On the third day post-flood, the restaurant scene in Machu Picchu Pueblo had become one giant gastrointestinal health hazard. Intermittent electricity shut the town down for hours at a time. No one with a working brain cell was about to touch a morsel of food that wasn’t prepackaged in plastic, not to mention the fact that the few sketchy restaurants that remained open for business had quadrupled their prices. Besides all that, there was no such thing as “best” clothes—only dingy clothes that were gray and grayer from being washed with hand soap, then dried stiff overnight.
Who was I to complain? I’d grown oddly attached to my rain gear. It did the job, keeping me warm and dry. Who’d have known that I’d choose survival over style? But now I wondered why great rain gear couldn’t be chic and shapely. Maybe I should try my hand at designing a line. Why not? There was nothing and no one to say that I couldn’t.
“Don’t worry about food. I got it covered,” said Grace as she sashayed to the bathroom with an impish expression. Over her shoulder, she added, “Bring your camera, Shana. Hotel restaurant. Eleven thirty.” She flashed a pirate’s grin: huge, smug, and slightly dangerous. I vowed to practice in the mirror until I perfected the same.
Only Grace could have sweet-talked the surly and overworked hotel manager into allowing her to use the kitchen. What she intended to prepare was beyond my imagination, since we had scavenged only precooked food-like substances.
The dining room may have been filled with chatter from the other tourist groups, but our long, communal table felt lifeless without Stesha and our porters. Despite showers and sleep, the Gamers looked travel worn. There was no bounce left in Helen’s hair, and I noticed that she hadn’t bothered to clean her engagement ring. No one had seen Quattro or his dad since they’d left this morning. Maybe they had gone back to Machu Picchu together. I couldn’t wait to find out.
The door opened, and I swiveled to see if it was Quattro. No, just Ruben. We greeted him with a standing ovation, not minding that we were being stereotypically loud American tourists. Who cared if a few other tables stared disapprovingly at us for causing a scene? Ruben hadn’t just gotten us up and down the Inca Trail safely. He was a hero for helping the town itself.
From the kitchen, Grace strolled out holding a tray with tiny bowls of steaming noodles. “Top Ramen à la Grace.” Then she asked Ruben, “Now, admit it. Aren’t you glad I had these in my backpack all this time?”
The mere notion of hot noodle soup was almost enough to make me lose all semblance of manners, swipe a bowl from the tray, and chug it down, noodles, salty broth, rehydrated vegetables, and all. Mom poured Grace a glass of beer and raised her own in a toast: “To our chef!”
But Grace had her own agenda. First, she corrected Mom, “To our guide!”
After we applauded again, Grace waved her hands to shush us as she stood behind her chair. I assumed she was going to make a speech about Ruben or our group, the Wednesday Walkers or Stesha. But Grace surprised us by clambering onto the chair, then stepping carefully into the middle of the table between the dishes.
“Grace? What are you doing?” Mom said, jumping to her feet with her arms outstretched, ready to catch Grace in case she took a swan dive. I scrambled to the opposite side of the table.
“I think you should get down,” Hank said as he stood, too.
“Well, I think it’s long past risk-taking time, bucko,” Grace retorted as she untucked her floral-embroidered T-shirt. She glanced around for a safe place to set her glass but ended up handing it to me.
“Grace, what’re you doing?” I asked, genuinely confused, staring up at her as she unbuttoned her hiking pants. “Um… Grace?”
Dad cleared his throat uncomfortably but didn’t say a word.
She unzipped her pants.
“Grace?” Helen asked. “Do you think this is a good idea?”
I hissed up at her. “I mean, we aren’t exactly the Wednesday Walkers.”
“Now that’s the truth” was Grace’s tart reply.
“And you’ve got an audience,” I continued, my eyes darting around the dining room.
“The more, the merrier.”
“No offense, but I’m not sure this is the last image I want to have,” Dad said, looking down at his lap.
For the record, Grace was in remarkable shape for a septuagenarian. How she’d managed the mountains without succumbing to the altitude or the trail’s steep angle, I have no idea. However.
She let go of her waistband.
“Grace,” groaned Mom, as she shook out one of the linen napkins and held it behind Grace. That did little to conceal or camouflage her tight compression shorts. Seventy-year-old buttocks are seventy-year-old buttocks, whether in grandma underwear, in the buff, or tucked into tight spandex. The expressions on the other diners’ faces morphed into dismay. I didn’t blame them.
Dad covered his eyes.
“You’re going blind. What are you hiding for?” Grace demanded as she wriggled her hips.
With a final swivel, her pants pooled at her ankles.
Her ankle.