Page 2 of Grown-Up Second Chance

“I got a text from them yesterday.” And an email the week before. And another email the week before that. The RV park wanted to make sure we were showing up. “And I double-checked the reservation email they sent us. We’re scheduled to arrive today and leave mid-July.”

“Do you think we’re staying too long?” she asked. “Will we have enough time to get south before the snow comes? I’m not driving this rig in the snow. I told you that.”

A million times.

“We’re good. We’ll get to snowbird country by the time the bad weather hits. I’ve made sure of that.” I hoped. Climate change had messed the weather up so much that nothing could be relied on anymore.

But I wasn’t telling her any of that.

Behind us, Liz stirred and sat up. “Are we there yet?” she asked.

“Almost,” Kathleen said.

“Good.” Liz scooted to the end of the couch closest to us. “Any coffee left in the Thermos?” she asked.

I reached my hand out for her travel mug. Somehow both Kathleen and I had never gotten over treating Liz like a porcelain doll, even though we were now all in our sixties.

Keeping one eye on the road ahead to make sure we weren’t running over any rough spots, I poured the coffee. It wouldn’t do to have a big ol’ coffee stain on our recently detailed rig. Kathleen would ignore it, Liz wouldn’t even see it, but it would bug the crap out of me.

I checked my phone again. “Five more miles.”

“I’m so excited,” Liz said. “I haven’t seen Yellowstone since I came down here with my high school buddies. That was a trip.” She laughed.

“Mom and Dad grounded you for a month,” Kathleen reminded her.

“It was totally worth it,” Liz said, her gaze soft with memories.

I checked my phone. “We’re almost there. It’s coming up on the left in about a mile.”

“Be sure to give me plenty of warning,” Kathleen said.

“I just did.”

“When you see the sign. Make sure to tell me when you see the sign.”

“What if they don’t have a sign?” Liz asked—unhelpfully, at least in my opinion.

“Then you’ll just need to tell me when you see the street.”

“What if it isn’t—”

I raised my hand to stop Liz’s endless stream of “what-if” questions. She’d developed the habit at seven and had never given it up.

It’s too bad she’d never considered using the questions on her own life.

I leaned forward and stared through the windshield at the road ahead. Patterns of sunshine and shadows made it difficult to quickly discern what I was seeing. A break came in the trees and centered in its space was a big, vibrant, blessed sign.

“There,” I said, pointing. “Turn left there.”

Kathleen turned on her blinker then slowly rolled to a stop, peering down the road for oncoming traffic.

The road north was empty.

She turned the wheel and the rig made a slow turn into the roadway.

Behind us, a long row of cars streamed past.

I was too busy looking backward to notice the stop sign until Kathleen braked suddenly, and I was thrown against the seatbelt.

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