Part 2 (2/2)

”In sync? Isn't that the name of a has-been boyband?” I said with a snort.

”Would you get serious?” Taylor said. ”Every year a biker is injured or even killed on the ride. Inexperience can be deadly.”

Wasn't she just little Mary Suns.h.i.+ne?

”And there's the equipment you'll require,” Mary continued.

h.e.l.lo. Again with the spandex?

”Doesn't Rick Townsend usually ride?” Aunt Reggie offered. ”I bet he'll know exactly what you'll need.”

This time it was my cheeks that did a burn-baby-burn number.

”I doubt he'll be all that eager to help,” I said, tucking into my ice cream again. When you deliberately avoided someone you'd been, well, intimate with, that person probably wouldn't be in the mood to offer you bicycle safety lessons.

Aunt Reggie frowned. ”Have you two been going at it again?”

I almost choked on my ice cream.

”Tressa?” Taylor pounded me on the back. ”Are you okay?”

”Okay? Of course. I'm fine. Just fine. Tip-top. Dandy. In the pink. Mahvelous.”

Babbling for all I was worth.

”You two aren't feuding again, are you?” Aunt Reggie persisted.

”Feuding?” I suddenly realized Aunt Reggie's ”going at it” reference was about our history of pistols at twenty paces rather than my recent surrender at sea. ”Oh, no. No. We're past all that, Aunt Reggie.”

And then some.

”So why wouldn't he be eager to help?” Taylor the human I-smell-something-fishy detector zoned in on my earlier fl.u.s.tered bl.u.s.ter like my gammy does on the dessert table at church potlucks.

Okay. Me, too.

”No reason other than he's probably ber busy,” I said. ”'Tis the boating season, after all.”

”Well, I'm sure we'd all rest easier if you found someone with experience to mentor you, Tressa,” Aunt Reggie said.

”Maybe Lance Armstrong's looking for a daunting, new challenge,” Taylor suggested with a wink at Aunt Reggie.

”Thank you both for your concern, but I've managed to survive bucking horses, killer geese, broken down fair rides, and runaway farm implements and lived to tell the tale. I think I can tame a tandem.”

Taylor shrugged. ”If you say so.”

Aunt Reggie reached out and patted my hand. ”Of course, you can, Tressa. Why, you're a regular little engine that could!”

I stared into my Freezee.

I think I can. I think I can.

I think I'm...screwed.

I shoved my ice cream aside, grabbed my keys, and left the Freeze. I needed to clear my head, approach this latest challenge in a responsible manner.

The time had come for a woman-to-woman talk with myself. One of those inner dialogues that can be so helpful and cathartic. Mine went something like this: Cheerleader Tressa: You can do this!

Debbie Downer Tressa: You have to do this.

Cheerleader Tressa: Think of the sense of accomplishment!

Debbie Downer Tressa: Think of the hemorrhoids.

Cheerleader Tressa: Be a team player!

Debbie Downer Tressa: Girl, you've never played well with others.

Cheerleader Tressa: You'll meet new people!

Debbie Downer Tressa: You'll be riding with a guy whose knuckles will drag on the pavement.

Cheerleader Tressa: It's only a week.

Debbie Downer Tressa: It's a whole friggin' week!

Cheerleader Tressa: It's a matter of pride.

Debbie Downer Tressa: It's a matter of your bottom line.

I sighed and Googled the number for the New Holland News.

”h.e.l.lo. Drew Van Vleet. Tressa Turner here. We need to talk.”

”Well, well, well, if it isn't Witchiepoo, Grandville's very own tango queen. Hey, Witchie Woman. Dipped any old men lately?”

Wham! Bam!

What was that, you ask? That was the sound of Debbie Downer Tressa b.i.t.c.h-slapping Cheerleader Tressa.

Rah.

CHAPTER THREE.

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