and work-shops. So the westward migration had paid off for the Stemples, not unlike the California gold rush did for some lucky “there’s gold in them thar hills” prospec-tors way back when.
The Stemple home was a three-level structure with kitchen, dining, living room and large great room on the walk-in level, three bedrooms and two baths up, and one bedroom downstairs off a long rec room. A collection of haunting yet compelling Native Ameri-can kachina dolls and masks were displayed through-out the home.
I wheeled my suitcase to the short set of stairs lead-ing to the lower level and looked at the sleeper sofa with a frown, bummed that Ranger Rick and Naughty Nick would be enjoying all the perks of a full-service hotel while I’d be fighting for blankets and bed space with a cousin so not of the kissin’ variety. Inanely I wondered if my future stepcousin had his own room with a queen or was stuck rooming with the groom. And I wondered if I had the courage to ask.
I got a whiff of something very bad and winced. Eau de Ralph—and I don’t mean Lauren. The Townsend twerp. When he wasn’t shoving his DVD player in my face yelling “you gotta see this!”—“this” involving slithering serpents and flashing fangs—or purpose-fully wafting his odorous shirt front in my face, the kid chattered nonstop.
“Uncle Rick says your nickname is ‘Calamity Jayne.’ He says you’re always in some calamity or another. What does that mean? How did you get that nick-name? Do you like it? How come you don’t look like your sister? Your sister’s hair is shiny and straight. Why does yours have all those kinks? Were you adopted? How did it feel to find all those bodies? Did you get re-ally scared? Did you pee in your pants? Do you like my Uncle Rick? Lots of girls do. He’s had tons of girl-friends. Dad says the state should start making him buy doe tags to help the state coughers. What does that mean, anyway? Coughers? Are there like people who are paid to cough for the state? I could do that job. My mom says I’m a mucous factory.”
That I could believe. By the time we drove into Uncle Ben’s driveway, I was ready to do a Thelma and Louise.
I took my hoodie off, unzipped my suitcase, and rummaged around for a clean T-shirt. I grabbed a white T-shirt trimmed in turquoise that read, It’s all about the boots with a pair of silhouetted cowboy boots. I love novelty shirts, don’t you?
I had pulled my contaminated T-shirt over my head and tossed it aside when I heard a mucousy clearing of the throat and turned to find Nick Townsend, who should be known out west as “he who has a large oral cavity,” staring at me, the telltale flush of embarrass-ment on his cheeks. A Townsend who blushes? Who’d-a thunk it?
“Uh, your aunt told me to come down here to use the restroom,” the youngster explained, averting his eyes from the area of my sports bra.
“In there.” I nodded toward the john and the kid bolted.
“Scared another one off with your striptease, huh, Calamity?” I caught sight of Rick Townsend at the bot-tom of the stairway. He took a couple steps in my di-rection. “Maybe your routine needs some practice. I’m willing to offer my services. You know. Observe and critique.”
I shook my head. “I just bet you would,” I said, re-calling his nephew’s comment about the collection of doe tags and thinking Townsend had probably already been treated to a private show a time or two. “But I’m very selective about who I perform for. Besides, I’m an engaged woman, remember? I wouldn’t want you to feel dirty,” I added.
“About that,” Townsend said, taking a few more steps in my direction. “I get why you agreed to pretend to be Manny DeMarco’s girlfriend. It was a sweet ges-ture. But what I don’t get is why it’s taking so long for you to break it off with him.”
“It’s complicated,” I said. “His aunt was away all win-ter and the timing just didn’t seem right. Now Manny is
The Stemple home was a three-level structure with kitchen, dining, living room and large great room on the walk-in level, three bedrooms and two baths up, and one bedroom downstairs off a long rec room. A collection of haunting yet compelling Native Ameri-can kachina dolls and masks were displayed through-out the home.
I wheeled my suitcase to the short set of stairs lead-ing to the lower level and looked at the sleeper sofa with a frown, bummed that Ranger Rick and Naughty Nick would be enjoying all the perks of a full-service hotel while I’d be fighting for blankets and bed space with a cousin so not of the kissin’ variety. Inanely I wondered if my future stepcousin had his own room with a queen or was stuck rooming with the groom. And I wondered if I had the courage to ask.
I got a whiff of something very bad and winced. Eau de Ralph—and I don’t mean Lauren. The Townsend twerp. When he wasn’t shoving his DVD player in my face yelling “you gotta see this!”—“this” involving slithering serpents and flashing fangs—or purpose-fully wafting his odorous shirt front in my face, the kid chattered nonstop.
“Uncle Rick says your nickname is ‘Calamity Jayne.’ He says you’re always in some calamity or another. What does that mean? How did you get that nick-name? Do you like it? How come you don’t look like your sister? Your sister’s hair is shiny and straight. Why does yours have all those kinks? Were you adopted? How did it feel to find all those bodies? Did you get re-ally scared? Did you pee in your pants? Do you like my Uncle Rick? Lots of girls do. He’s had tons of girl-friends. Dad says the state should start making him buy doe tags to help the state coughers. What does that mean, anyway? Coughers? Are there like people who are paid to cough for the state? I could do that job. My mom says I’m a mucous factory.”
That I could believe. By the time we drove into Uncle Ben’s driveway, I was ready to do a Thelma and Louise.
I took my hoodie off, unzipped my suitcase, and rummaged around for a clean T-shirt. I grabbed a white T-shirt trimmed in turquoise that read, It’s all about the boots with a pair of silhouetted cowboy boots. I love novelty shirts, don’t you?
I had pulled my contaminated T-shirt over my head and tossed it aside when I heard a mucousy clearing of the throat and turned to find Nick Townsend, who should be known out west as “he who has a large oral cavity,” staring at me, the telltale flush of embarrass-ment on his cheeks. A Townsend who blushes? Who’d-a thunk it?
“Uh, your aunt told me to come down here to use the restroom,” the youngster explained, averting his eyes from the area of my sports bra.
“In there.” I nodded toward the john and the kid bolted.
“Scared another one off with your striptease, huh, Calamity?” I caught sight of Rick Townsend at the bot-tom of the stairway. He took a couple steps in my di-rection. “Maybe your routine needs some practice. I’m willing to offer my services. You know. Observe and critique.”
I shook my head. “I just bet you would,” I said, re-calling his nephew’s comment about the collection of doe tags and thinking Townsend had probably already been treated to a private show a time or two. “But I’m very selective about who I perform for. Besides, I’m an engaged woman, remember? I wouldn’t want you to feel dirty,” I added.
“About that,” Townsend said, taking a few more steps in my direction. “I get why you agreed to pretend to be Manny DeMarco’s girlfriend. It was a sweet ges-ture. But what I don’t get is why it’s taking so long for you to break it off with him.”
“It’s complicated,” I said. “His aunt was away all win-ter and the timing just didn’t seem right. Now Manny is
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