Page 19 of Butterflies and Hazel Eyes
“Most women don’t drive around the country in a 1964 Dodge motor home,” I volleyed.
“How did you come by old Myrtle?” he asked, his body twisted toward me.
I raised a brow, surprised by his question. “It’s a funny story. It was a surfer dude’s gnarly haven. He’d redone the interior in the nautical theme and used it to drive from beach to beach with his boards on the top.”
“So how did you get it?”
I laughed and buried my hand in my hair. “Like, dude, he needed money for the dudette he knocked up while being a gnarly surfer dude. I was backpacking through California at the time and hated every minute of it. When I happened upon the motor home for sale, I counted out the cash into his hand and never looked back. That was six years ago now, and she just keeps humming along.”
“You’ve certainly lived an interesting life to date, Charity,” he said, laughter filling his voice. “As for this truck, it wasn’t nearly as exciting. I picked it up at an auction shortly after I graduated college. It was being repossessed, so I got it for a song.”
I ran my hand across the red and white leather bench seat. “You’ve taken good care of it. Sitting in it lets me create childhood memories in my mind.”
“Come again?” he asked, his brows knitting in the most adorable way.
I stared out the window rather than make eye contact with him. The whole idea was a bit ridiculous, but now I had to answer him. “It’s the kind of truck I picture my grandpa would have driven back in the day, if I had a grandpa. He would have picked me up and taken me for ice cream or down to the pond to fish. He’d throw his old dog, Barney, in the back, and we’d drive down to the five-and-dime or the feedstore.”
He rubbed my arm for a moment before his hand fell to the seat. “I’m sorry you have to make up a wonderful childhood rather than have real memories of it. You can feature my truck in them as much as you’d like, as long as you share your creative stories with me.”
I leaned against the door to take the pressure off my overfull tummy while he started the truck and headed toward the campground. Mojo sat on the floor of the truck and peered up at me with great confusion. I rubbed his big head to soothe myself as well as him.
“You’ve made a few references to your family. Was it really that bad?”
A sarcastic chuckle left my lips. “Well, let’s see. My mother decided tofind herselfwhen she was twenty-five, which left five-year-old me with my dad, who was the ripe old age of fifty-five. I’m pretty sure when the newness of the older man–younger woman thing wore off, she changed her mind about the feasibility of a long-term relationship with him. Who wants to be tied down to a guy who had more hair on his legs than his head and wore his belt around his nipples? My dad subsisted on a military pension, which he drank away every month. We lived in an old run-down apartment building where we sometimes had hot water, but we always had mice and roaches. If it weren’t for the neighbors, I probably wouldn’t have survived my childhood. They fed me and gave me their kids’ hand-me-down clothes and shoes. Obviously, my father never won Father of the Year.”
“Wow,” he said as he turned onto the road leading to the campground. “I didn’t have a father and my childhood was kind of crappy, but you win the prize for the crappiest without contest.” He pulled the truck into a spot in front of the motor home and killed the engine.
“Thanks, I think?” I asked on half a laugh. I unbuckled my seat belt, and Mojo whined low in his throat until I opened the door and he hopped down.
“Do I get to see the inside of the infamous Myrtle the Turtle?”
I peeked over at the motor home and bit my lip, worried he’d struggle to get up the steps. “You’re welcome to come in and meet Myrtle. Just be careful.”
I never should have doubted his abilities. He was up the two steps and into the motor home before I finished securing the door open. When I walked in, he was gazing around the space appreciatively. “This is cool. I don’t even need the crutches. It’s small enough I can hold on to the counters.”
I grinned as I leaned on the wall in my bedroom. “I was living the tiny-home life long before it was cool.”
He eyed the dorm fridge, three-burner stove, and bucket-sized stainless steel sink before he spoke. “Maybe, but I think it’s perfect for you. Everything is Charity sized.”
I chuckled as he lowered himself to the red Naugahyde couch. “You’re not wrong there,” I agreed as I ducked into my bedroom. He had informed me I needed my hat, hiking boots, sunscreen, and a rain parka because on Lake Superior it could decide to rain in the blink of an eye. He wasn’t kidding either. I’d already experienced the change-on-a-dime weather in the short time I’d been here. Sunny one minute, raining the next, and then sunny again. It was like Mother Nature was suffering some severe mental distress.
“You should put her on the ferry over to Madeline Island. People take RVs over there all the time and camp out for a weekend. There are tons of little shops, great restaurants, and neat places to hike. If you haven’t been there, you shouldn’t leave the area until you go,” he informed me from where he sat.
“I’ll add it to my bucket list. I’m searching for more fun in my life, and that sounds like a blast. I’m glad you don’t mind doing these things with me. I know you’ve probably done them one hundred times already. It’s always nicer to have a buddy to share in the experience, though.”
I stopped speaking long enough to yank my shirt over my head when he muttered something I couldn’t quite make out. It sounded like,Great, now I’m a buddy,but I couldn’t be sure.
Gulliver cleared his throat. “After we finish the website, we’ll go over for a weekend. We’ll make it our reward for a job well done.”
I opened the accordion door from my bedroom and fastened it to the wall. “I think you need it as much as I do,” I said, standing in front of him. Even sitting, he had to look down at me, which was something I was used to. “For the record, I don’t think of you as a buddy. I think of you as a friend who could be more. Someone I enjoy spending time with and who I’m attracted to, both physically and intellectually. I can’t define it more than that right now.”
“Understood,” he said, taking my hands. “And for the record, I feel the same. Also, for the record, you’re awfully darn cute in your little outfit,” he said, tugging on my khaki hiking shorts.
I did a curtsy at his compliment. “Thank you, thank you,” I joked, grabbing a sun hat from the closet. “I’m packing a pair of pants in my sleeping bag in case it gets cool.”
“Sleeping bag?” he asked, one brow up in the air.
I held up the blue bag rolled tightly and tied with a black string. “Mojo will want to sleep on something soft in the boat. He’s not an adventurous kind of guy.”
