies, was obviously an attempt to flaunt her success and appear classy. A t-shirt and shorts would be more comfortable and appropriate for the situation. In my opinion, the novelist didn’t have an ounce of class in her entire body.

  Fanny Mae Finch must have been weighing her options and found her other choices to be unappealing, because she snatched her receipt and a park map off the counter and stomped out of the office.