“I just didn’t have the chance, that’s all. But we’ll pretend.”
Maggie and Enid had that little exchange all the time, exactly like that. Maggie had always wanted one of those soft, nurturing, homespun types for a mother instead of Phoebe, who was thin, chic, active in society, snobby and prissy. Phoebe was cool while Enid was warm and cuddly. Phoebe could read the hell out of a menu while Enid could cure anything with her chicken soup, her grandmother’s recipe. Phoebe rarely cooked and when she did it didn’t go well. But lest Maggie completely throw her mother under the bus, she reminded herself that Phoebe had a quick wit, and though she was sarcastic and ironic, she could make Maggie laugh. She was devoted to Maggie and craved her loyalty, especially that Maggie liked her more than she liked Sully. She gave Maggie everything she had to give. It wasn’t Phoebe’s fault they were not the things Maggie wanted. For example, Phoebe sent Maggie to an extremely good college-prep boarding school that had worked out on many levels, except that Maggie would have traded it all to live with her father. Foolishly, perhaps, but still... And while Phoebe would not visit Sully’s campground under pain of death, she had thrown Maggie a fifty-thousand-dollar wedding that Maggie hadn’t wanted. And Walter had given her and Sergei a trip to Europe for their honeymoon.
Maggie had appreciated the trip to Europe quite a lot. But she should never have married Sergei. She’d been very busy and distracted and he was handsome, sexy—especially that accent! They’d looked so good together. She took him at face value and failed to look deeper into the man. He was superficial and not trustworthy. Fortunately, or would that be unfortunately, it had been blessedly short. Nine months.
“This is so good,” Maggie said. “Your soup always puts me right.”
“How long are you staying, honey?”
“I’m not sure. Till I get a better idea. Couple of weeks, maybe?”
Enid shook her head. “You shouldn’t come in March. You should know better than to come in March.”
“He’s going to work me like a pack of mules, isn’t he?”
“No question about it. Only person who isn’t afraid to come around in March is Frank. Sully won’t put Frank to work.”
Frank Masterson was one of Sully’s cronies. He was about the same age while Enid was just fifty-five. Frank said he had had the foresight to marry a younger woman, thereby assuring himself a good caretaker for his old age. Frank owned a nearby cattle ranch that these days was just about taken over by his two sons, which freed up Frank to hang out around Sully’s. Sometimes Sully would ask, “Why don’t you just come to work with Enid in the morning and save the gas since all you do is drink my coffee for free and butt into everyone’s business?”
When the weather was cold he’d sit inside, near the stove. When the weather was decent he favored the porch. He wandered around, chatted it up with campers or folks who stopped by, occasionally lifted a heavy box for Enid, read the paper a lot. He was a fixture.
Enid had a sweet, heart-shaped face to go with her plump body. It attested to her love of baking. Besides making and wrapping sandwiches to keep in the cooler along with a few other lunchable items, she baked every morning—sweet rolls, buns, cookies, brownies, that sort of thing. Frank ate a lot of that and apparently never gained an ounce.
Maggie could hear Sully scraping out the gutters around the store. Seventy and up on a ladder, still working like a farmhand, cleaning the winter detritus away. That was the problem with March—a lot to clean up for the spring and summer. She escaped out to the porch to visit with Frank before Sully saw her sitting around and put her to work.
“What are you doing here?” Frank asked.
“I’m on vacation,” she said.
“Hmm. Damn fool time of year to take a vacation. Ain’t nothing to do now. Dr. Mathews comin’?”
“No. We’re not seeing each other anymore.”
“Hmm. That why you’re here during mud season? Lickin’ your wounds?”
“Not at all. I’m happy about it.”
“Yup. You look happy, all right.”
I might be better off cleaning gutters, she thought. So she turned the conversation to politics because she knew Frank had some very strong opinions and she could listen rather than answer questions. She spotted that guy again, the camper, sitting in his canvas camp chair outside his pop-up tent/trailer under a pull-out awning. His legs were stretched out and he was reading again. She noticed he had long legs.
She was just about to ask Frank how long that guy had been camping there when she noticed someone heading up the trail toward the camp. He had a big backpack and walking stick and something strange on his head. Maggie squinted. A bombardier’s leather helmet with earflaps? “Frank, look at that,” she said, leaning forward to stare.
The man was old, but old wasn’t exactly rare. There were a lot of senior citizens out on the trails, hiking, biking, skiing. In fact, if they were fit at retirement, they had the time and means. As the man got closer, age was only part of the issue.
“I best find Sully,” Frank said, getting up and going into the store.
As the man drew near it was apparent he wore rolled-up dress slacks, black socks and black shoes that looked like they’d be shiny church or office wear once the mud was cleaned off. And on his head a weird WWII aviator’s hat. He wore a ski jacket that looked to be drenched and he was flushed and limping.
Sully appeared on the porch, Beau wagging at his side, Frank following. “What the hell?”
“Yeah, that’s just wrong,” Maggie said.
“Ya think?” Sully asked. He went down the steps to approach the man, Maggie close on his heels, Frank bringing up the rear and Enid on the porch waiting to see what was up.
“Well, there, buddy,” Sully said, his hands in his pockets. “Where you headed?”
“Is this Camp Lejeune?”
Everyone exchanged glances. “Uh, that would be in North Carolina, son,” Sully said, though the man was clearly older than Sully. “You’re a little off track. Come up on the porch and have a cup of coffee, take off that pack and wet jacket. And that silly hat, for God’s sake. We need to make a phone call for you. What are you doing out here, soaking wet in your Sunday shoes?”
“Maybe I should wait a while, see if they come,” the man said, though he let himself be escorted to the porch.
“Who?” Maggie asked.
“My parents and older brother,” he said. “I’m to meet them here.”
“Bet they have ’em some real funny hats, too,” Frank muttered.
“Seems like you got a little confused,” Sully said. “What’s your name, young man?”