Finding Mr. Romantic

Chapter One, continued

She'd chosen her destination on its name alone. The man who rented her the RV gave her a booklet listing campgrounds in southern Indiana. She'd stopped reading, mind made up, when she saw her "mission" in print. She would commune with nature, set goals, and make a new beginning while Susan was gone. She and Mark were visiting his parents at their summer home in the Pocono Mountains.

From the time she and Marianne opened their boutique, Reflections, Cee had chosen to stay behind the scenes, ordering specialty items and jewelry, and doing the bookwork, while Marianne ran the shop and chose their lines of clothing. Her far-out tastes were what drew customers, she loved "selling," and a fashionista, she was perfect for the job. With the way they'd divided the work, it was easy for Cee to get away for a week, and Susan's trip worked right into her plans. The next camp sign was nearly hidden by tall grass. "Turn here for New Beginnings."

She negotiated the sharp turn onto a narrow road where trees converged overhead, forming a leafy tunnel with only an occasional splash of sunlight on her windshield. Gravel crunched beneath the wheels, and dust rose. She hit the power window button and clutched the steering wheel as gravel gave way to ruts.

Suddenly, sunshine spilled over her. Like golden honey, it filled her eyes and her heart. The clearing where she'd emerged lay at the top of a hill. To her right, long fingers of campsites reached out toward a dense stand of trees. At the bottom lay a clear blue lake bordered by deep emerald woods. What a heavenly place.

Leaning against the steering wheel, she studied the campground. Shiny RV's, rusty trailers, tent campers, and sleek mobiles sat parallel. They were too close to one another for her taste, but she was here to change.

A clearing with two buildings and a flagpole lay ahead. Baskets of produce and coolers marked BAIT sat in front of one. Candy and pop machines stood in front of the other. Two women sat on a bench in front of the roughly painted MARKET sign.

OFF CE. The I was burned out in the blue neon sign where Cee parked to pay her lot rental. The hefty woman behind the counter gave her a map. "You're in section Joy. Row 4. Lot D."

"Joy" sounded like a good omen, and not just because it was her middle name. So what if she was in the last row of the last section, in the next to the last lot? Row 4 sloped toward the woods. The dirt road was narrow and backing into Lot D looked tricky. Cee had never backed a vehicle of this size before, and perspiration beaded her forehead as she seesawed, trying to attain the correct angle. Drawing a tissue from her canvas purse and blotting her face, she looked around.

The blinds were closed on the windows of the silver mobile on C, and empty flower boxes lined the small porch. Its summer tenants must not have arrived yet. The rust-riddled trailer on E, the last lot, sat rakishly on the edge of the hill. Behind it, a hammock slung between two trees dangled precariously.

Her lot sloped and she didn't like the feel of loose dirt giving way below her wheels. Scrunching her eyes, she backed slowly.

The right rear wheel hit something and dropped off. Thrown against her shoulder harness, her foot clamped down on the accelerator. Panicked, she hit the brake and the motor home rocked. The engine ground. Wheels spun. Dust and gravel spattered. The RV settled off balance.

She accelerated gently, but it wouldn't go anywhere. Breaking a sweat, she rolled down the window for a breath of tranquility promised by the brochure.

Wind chimes danced and tinkled in the breeze from the porch of E. The hammock, curved to fit a body, shifted slightly. Only a risk taker or someone extremely tranquil would lie hanging over the hill.

***

John reached for Isadora, pulling her into his arms, crushing her to him.

He wanted her so badly, he almost dropped to his knees to beg her to make love. "Why?"

Nick Dennis waited for Isadora to answer. His fingers itchy on the keyboard, he stared at his computer screen and silently begged her to say something. She refused to cooperate. He beat a rapid tattoo on the scarred tabletop. Why wouldn't Isadora make love? She needed a convincing reason to keep John waiting. He was an intriguing hero, whom Nick understood completely, but Isadora was an unfathomable woman who was starting to tick him off.

He rose to pour himself another cup of mud. The trailer was so cramped, he could have reached the coffeepot without moving. Hell, he could cook, write, and use the john at the same time. But he needed to stretch. Isadora was pissing him off, not letting him inside her head. The women in the mysteries he wrote were all action and thought with their bodies, like the women he dated. Romantic heroines needed depth, or so the pink-paged writer's manual he'd surreptitiously purchased said.

He should never have made that fool bet, but he'd thought a love story would be a cinch to write. "Piece of cake," he told his cousin, Dell.

Nick paced six steps and bumped into the bed. He needed a bigger place to live, but the trailer was a loaner, his only cost the lot rental, and he liked the view. From the table where his computer sat, he could gaze down on the mirror-blue lake. From the open window over his bed, he could smell the fragrant pines, and at night, count stars and listen to crickets chirp.

Tearing his eyes from snowy white sails and glistening blue lake spray, Nick applied butt to chair. He could write and sell a romance novel by summer's end. He could win a year's free lodging in Dell's cabin on the other side of Neuman Lake. It was still early June and he had until August 31.

Finding Mr. Romantic, continued >>> | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 |

This story is copyright © Betty Jo Schuler, all rights reserved.