The bathroom door opened, and I expected her to give me a tongue lashing, but there was not a sight of anger in her expression. “It sounds to me like I’m rubbing off on you. I like it,” she said and then closed the door behind her again.
Forty-five minutes later—after I listened to her shower run while dozens of naughty images I shouldn’t be having about a woman I’d been sent here to babysit clouded my mind—we found ourselves walking the main street of Bear Creek, Colorado. The documentary I’d watched made the place feel kitschy, but being there in the flesh I’d use corny as a better descriptor. The little shops with music-related names had similar-styled awnings. Someone received a nice sales commission check at the awning store.
I didn’t fault the town for the effort. When your claim to fame came from the yearly music festival, you had to capitalize on the tourists. Pelican Bay businesses were similar in their approach. They played up their love of history to keep people rolling through town even while being located too far north to have played much significance in Colonial Era America. It didn’t stop everyone from advertising how a weekend trip to the small town could be a chance to reunite with history.
We made our way across a stretch of flattened grass with tents lined up on either side. Band names were taped to the metal poles at the front of each tall white tent.Scorpion’s Housewasn’t getting top-of-the-line treatment at the festival, but they should still be proud. The row of tents stretched for over a city block before we reached the area set aside for the band. They weren’t front runners, but were taking a step in the right direction for their musical careers. They should be damn proud of their tent.
I casually held the tent’s white tie for Loretta in case she wanted to loosen it and step inside. “You want to pop in and say hi to your brother?”
She grabbed the flap and let it drop. “There’s a sock on the ground, dude.”
My gaze dropped to take in the white sock someone wrapped around the rod of the tent. “Okay?”
“It’s the door knob trick. That means somebody is in there doing… you know.”
My attention fell to the sock, back to Loretta, then back to the stock. Ewww. I didn’t know anyone did that in real life. “That’s disgusting,” I said taking a step away from the tent. I was glad I hadn’t gotten it open.
She rolled her eyes and gave me an expression I lacked a name for, but it didn’t seem good. “How do you think I feel? He’s my brother.”
“You want to keep walking?” I asked, reaching back and taking Loretta’s hand long enough to pull her far from the offending space.
She allowed me to drop it once we were a few steps away, but she kept looking at the empty space where our hands had once been. “Actually, Reggie, I was about to ask if you wanted to get breakfast.” She flipped her blue-tipped hair behind her shoulder, and I stared at the patch of skin again. “On your boss, of course,” she added.
“No, how about this one is on me?”
“Sure, but I’m going to eat a ton, especially after last night.” I wanted to touch her again. To feel her skin, her warmth, against mine. I leaned, putting my mouth next to hers, so I could whisper. “Trust me. I can afford it.”
I didn’t miss her shiver when I pulled away and began walking again. Something about Loretta made me want to be around her more. It wasn’t just her annoying presence but something else. I felt happiness. But that didn’t mean I wanted to examine it. We were both here for a long weekend and that was it.
If I kept reminding myself of the facts maybe it would deter me.
We strolled the street together in search of the coffee shop until we found Steaming Cups. The small café was nestled in the middle of the downtown strip. Behind the shop the Rocky Mountains stretched far in the distance. Their summer snow-peaked tops were an experience you’d never see in Maine. Loretta and I took a seat at the back and I waited for her to order before placing my own for a plain bagel and cream cheese.
She shook her head as I expected when the waitress sat my bagel on our table. “You are missing a whole life of food adventures,” she said taking a large bite of her Western omelet.
“I doubt you’ll feel that way when you’re suffering from indigestion,” I said pointing at her omelet.
Another head shake. “What’s that?”
I threw my head back and laughed. “Oh, to be young and naïve.” I hoped Loretta maintained her youthful outlook on life forever. It appeared she’d already recovered from the hangover.
She finished chewing another bite of the huge omelet. It had to be bigger than her head. “I’m not that much younger than you.”
I disagreed. “Exactly how old are you?” She had to be at least twenty-one because someone carded her at the bar last night, but I didn’t get a peek at her license.
“Twenty-four,” she said and shrugged her shoulders as if she knew that wasn’t ancient but wanted to pretend. “I’m helping my brother out until I decide what I want to do in life.”
I lowered my bagel, finding our conversation much more interesting. “And when do you plan to do that?”
“No idea. I haven’t figured it out yet. I went to college for business, but it’s boring. I wanted to study art, but my parents said I’d never make a living from it.”
“And you make a living from your business degree?”
She speared me with a glare finally realizing that today the tables turned. “The gig hooked me up with this free trip to a music festival in Colorado, expenses paid, so I’d say things are looking up.”
I laughed. Just when I thought I had her, Loretta could talk her way out of anything. “You can do lots of things in art with a business degree. Come to the city and work as an appraiser or run the books for a gallery.” You could make money from pretty much anything if you thought about it properly. Opportunities abounded.
She shrugged. It was obvious she didn’t find the idea appealing. “All those regular business hours. Don’t you want to stay up late at night and watch movies until dawn or wander the park and paint a picture?”
