Part 12 (1/2)

”Too rich for my expense account,” I said. I could see the fireworks now if I submitted a receipt to Stan for a fifty-dollar bottle of beer.

On the other hand, where was the harm in having a bit of fun at Stingy Stan's expense?

I grabbed my phone, hit the camera b.u.t.ton, opened the fridge again, and cautiously removed the Valley of the Kings brew. I put it to my lips, held the camera up and hit the little camera icon.

Click.

A few maneuvers later and the picture appeared on my blog where Stan was sure to see it and go ballistic.

I gently set Tut back where I found him.

”Blue Moon's more Barbie's speed,” Manny said.

I eyed the Blue Moon bottles lined up on the refrigerator shelf.

”Three bucks each tops,” Manny said.

”You're sure it's okay?” I asked.

”Go for it,” Manny said.

I grabbed a bottle, sashayed over to the luxurious sectional and sat. I lifted the bottle to my lips.

”Ahh. This is the life,” I said, sitting back and surveying the splendor, not one bit guilt-ridden for giving up my seat in Uncle Frank's Suburban in lieu of this sweet ride. I brought the bottle to my lips again and felt the bulge of the small box Rick had given me before we'd said our goodbyes.

I set the bottle in a built-in beverage holder and reached for the small package. I examined it.

It couldn't be a ring.

Could it?

It didn't look like a ring box.

I performed a mental head b.u.mp. I was at it again, imagining things-connecting dots that didn't go together-leap-frogging to far-fetched, fairy tale endings that proved to be no more than a children's fable.

An amateur profiler could see a pattern here.

I'd done the same thing on the cruise-with near fatal results.

Now here I was again. Making a.s.sumptions. Reading more into the story. Losing perspective. Tressa Turner's very own production of Fantasy Island: The Sequel.

I took another long drink of Blue Moon-an apt ale given my present angst-and unwrapped the package. Tucked inside was a silver chain. I pulled the chain out and held it in front of me. Attached to the chain was a delicate, adorable, infinitely precious racc.o.o.n.

Tears stung my eyes, the lovely tell-tale nose drip threatening to drip-drop at any moment. d.a.m.n. If I didn't get a grip, I would be literally crying in my beer.

I snuffed up the snot and cradled the racc.o.o.n charm in my hand. I turned it over. Inscribed on the back were two words: For luck.

I made a grab for the tissues housed in another built-in and mopped at my eyes and nose.

”Biker Barbie okay?” Manny asked, checking me out in the rear-view mirror.

Was I?

Let's recap: My parents were on the outs.

My sister was playing word games with my psyche.

My Maybe Mr. Right was keeping me guessing.

And me?

I was about to explore a strange, new world: A reds.h.i.+rted, Trekkie stroker spinning across Iowa on a fire engine red bicycle built for two.

Hmm. Was I okay?

I am a Vulcan.

I feel no pain.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

”Isn't this something? Look at all these people! This is insane!”

I took a drink of my draft and made a face. The observation came from a wannabe cowgirl who looked all of twelve.

Hmm.

Insane...

A biking virgin agrees to ride a tandem across Iowa in July?

If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks likes a duck...

Yup.

Insanity.

And that flirtation with madness currently found me sardined inside a vast, canopied tent-like structure in the middle of a Boy Scout camp that bordered the wide Missouri, drinking beer (so not the good stuff), munching on peanuts, and listening to a so-so country western band tw.a.n.g a totally lame TribRide version of Willie Nelson's oldie, but goodie about being on the road again.

Don't get me wrong. Normally, you give me a beer, some munchies, and a good ol' boy band playing a song you can two-step to, and I'm as happy as my labs when I bring them ”lab leftovers” from Uncle Frank's kitchen.

Normally, I wasn't facing the sobering prospect of a statewide tandem bike ride with a journalistic jerk with a grudge.

All right. So I'd made Drew Van Vleet look like the contemporary equivalent of the journalist who'd proclaimed some other dude president when Truman actually won. It was like that song I couldn't get out of my head.

He'd had it comin'.