Chapter 3

There was a text from Aunt June on my phone the next morning. Hey, Stinker, or should I call you lady-killer now?

I just groaned while my fingers typed, It’s all lies and innuendo. The old man’s hearing and eyesight are obviously failing.

The phone rang, so I answered it to the sound of laughter on the other end.

“You need to be more careful with what you say. There’s video evidence of a young Don Juan romancing a gorgeous redheaded server up at a restaurant in Spokane.”

“Please tell me that it’s not on the internet.”

Aunt June got serious for a moment, “No. Your dad explained the situation last night when he sent the file. I guess neither of the two lovebirds realized they were being recorded.” Her mirth returned, “I showed it to Frank this morning and he just shrugged and said something about camp stoves at REI. You, nephew, are a stud. Just make sure you don’t leave a trail of broken hearts across the country.”

If she was going to make fun of me, then I wasn’t really happy about talking to her. I mumbled something about having to take a shower and said goodbye to my favorite aunt. I showered and performed all the other functions that make us feel human in the morning, leaving my room finally to spot Dad in the common area.

“I blame you,” were the first words from my mouth.

There was a pause, then a grin, “Well, good morning to you too. I take it you’ve had contact with your aunt.” I didn’t like that twinkle in his eyes. It had been a long time since I had seen it there and I was just beginning to remember what it meant.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing, although you may want to make sure your phone is charged for the drive. I’ll take over today so you can talk to Grandma and Grandpa Edwards.” Those were Mom’s parents who lived in California; we would be stopping in to see them on our way home.

I argued with him a little while we packed our gear and prepared to check out. Ultimately, it was pointless. The damage, whatever it may amount to, had already been done. Besides, it was mostly good natured ribbing ... at my expense. Well, as I’m sure Sun Tzu must have said in those truisms of his, ‘payback is a bitch’.

We checked out before 8:00 am and rambled down the road, looking to find a Denny’s, or IHOP, or something like that. Instead we found Trudy’s Breakfast House where we had a good meal, light on carbs so we wouldn’t fall asleep while driving. A quick stop at a grocery store made sure the cooler in the second row was stocked with an assortment of water, soft drinks and snacks. The Tahoe also got some liquid refreshment herself along with the gunk wiped from her eyes, and we were soon moving again.

We intended to make Virginia City, MT today, so this morning’s drive was only going to be to Missoula where lunch was to be found. My cell was charged, and I used one of the foodie apps to find a deli that would keep us from becoming roly-polies along the way. Sandwiches and salads would go a long way to keeping guts from developing if all we ate was restaurant food.

The road beckoned – satellite radio provided a good backdrop for conversation as we rolled along at just about 5 mph over the limit. We talked about the prior evening, with Dad trying to get more of the scoop on how I had learned my skills. I told him about dancing with young and old at the studio, how after a first awkward month, Mom had encouraged me to find something special about each of the ladies in my arms and connect with them over that.

It turned out that the women in the classes came for a variety of different reasons. For some, it was so they could have an evening with their guys, learning to dance and experience something new together. Those were the ones who appreciated a respectful touch and distance. For others, particularly the younger ones, it was a way for their mothers to usher them into their teenage years and past that coltish stage that some had to endure. Mom made sure I knew to make them the center of my attention as we would waltz, foxtrot, or whatever across the floor. The middle-aged women would sometimes come as a group and they were clearly out to have fun.

Prior to spending my afternoons working for Dad, I would have to stop off there on my way home from school. This was in middle school, when I still attended at a brick and mortar building. Mom didn’t want me going home to sit there unsupervised for several hours. I can’t say I minded, since she would begin ballet classes for the girls my age at about the time I arrived. Since middle school was about the time that I really started to notice girls, that worked out well for me. I even had to lift the slim, young, leotard-clad teenagers for some of the ballet moves. Yeah, pure torture.

Later, when I started the independent study program, Mom would make me bring homework with me and sit in her office to do it. That wasn’t bad, and there were many breaks for some escort duty on the floor. Mornings worked best for some of the older students, particularly the octogenarians, and Mom had set it up as an opportunity for exercise. What I hadn’t realized until this conversation with Dad, was that she was teaching more than just her students.

There was a happy expression on his face as he drove and we talked about my interaction with her. I finally had to ask, “What’s with the goofy look?”

He took a moment. “I guess I’m just happy that you and your mom had a chance to bond like that. She never would give me details of your days together, saying it was mother-son time. I always felt bad for her when you started working for me. It seemed like I was stealing you away to teach you to be a man. What I didn’t know is that all along she had been teaching you to be a gentleman.”

And that was it. That was exactly it. We sat quietly for about twenty miles as we each basked in our memories. Our time was interrupted by the ring of a cell phone. Glancing down, I saw it was Grandma and Grandpa calling. Dad just told me to put it on the Tahoe’s Bluetooth.

“Grandma, Grandpa, how are you?”

Their voices came through in stereo sound on the speaker system. “Good, we’re good. How are you and your dad doing, Tim?”

I glanced over at the driver’s seat where he was busily grinning, “We’re good, too. I have to let you know that you’re on speaker and he’s sitting beside me.”

Grandpa’s tone turned gruff, “Well, I have some words for him. What were you thinking, teaching your boy all those advanced techniques James?”

Okay, obviously someone had been sharing the video.

Dad just laughed, “Believe it or not Laurence, I had nothing to do with that. It came as quite a surprise to me too. It was your precious Jennifer who gave him the master’s class in flirting.”

“I told you that, Laurence!” Grandma chimed in, “He was too in tune with that young woman for that to have been learned from a man.”

Dad’s indignant, “Hey,” was echoed almost immediately by one from Grandpa.

Grandma ignored them, “Now Tim, if you really want to make an impression next time, keep holding her hand as you stand up to leave and make sure you have something nice to say. Lean in so she can feel your hot breath on her neck as you tell her how much you enjoyed her company.”

There were sounds of protest from the other seat in the Tahoe. “Dottie, she was five years older than Tim and in college. I don’t need him making an impression like that until he’s off on his own and I’m not around to witness it.”

At the other end, I heard Grandpa mumbling something to his wife about young people, and putting ideas in heads. So far, all of their fun had been at my expense.

“Yeah, that works,” I supplied, “but you have to be in position to catch her when her knees buckle. I’ll show you when we get to California.” There was only momentary silence before Dad and Grandpa began bellowing laughter at the tables I turned on Grandma.

Thankfully we let that conversational topic drop, spending some time instead talking about the trip and the places we were going. I filled them in on our expectation for Virginia City and Bozeman along with our plans for camping in Yellowstone.

“This will be the first time in a while that Dad and I have been camping, so it may be a bit rough, food-wise and all.” That reminded me. “Speaking of food, do you think maybe I could call you every so often and get a little help on making a dish? Neither of us can cook like Mom did, and if you could teach us this summer, we could have that little bit of her to keep around.”

I could hear Grandma’s smile through the phone, “I’d love that. Let me know when you’re ready and we can start. I’ll text you a list of supplies you’ll need. Have fun camping.”

We all said our goodbyes which was timely as we were nearing Missoula and lunch.

I glanced to my left to see a smile beaming at me. “That was a good thing you did, Tim, with the cooking request. I’m proud of you.”

We got back on the road soon after eating. The deli we had selected was a smart choice, leaving neither of us feeling heavy or bloated. That was good, since we had been sitting for a full day now and had little to do in the way of physical activity. I took the wheel for a stretch in the afternoon, giving Dad the opportunity to find a small hotel in Virginia City that came highly recommended. Our plan was to stay the night, and then in the morning, do the touristy stuff for the day, returning to the hotel for another night after which we’d move on to Bozeman and the museum there.

That’s exactly what we ended up doing. The hotel was great – quiet and with a home-spun feel to it. The proprietors looked to be in their early 60’s but were still energetic and eager to extol the praises of their little town. In the morning, Dad and I hit one or two of the tourist sites, but the old west didn’t hold a lot of appeal to me and we were quickly looking for other things to do.

We had just finished lunch at a restaurant by the hotel and were lounging around, feeling tired. “Tim, grab your backpack, go to the Tahoe and fill it with some waters and snacks for the both of us,” Dad said as he strode purposefully toward the front desk of the hotel at which we were staying. I shrugged and did as he asked. I made sure to put some sweatshirts in there too.

Dad appeared beside me as I was closing the pack. “Come on, apparently there’s a trail that leads towards Mt. Baldy just south of here. It’s about a ten mile hike, but I’m game if you are.”

He leaned into the SUV to grab both his and my hiking boots that I had gotten for us at the outfitters the previous week. In anticipation of something like this, we had been wearing them almost constantly in the run up to this trip to break them in. I found them easier to get used to than I had initially anticipated, but when I thought about it, I realized they weren’t so different than the steel-toed work boots I normally wore. In fact, they were easier on the feet.

Properly attired, we headed out to where the trail started. It was pretty well marked which made it easy to follow, but there was still a lot of huffing and puffing as we climbed. Every so often we would stop to rest, Dad invariably pointing something out to me that I might have missed. As he talked, I began to see the beauty in those things he noticed: the soft curve of a weathered deadfall, the jarring rightness of the juxtaposition of death and life in the patch of fire-ravaged forest on a hill nearby, the burnt trees standing silent sentinel over the new growth below them. His architect’s eye would find these contrasts, making me aware of the world around me. Of course, there was more to our hike than that. We had to back away at one point when we saw a black bear just off the side of the trail where there seemed to be some early-producing blueberries. Then on the way back, we got lost for a few minutes, but luckily we were near enough to the highway already to make our way to it and back into town.