“Yes! No,” I said, reading the park’s hours online. “The schedule online says it’s already closed for the season. Oh, and no animals except service animals allowed.”
“Rainy, I’m the Duke of Chicago, remember? I’ve hopped trains, streetcars, hot-air balloons, and airships. I’ve broken into bank vaults, hotel suites, the mayor’s office, and even the governor’s mansion in pursuit of justice. I can get us into one little park, and I could do it with my eyes closed.”
“You’re very handsome when you’re being you. Let’s hit it.”
—
Luckily, breaking intothe enchanted forest ended up not being that difficult. Built on the side of a hill and nestled among trees, it wasn’t much more than a rather grandiose roadside attraction.
As we drove inland, the hard rain turned to a light drizzle, and by the time we parked on a private side road, even the drizzle had turned to a faint mist. Duke and I, both in hiking pants, boots, and raincoats, trudged through the brush and trees until we reached the wooden fence at the edge of the park.
“All right,” Duke finally said. “I don’t see any security guards anywhere. I think the coast is clear. Up and over.”
He gave me a boost over the wooden fence, then he followed right behind me.
We walked a bit, getting our bearings. Everywhere we looked, we saw closed attractions—a haunted house, miniature storybook cottages, even a roller coaster. “Shall we split up?” he asked.
The park, as I’d read online, was about twenty acres. Not big but with all the trees and winding paths, I knew I’d get lost immediately. “Let’s stick together for now.”
“Very well,” he said, “but if we get separated for any reason, let’s meet at the carousel.” He pointed to the merry-go-round a few yards away.
“It’s called a merry-go-round.”
“Then we’ll meet at the bloody merry-go-round.”
I grinned. Annoying Duke was one of my favorite pastimes that didn’t involve reading.
“Hope we’re alone,” I said as he scanned our surroundings again.
“Fingers and toes crossed there’s no security on duty. But if so, let me do the talking.”
“Let you do the talking? Are we sure about that?” I asked.
He thought it over for a second, then his eyes lit up. “Give us your ring.”
“My ring? The ring you gave me?”
“That one.”
“But I never take it off.”
“It’s for the greater good, love.”
It felt like going naked to take the forget-me-not ring off my finger, but I gave it to him anyway.
“What are you going to do with my ring?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out. Now let’s go.”
We crept around corners, snuck past Wild West shacks, pausing only at a park map.
“Storybook Lane is down here,” he said, pointing to a bend in the path.
The park was either the work of a truly dedicated artist or a madman or…both. Probably both. But the best kind of madman, who loved stories enough to create a monument to them. Everywhere we looked, we found life-size sculptures made of concrete painted in bright colors.
The Three Little Pigs fended off the Big Bad Wolf.
Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet (whatever a tuffet is) as a spider with a weirdly human face crept down behind her.
