Page 2 of Chieftain
"This wouldn't be a bad place," mused Willa, our resident camping guru.
We stood atop a plateau in the trail, to our right a clearing large enough to accommodate our four tents for the night. Trees stood guard along the perimeter, and columns of sunlight pierced the canopy to rest upon the meadow.
"Let's get the tents out," Willa took charge as usual.
Tents.
I suppressed a cringe at the word. I never camped as a kid. My dad was outdoorsy, but my mother's idea of roughing it was a three-star hotel. My husband—make that my ex-piece of crap, sorry-ass, lying, cheating ex-husband—took our boys on adventures but always opted for rustic cabins instead of tents. Rick was too involved in making everything we did an educational experience rather than doing something for the pure joy of it. Asshole.
So here I stood, a divorced district attorney, just past my sixtieth birthday, about to spend my first night in a tent. An abode made of half-inch thick canvas that pretty much anythingwith a fang could rip through and eat me. Not to mention snakes. I wasn't about to mention snakes.
"Who's got the pump?" Agnes held something that looked like a massive, deflated balloon in her hands.
"I do," Clara announced, pulling a plastic and metal contraption from her canvas backpack. Her movements stilled, and she flinched at the grief flashing over her face. "It belonged to Curtis."
"Hey now," Agnes was at Clara's side in the time it took me to blink. "No tears on the trail—remember? We agreed."
We had agreed, but with four of us widowed, one divorced and the other involved in a heinous separation, it might have been folly's promise.
Clara was a trouper. She plastered on a smile, although the sadness haunted her deep brown eyes. Her husband Curtis died just eight years prior from a sudden heart attack.
"I say we don't talk about men at all," Agnes suggested as she wrestled with the contraption to inflate her air mattress.
"Well, that's impossible," Pearl whooped.
"How about we don't talk about men unless they're either unattainable or fictional," I suggested a compromise.
"Are you insinuating I'll never have a liaison with Keanu Reeves," Agnes narrowed her eyes at me.
"Well, not insinuating exactly," I teased, drawing an aggravatedhumphfrom her. Of course, I wouldn't be surprised to find out Agnes had a fling with the celebrity. She was strikingly beautiful with startling blue eyes, platinum blonde hair, and the most flawless skin and curvaceous figure money could buy. Agnes could pass as being in her early forties,although I knew she was a year older than me—such were the perks of having a plastic surgeon for a husband.
Personally, I'd take crow's feet and flabby underarms before I'd stay married to a man who cheated on me. Then again, Agnes did a bit of revenge cheating on her own, so who was I to judge? Personally, the humiliation of finding out Rick made a habit of carrying on with a new student every semester was enough to send me packing. I'd never forget standing in line for the bathroom at Sanford Stadium behind a group of co-eds comparing notes on what it was like to have sex with my husband. The worse part was finding out everyone at the University of Georgia knew their band director was an avid adulterer. Thankfully my sons were off at college when the truth came out, so I bore the shame alone.
"Who's cooking?" Daisy lifted a pack of hot dogs.
"That's a stupid question," Willa laughed.
"Why do I always have to cook?" Pearl crumbled.
"Because you're a chef," Daisy stated the obvious with a giggle.
"And you own one of the best restaurants in Atlanta," Agnes added. "Carlos and I were there just the other night."
"Carlos?" Willa regarded Agnes with a cocked brow. "Is he the new flavor of the month?"
"Yes." Agnes gave wicked shimmy. "And a spicy Latin flavor at that."
Daisy's beleaguered moan made us laugh.
With the scent of heavily spiced hot dogs wafting through the air, we went about setting up camp. Willa roped me into helping her with the tents while Clara and Agnes blew up theair mattresses, and Daisy helped Pearl cook. By the time the sun dipped below the tops of the towering pines to the west, the camp was set, and a buffet of hot dogs, potato salad, and fresh fruit awaited. Dinner conversation, as usual, was a dissection of the latest episodes of the Outlander television show and whether or not it lived up to the source material. While I thought the show did a decent job adapting the enormity of the prose, Pearl was never satisfied.
Due to the heat, we kept the campfire low, primarily embers enough to keep away the bugs and other creepie crawlies since we didn't need warmth. We lay sprawled atop blankets enjoying the approaching night. It was too early to sleep, at least for me, despite the fact I couldn't stop my face from splitting into a yawn every few minutes. Lightening bugs flittered about, one daring too close to my head. I swatted, intent on keeping the beast from nesting in my chin-length curls.
"The stars are so pretty," Daisy sighed as I did battle with the bug.
She was right, it was a clear night, and while the sky hadn't morphed into the inky black of deep night, the stars shone like pinpricks of bright light.
"Just think," Clara sighed. "We're sleeping under the stars like Jamie and Claire did hundreds of times."
