“What are you going to tell your mother about your trip here?” he whispers, worried.
“That you’re the happiest and most at peace that you’ve ever been,” I retort, my sarcastic smirk firmly in place. “Open. It.”
He nods and pulls out a remote from his back pocket, mashing a button with his thumb. As soon as I see the wall opening at the end of the central road, I sprint across the grass to join Farrah and Finley in the waiting car and hop in the passenger seat.
Farrah peels out of the small lot, leaving a cloud of dust and a throng of freaks in our rearview, and she doesn’t let off the accelerator until we hit the highway. I’m not even sure she knows where she’s going, but as long as it’s away from there, I’m good.
None of us say a word for at least five minutes, until finally, Farrah pulls the car into a Subway sandwich shop, and announces, “We didn’t even get to eat. I could really go for a foot-long of meatyballs. My mouth’s watering just thinking about them.”
A bubble of laughter erupts from the back of my throat, and once I start, I can’t stop. A howling mess, tears leak from the corners of my eyes as I think about what a nightmare this trip has turned out to be. What was supposed to be a relaxing getaway has been anything but. A mortifying massage, male-chauvinist Mormons, and now mouthwatering meatyballs will forever be associated with this epic failure of a vacation.
Both Farrah and Fiona stare at me like I’ve officially hit the bat-shit level on the crazyometer. And they’re probably right. Ever since the day I met Mr. Sexy Eyes, my grip on sanity has slowly unraveled to this point. Where I’m just letting go.
After several minutes, the laughter subsides and my sides stop hurting, and I’m finally able to talk. “Fiona, squirt, I love the fact you wanted us to do this little trip. I know your intentions were good, but I’m not sure I can handle any more. Tomorrow morning when we wake up, I’m ready to head home. I surrender to the dog’s bollocks.”
She blinks once. Twice. Three times. Then, inhaling a dramatic breath, she closes her eyes, and blurts out, “The real reason I talked you into taking this holiday was because I found out who your Mr. Sexy Eyes is, and I wanted to take you to him.”
Wait. What?!
My heart skips a beat as a lump lodges itself in the back of my throat. “I-I-I’m sorry. What did you just say?”
“I’m sorry I lied to you, Aunt Finley, and you too, Mummy.” Her eyes flutter open and she offers an apologetic smile. “His name is Teague Goodman, and he lives in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. He’s the CEO of Goodman Farms, one of the largest corn producers in North America.
Too shocked and in utter disbelief to form a cognitive thought, I peer over at Farrah, who’s wearing a smile ear-to-ear. But of course instead of adding anything worthwhile to the conversation, all she says is, “Ooh, I wonder if he likes Corn Nuts!”
Finley
“OKAY, SO TELL me again everything you know about him,” I prompt, slipping my headphones off as I stare down at the Google image search of Teague Goodman, also known as my Mr. Sexy Eyes.
It’s been almost a full day since Fiona confessed to everything she’d done to hunt down the mystery man who’d left me the lottery ticket and her hopes to reunite us, all without my knowledge, and I’m still in a state of shock and disbelief. Going through the trouble of hiring a private investigator and planning out a road trip because she knew I wouldn’t fly to Iowa, all so I could see — and properly thank — this man… my niece is not only too clever for her own good and a phenomenal cook, she’s got the biggest, most generous heart of anyone I know. I want to be just like her when I grow up.
“Again?” she sighs from the backseat, but the little giggle that follows lets me know she’s only giving me a hard time.
I twist around in the passenger seat and stick my tongue out at her. “Yes, again,” I retort playfully. “And I’ll probably ask you at least another two hundred times before we get there. I need to plan out what I’m going to say to him, prepare for what to expect back. What if he doesn’t remember me?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s going to remember the girl he gifted $270 million to, silly,” she laughs. “Are you going to offer him any of the money?”
Without hesitation, I nod. “Of course I am. I don’t know how much, or how we’ll handle it, but it would be a bit rude if I didn’t.”
“But he’s already rich,” Farrah grumbles from behind the wheel, where she’s growing more and more frustrated at the traffic we’ve been stuck in for the last couple of hours on the outskirts of Cheyenne, Wyoming.
We left Salt Lake City after a quick breakfast this morning with hopes to make it into the state of Nebraska before having to stop for dinner and to find a hotel room before the last leg of the trip to Cedar Rapids tomorrow. But about thirty miles outside of Laramie, Interstate 80 turned into a bumper-to-bumper parking lot, filled with more trucks and trailers than regular cars. I knew this part of the country was big into ranching and livestock, but I’ve never seen so many pickups with horses and other livestock in tow in my life. And as the sun sinks closer and closer to the horizon in our rearview, I realize Cheyenne is going to have to be our home for the night. We have two, maybe three, hours of daylight left, and with it just being us girls, I don’t think it’s safe to travel after dark, in case we have car problems or something.
“That’s not the point, Farrah,” I scold her. “It doesn’t matter how much money he has; he’s still the one who gave it to me. It would be not only rude, but extremely greedy, not to offer him a portion. Plus, there’s no way we can spend all that damn money. If we can’t find a way to live comfortably on fifty million dollars for the rest of our lives, we’ve got serious issues, seeing as how less than a month ago you were a hairdresser and I was a part-time waitress.”
“You’re gonna offer him half?” she shouts, nearly blowing out my eardrums as she swings her head to the side to glare at me.
I return the angry scowl tenfold, my eyes narrowing in on her in a way that warns her to back the hell off. “Careful there, sister dearest. Remember, it’s my money to do with as I please,” I remind her. “I’ve already set up a trust in Fiona’s name for when she’s older, but there’s nothing that says I owe you a dime.”
Hurt replaces the disapproval in her eyes, and I instantly feel guilty for snapping at her. “Look, Farrah, you know I love you and would do anything for you. You’re not only my sister, but you’re my best friend,” I say, my voice softer. “And I think I’ve proven thus far that I have full intentions to share the money with you, but I need you to keep a level head about this. We’re not going to be stingy, self-centered assholes. Now that we’re on karma’s good side, we’ve gotta stay there.”
She huffs and cuts her eyes back to the road. “I’m not any of those things, and I really like caramel… except when it gets stuck in my teeth.”
Fiona snickers her amusement as I hide my smile by turning away and staring out the window, repositioning my headphones over my ears. “Yeah, she’s a real bitch when she gets stuck in your teeth,” I mutter to the glass, my thoughts drifting back to Teague Goodman, nervous and anxious about what his reaction will be when we show up at his home.
For the next twenty minutes of stop-and-go traffic, I scan the Google results of his name for the umpteenth time, learning as much as I can about the man who’s played the leading role in my dreams for the last few weeks, while listening to my mp3 player on full random, jumping from Jasmine Thompson to DJ Snake to Daft Punk, pretty much anything but country — twang just ain’t my thang. Though now that I’ve learned Mr. Sexy Eyes grew up on a small-town farm and is one of the biggest names in agriculture in the country, it leads me to wonder if he listens to country music. He sure didn’t strike me as a farmer in his fancy suit and expensive watch when I met him.
Finally, we reach an exit that Fiona claims has both options for food and lodging, and as soon as we get off the highway, I see a sign for a motel. “Over there, Farrah.” I point to the decent-l
ooking building, not caring a single bit about amenities or extravagance. As long as it has hot water, electricity, and clean sheets, it’s good enough for me.
Farrah steers the car up to the circular drive by the entrance of the motel, parking temporarily while we get a room and unload our stuff. I lead the way through the glass sliding doors, noticing how crowded the parking lot appears, as well as the lengthy line at the front desk, but hoping it’s just because we’re here at check-in time.
“Hi, welcome to Gold Rush Inn,” the woman behind the desk greets me, when I eventually make it up to the counter, her voice raspy like she smokes a pack of cigarettes a day and has since she was sixteen. “What name is the reservation under?”
I offer her a warm smile as I pull my wallet out. “We actually don’t have a reservation. We weren’t planning on sleeping here in Cheyenne tonight, planned on just passing through, but got caught up in the traffic for several hours, so we’ve decided to stay.”
The woman erupts in a fit of laughter while shaking her head and pointing at us. Everyone in the lobby stares, making me grow irritated, but I remain polite and quiet, not wanting her to give us the room by the ice machine or something.
“I’m sorry,” she heaves, holding her stomach as she tries to settle down from her hysterical outburst. “I’m sorry, honey, but we don’t have any rooms available. And I hate to break it to you, but it’s the week of the National Rodeo Finals, and every room in a two-hundred-mile radius has been booked solid for over six months. So unless you got a friend you can crash with, there’s absolutely nothing.”
“Nothing?” I repeat skeptically. “There’s gotta be something. Somewhere. I’ll pay anything.”
She shakes her head, her chest still quaking with laughter. “Your only option is maybe gonna be a campsite at Gowdy State Park, but I’m not sure there’s even any of them left. Everybody started checking in yesterday, and for the next week, the population ‘round here nearly doubles.”
“A campsite?” Farrah pipes up from behind me, a look of horror stricken on her flawless face. “Do we look like we know how to camp? We don’t have any of that wilderness gear.”
People behind us in line begin to grumble, and it’s clear we aren’t getting a room here, so I drop my wallet back in my purse and frown. “All right, well thanks anyway.”
I go to walk away, desperately scrounging my brain for ideas about what to do, when the lady calls out and catches my attention. “Hun, there’s a Sierra Trading Post a bit farther into town, where you could buy a basic tent and supplies to get y’all through the night. The cost of all of it would probably be close to what you’d pay for a room. If you decide to go that route…”
Shooting her an appreciative smile, I nod once. “Thank you. I’ll check it out.”
Once we’re loaded back in the Camaro, I turn to face Farrah and Fiona, and ask, “So ideas? What do y’all think we should do? Just grab a bite to eat here then try to drive until we can find a place? Or do what she suggested and try to rough it for a night?”
Fiona pokes her cute little face up between the two front seats, and exclaims excitedly, “I want to go camping! Please, Mummy, it’ll be an adventure. When will we ever get this chance again?”
“Peanut, we’re three city girls who don’t know the first thing about camping,” my sister says, tapping the end of her daughter’s button nose. “My idea of roughing it is Motel 6. We’d probably freeze to death out in the wild.”
“It’s September! We’re not going to freeze.” Fiona rolls her eyes then shifts her attention to me. “Come on, Aunt Finley. Let’s go get some gear from that store and give it a try. It’s not like we have another choice unless you want to drive for another few hours.”
I chew on my bottom lip as I weigh our options. Farrah’s point about us not knowing the first thing about camping is valid, but I’m also not an idiot. I’m confident I can figure out how to pitch a tent and survive one night in a park. How hard can it possibly be? That being said though, I definitely prefer the thought of sleeping in a hotel bed, no matter how uncomfortable, to a cot or air mattress, because I’m most definitely not getting in just a sleeping bag on the hard ground with a bunch of creepy crawlers. I’d rather sleep in the car, sitting straight up with country music blaring, than do that.
The deciding factor though is the safety for the three of us. Taking a chance of getting stranded somewhere, vulnerable and susceptible, is one I’m not willing to risk. So camping it is. At least we’ll be in a park with other people, not on the side of some unknown road.
“Look up the directions to the Sierra Trading Post on your iPad, squirt. You’re gonna get your adventure for tonight.” I smile over at Fiona before catching Farrah’s disapproving eyes. “I’m not jeopardizing our safety. We can do this, sis. Have faith in us Farewell females.”
Her expression softens as Fiona cheers jubilantly and pulls up the address to the outdoor sporting store. “Okay, but I’m warning you both right now, the first animal I see that’s bigger than a housecat, and I’m outta there. I’ll spend the night in the car.”
“Deal,” I agree. “Now let’s get going so we can get what we need and get out to the park to set up while we still have a little bit of daylight.”
“I THINK WE should get the Big Angus one,” Farrah announces decisively, after about two seconds of looking at the tents on display. “Now what else do we need?”
“It’s Big Agnes,” I correct, “and why that one?”
Shrugging, she side-eyes the giant elk on display a few feet away then shuffles farther away from it. “I dunno. It’s the most expensive, which normally means the best quality, and we need all the help we can get if we’re gonna be sleeping in the nature.”
“I’m not spending four-hundred bucks on a tent we’re gonna use one night. That’s ridiculous,” I argue, while studying the other options. “What do the reviews say, Fiona?”
“Your friend there knows what she’s talkin’ about,” a strange male voice startles me from behind.
I twist around to see who spoke, assuming it’s some salesperson just wanting to sell me the most expensive item they have, but am surprised to find a grizzly-looking, early-thirties guy pushing a shopping cart filled with an assortment of different items I’ve never seen before. A friendly smile emerges in the midst of the overgrown, thick brown beard covering the lower half of his face, and he courteously tips the brim of his Yeti Life baseball cap in our direction.
“I’m sorry? What did you say?” I ask, confused of what friend he’s referring to and what that friend knows exactly.
“The Big Agnes, if you can afford her, that’s the way to go.” Pushing up the sleeves of his red-and-black plaid button-down, he squats down in his dark-washed jeans, unzips the entrance to the tent, and runs his fingers over the fabric. “See this nylon here’s gotta polyurethane coating that the cheaper ones don’t have. I learned the hard way when those dagone bears ripped up my last one.”
“Bears?” Farrah gasps. “What bears? Where are there bears?”
He chuckles huskily and shakes his head. “I’m sure that’s nothing you need to worry yourself with there, beautiful. Only deep in the woods ‘round here have I seen the buggers. Where are you three sweet little ladies plannin’ on glamping?”
“What in the bloody hell is glamping?” It’s Fiona’s turn to question him, as she tucks her lucky umbrella up under her arm. Earlier today when we were on the road, she claimed the reason things had gone sour in Reno and Salt Lake City was because she’d left the umbrella in the car, so she swore she wasn’t going anywhere without it from now on. Who was I to argue the powers of the magical Burberry umbrella?
The sound of her accent causes him to do a double-take at my niece then peer up at me from his position on the floor, most likely assuming she’s my kid, since she looks nor sounds nothing like Farrah. “Glamping is when city folk like yourselves go camping,” he explains, lowering his eyes back to Fiona. “Bringing a bunch of nonessential ge
ar along with ‘em to make it feel more like the Ritzy Charleston instead of real camping.”
“Isn’t it the Ritz Carlton?” my niece asks with a puzzled face, then adds, “And I don’t want to glamp. I want to camp.”
Friendly wilderness guy throws his head back and laughs then nods his head. “Well, aren’t you a smart little whippersnapper. Prolly givin’ your momma all kinds of trouble with that big brain and fancy umbrella.” He stands and extends his hand toward me. “I apologize for interrupting, ma’am. Just thought you ladies looked like you could use a little help. But with your tiny genius here, maybe that’s not the case. I’m Doc Forrester, by the way, the ranger at Gowdy State Park. Not a creeper, I promise. You can ask any of the employees around. They know me well, always in here getting my gear.”
As I shake his hand, my ears perk up at the name of the park. “I’m Finley, and this is Farrah and Fiona. And did you say Gowdy State Park? The one just a little way west from here? That’s where we’re planning on camping tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am, Miss Finley, that park is my stompin’ grounds,” he confirms, then pauses to shake my sister’s and niece’s hands, lingering a few extra seconds when he regards Farrah. “I hope you have your site reserved though, ‘cause it’s overflowing with rodeo-goers right now.”
My heart sinks in my chest as my head moves side-to-side. “No, we were hoping there’d be a spot available. We’re just passing through on our road trip and got held up with all the traffic on the interstate. So when we decided to stop and call it a day, we tried to get a hotel room, and the lady told us there wasn’t anything for at least a couple hundred miles, maybe more. She suggested we camp at the park.”
“Hmmm.” Doc crosses his arms over his broad chest and twists his lips to the side. “Well, there’s not any campsites available per se, but there’s some land out by one of the reservoirs, not too far from the ranger cabin, that I could help you ladies set up at. If you’re interested, that is.” He holds his hands up in surrender and backpedals a few steps. “Again, don’t mean to overstep, just trying to help.”