Page 11 of Your Every Wish
A grandmotherly lady with a mop of gray hair and a wardrobe straight out of the Chico’s catalog steps forward. “Let me show you around.”
“That would be great,” I say, resigned to the fact that the trailer park is the Cedar Pines Estates old Willy has left us. It’s not the other one. The better one. May as well make the best of it.
“Harry,” she says to the swimsuit man, “go fetch your golf cart. ”
Harry goes off to do her bidding as the group of bystanders closes in on us, sizing us up like we’re a juicy piece of steak. There doesn’t appear to be a person under sixty in the bunch.
“You gonna fix the pool?” a woman in a Santana concert tee with salt-and-pepper dreadlocks asks.
“I guess . . . yes, of course.” I say, then feel a sharp elbow in my side.
“We’re not the owners,” Kennedy says.
“But I thought you just said you inherited the place from your late father.” The cat woman cinches her robe tighter.
“Yes, but there’s still a lot of paperwork left to be done and several of Willy’s other children are contesting the will. So who knows if we’ll ever take ownership.” Kennedy catches my dazed expression and wills me with her eyes to keep my mouth shut.
I have no idea what her game is. There are no other heirs, according to Mr. Townsend.
Harry pulls up in a dirt-streaked golf cart and motions for us to hop in the back while the lady who volunteered to give us the tour takes the passenger seat. She introduces herself as Misty.
Harry steps on the gas and away we go down a semi-paved road. I say “semi-paved” because much of the asphalt is missing. It’s bumpy but the big pine trees that line the street are lovely. And there’s so much green space that for a fraction of a second I forget it’s a trailer park.
Misty points to a spot with a designated trailhead marker. “The trail travels through the entire eighty-six acres of park.”
“Does the creek run year-round?” I ask because all that water rushing over tumbled rocks is quite spectacular.
“Sure does. It’s called Puta Creek.”
“Doesn’tputamean ‘whore’ in Spanish?” Kennedy says and I kick her under the seat.
“I think so.” Misty turns so she can see us. “About halfway down is a small waterfall. Would you like to get out to see it?”
“Nah.”
I give Kennedy the stink eye. “I would.”
I follow Misty down the trail while Kennedy hangs back with Harry.
“Don’t mind your sister,” Misty says as we meander down the dirt path. “She’s got a lot on her plate right now.”
I cock my head to the side. How does she know anything about Kennedy? I just spent nearly three hours in a car with her and couldn’t tell you one thing about her.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what makes her think Kennedy has more on her plate than anyone else, when she says, “I can just tell, take my word for it. She’s dealing with stuff, bad stuff. Eventually she’ll open up about it, just give her time.”
Oookay.
I’m starting to think that everyone here is a little odd. But I kind of like it. Conventionality is overrated.
We reach the waterfall, which is stunning and so peaceful that I think it would be a great spot for a romantic picnic. Or a nap. A gentle breeze is blowing through the trees and despite the mild temperature, I can smell fall in the air. The leaves on some of the trees are already bright orange and gold.
“This is really nice.”
“Shall we move on to the bocce ball courts and clubhouse?”
Bocce ball? Clubhouse? Wow. So much for first impressions.
We scramble back into Harry’s golf cart and we’re off again, cruising around the property, which is marked with mobile homes of every stripe and color. Most of them appear a little worse for wear but are sort of charming in a shabby chic kind of way. I can’t help but notice, though, that there are a lot of weedy empty lots. The place is half empty.
