Part 29 (1/2)

”We're not taking your deal, Keelie,” Taylor said. ”Go peddle your snake oil somewhere else.”

For a second Keelie acted like she didn't know what to say. She shrugged.

”Have it your way,” she said. ”And don't forget to check out the YouTube link on my page. I know you'll both 'like' it.” Keelie blew us both an air kiss. ”Muaw!”

I stared at Taylor.

”You know what this means,” I said.

She nodded. ”That I'm seeing you in a whole, new light?”

”It means your secret crush isn't gonna be a secret anymore.”

Taylor shrugged. ”Who believes anything you see on the Internet?” she said.

We started walking across the sand volleyball court.

”How did you know I was considering Keelie's deal?” I asked.

”I could see it in your face.”

I sighed. Just once I'd like to pull off a poker face.

”So, we're good?” I asked.

”You still need a muzzle,” Taylor pointed out.

”And you could use a chill pill now and then.” I looked around. ”So, where did everyone hightail it to?”

”By now, Frankie and Dixie are probably sacked out in the Suburban. I have no idea where Van Vleet disappeared to. And your little artist friend? Last I saw, he was up to his knees in sand, creating art. Sand art, that is. He's actually pretty good, too.”

I did a forehead b.u.mp.

”If only we'd challenged the Red Queen to a sand sculpture contest, we would have won, hands down,” Taylor said. ”Kenny's sand sculpture of little Miss Reality Star is pretty amazing. I took a picture if you want to check it out.”

I shook my head. I'd had enough of Reality Red to last a good long time. What I needed was a shower and a place to crash.

We walked back to the Mini-Freeze in silence. Out of nowhere, Taylor grabbed me and gave me a quick squeeze that just qualified as a hug and hurried into the Mini-Freeze.

I stared after her.

Taylor wasn't touchy-feelie.

Taylor was no hugger.

Taylor certainly didn't squeeze.

Note to Tressa. Check Uncle Frank's saltshakers. We could be dealing with the sodium-addicted, shape-s.h.i.+fting alien from Planet M-113.

Darn it. Where was the tricorder when you needed it?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

Winterset. Birthplace of John Wayne. Epicenter to a collection of historic covered bridges made famous in a bestselling book and hugely popular movie.

The Bridges of Madison County. Synonymous with...romance. Sigh.

I don't remember much about the movie, except it had Clint Eastwood and Meryl Streep in it. I do recall the hoopla. I especially recall a brouhaha erupting in our happy home when my mom and my gammy asked their respective husbands to take them to the movie-and to actually stay and watch it with them.

I was around six at the time. Although a bit hazy, my recollections go something like this: Grandpa Will: ”That's not the kind of movie real men go to. That's one of those chick flicks.”

Gammy: ”Chick flick? There's no poultry in the movie, Will. It's got Clint Eastwood in it. You like Clint Eastwood. And that actress with the funny name. Merle something.”

Grandpa Will: ”Does Eastwood have a six-gun strapped to his side? Does he carry a 44 Magnum? Does he call the bad guys 'punk' and let loose with a swear word now and then?”

Mom: ”Clint Eastwood plays a photographer in the film, William.”

Dad: ”Oh? Field and Stream?”

Mom: ”No. National Geographic.”

Father and Son Turner: ”Chick flick. Count us out.”

Literary and film critics aside, every year visitors from around the globe converge on the county, map in hand, to visit the bridges made famous by the book and movie. (An Oprah-on-location extravaganza cinched this slice of Americana's place as the budget-friendly romantic hotspot.) While I loved the historic bridges dotting the rural landscape around Winterset, for me, the city's attraction has always been John Wayne. I ”heart” John Wayne.

Born to Clyde Morrison, a local pharmacist, and his wife, Mary, ”Duke” lived in Winterset until he was six, when the family moved to California. The rest, as they say, is movie history. Duke's birthplace, now a museum complete with tours and gift shop, was also a popular local attraction.

Winterset, Iowa. Tourist Mecca? You bet your boots, pilgrim.

In keeping with the western flavor of a town that produced the all-time most famous box office cowboy ever, the host city planned an all-day John Wayne movie marathon and old-fas.h.i.+oned barn dance-entertainment hand-chosen for this good ol' girl. It was a cowgirl's night out. I planned to drink a little, dance a little, watch my movie hero teach the bad guys a lesson-and hit the sack-er, tent early.

So far I'd avoided the whole camp-out experience, opting for the front seat of the Suburban rather than face the great unknown. Given the recent publicity surrounding Uncle Frank's Mini-Freeze, for security reasons, Taylor had decided to toss her bedroll on the floor of the food mobile.

At least in the Suburban I didn't have to worry about creepy crawlies finding their way into my bed, but bug-free accommodations came at a cost.

Sleep.

Frankie hadn't altogether broken his childhood teeth-grinding habit. The result? A horrible, high-pitched whir magnified ten-fold in the restricted confines of the Suburban. Each time I closed my eyes, I could swear I was in the dental chair listening to someone in the next cubicle undergoing a root ca.n.a.l.

Whireeee!

Between Frankie's grinding and Dixie's snoring, it was all I could do to keep from picking up a jug and blowing my way into the midnight serenade.

Tonight, critters or not, I planned to pitch my tent and sleep the undisturbed slumber of the dead. Er...you know what I mean, right?

The day's ride had been uneventful. Another hot and humid day with little cloud cover to give us a break from the unrelenting sun, neither Van Vleet nor I felt in the mood for chitchat. Thanks to Shelby Lynn, I had a decent selection of songs to listen to on my phone. Currently, George Strait bemoaned the fact that his exes were preventing him from residing in Texas, the only place hotter than my present location.