Bike Week Blues (3 page)

I wondered if a similar attitude would have
been better for Penny Sue. Then again, she wouldn’t be such a
wealthy woman today. One thing for sure, rehashing the past was a
road to nowhere. “There are no accidents,” as Ruthie always
said.

I finished the bagel and winked at Penny
Sue, who was still giving me the evil eye. She stuck out her
tongue, but eventually softened enough to resume eating.

“You referred to Carl’s mother as Fran,”
Penny Sue said suddenly. “I thought her name was Frannie May.”

“It is, Frances May Annina. Her mother gave
each daughter a middle name that’s a month. There’s an April, May,
and a June.”

“No December, I hope. Or August. Wouldn’t
that be terrible? People would call you Auggie. Isn’t that a type
of bull?”

Ruthie looked up from her newspaper. “You’re
thinking of Aggie, slang for an agricultural school. Texas A &
M’s football team is called the Aggies.”

“Same thing,” Penny Sue ran on without
missing a beat. “Do people call her Fran or Frannie May?”

“Both. The Frannie May thing began as a
joke. When I first started at the Marine Conservation Center, some
of the volunteers kidded me about my Southern accent. Then, you
called that time before Christmas and left a message for Becky
Leigh to call Penny Sue. That really got the gang going. They
kidded me unmercifully until the next day when Fran came in. At the
first snicker, Fran reared back, announced her name was Frannie
May, that she came from the South, and would anyone like to make
something of it? That shut them up. I never heard another snicker.
Since then, she’s called herself Frannie May at work.

“Fran isn’t very tall, but has a formidable
presence. If you get her riled, she gives you this absolutely
frigid stare.” I shuddered. “Whew, I’ve seen her cower big men with
the
look
.”

“My grandfather had a look like that.
Where’s she from?” Penny Sue asked.

“South Boston.”

“Virginia? That’s pretty country.”

“No, the South Shore of Boston,
Massachusetts.”

Penny Sue chuckled. “That’s a twist.” She
raised her glass. “To Frannie May, defender of Southern honor.”

“And her son, Klag, champion of the Klingon
Empire.”

We didn’t linger over breakfast. Ruthie was
attending the final session of her Ayurveda seminar, Penny Sue was
scheduled to pick up her motorcycle, and I had to go to work. Since
Ruthie was using Penny Sue’s Mercedes and running late, I offered
to take Penny Sue to the Harley dealership on my way to work.

A good thing, too. If Ruthie had waited for
Penny Sue, she’d have missed most of the morning lecture. I’d been
dressed for close to forty minutes before Her Highness emerged from
her boudoir. Thank goodness she had on some slacks! While the
outfit was outrageous by Atlanta standards, it was fairly
conservative for Bike Week. She wore white jeans, white boots, and
the strapless leather bustier. Her leather jacket was artfully
draped over one shoulder, while a white leather rucksack hung from
the other. She carried the silver helmet.

She twirled around so I could get the full
effect. “What do you think?” she asked breathlessly.

“Pulling out all the stops, eh? Since you’re
wearing the wedding ensemble, I assume you’re going to drop in on
Rich after you pick up your bike.”

She giggled. “Naturally. Bike Week
officially starts tomorrow. I intend to make my impression before
the competition arrives. In less that twenty-four hours, the whole
area will be crawling with hot babes on hot bikes. I plan to have
Rich’s full attention before then.”

The comment stunned me. Under normal
circumstances, Ms. Flirt of the South would be itching to mingle
with the hot men on hot bikes. Engagements and marriages hadn’t
stopped her in the past. While she was completely faithful to all
of her husbands, she naturally slipped into a Scarlett O’Hara
persona whenever a good-looking man came into view. I’d thought it
was an inborn trait, something she couldn’t control like flat feet
or schizophrenia. Now, it seemed I’d been wrong. Her need to be the
center of attention could be satisfied by the right man. Perhaps
Rich
was
her soul mate.

We piled—wedged, in Penny Sue’s case—into my
new, yellow VW Beetle convertible. For years I’d driven a four-door
BMW, obligatory before SUVs for wives of up-and-coming executives
and lawyers. Considered a symbol of wealth, stature, and good
taste, I traded my Beemer in on my yellow toy the minute I arrived
in Florida. I even got some money back on the deal.

“Lord, this thing is tiny,” Penny Sue
groused as she struggled to arrange the rucksack, helmet, and
jacket in her lap. “Put the top down,” she ordered, fanning
herself. “I’m either having a hot flash or panic attack.”

“It’s a hot flash,” I said, thinking it was
actually asphyxiation. The new leather odor combined with her
heavy-handed application of Joy cologne was overwhelming. I flipped
the lock and pressed the button to lower the roof. Thankfully, a
fish-scented sea breeze blew through—a welcome relief from the
perfumed, wet dog smell.

“What’s your schedule today?” I asked as we
started the eight-mile drive from Sea Dunes to the dealership.

“I’m picking up the bike, then taking it by
to show Rich. From there, who knows ...” her voice trailed off into
an impish grin. “Don’t expect me for dinner. What about you—any
plans?”

“Ted offered to take Ruthie and me to
dinner. You, too, if you want to come. He’ll be working double time
for the next ten days.”

“Ted?!” She gave me a saucy wink. “As in
Deputy
Ted Moore? I’ve been here two whole days, and this is
the first I’ve heard of it?”

“You haven’t, exactly, been around.”

“This is important! I’d have made time for
this story. What gives?”

Ted Moore, a deputy with the Volusia County
sheriff’s office, was one of the few sympathetic policemen we’d
encountered on our last visit. Though the ink was barely dry on my
divorce decree then, I was drawn to him in a platonic way. As it
turned out, Ted was recently separated, too, and not interested in
anything more than a friend and occasional meal companion, which
suited me fine. “There’s not much to tell. He’s divorced, and we’ve
had lunch and dinner a few times. We’re friends; that’s it.”

Penny Sue traced the outline of the Harley
emblem on the helmet with her index finger. “Try to stay open and
give him a chance.”

I stopped at the light on Mission Road. The
dealership was in the next block. “Look—friendship is all he wants.
His life is complicated; he has two teenaged sons.”

Penny Sue shrugged. “They’ll grow up
eventually. Never say never.”

Bike Week preparations were in high gear at
the dealership. A temporary chain link fence had been erected
around the parking lot for the dealership and Pub. Vendors’ orange
tents were already in place and a crowd of people were unloading
merchandise and stocking the booths’ shelves. As far as I could
tell, most of it was leather, Harley paraphernalia, and hoagie
fixings.

I pulled into an empty space directly in
front of the dealership. A young woman—probably
mid-twenties—straddled a Harley Sportster in the next space. Penny
Sue and I both did a double take. She had on short-shorts that
barely covered her butt and thigh high boots. Her shirt stopped shy
of covering her boobs, which had obviously been enhanced, judging
by their incredible size and upswept pertness.

“Hmph,” Penny Sue muttered, scrutinizing her
competition. “That’s an old bike,” she said dryly.

“I doubt people will look at her bike.”

Penny Sue ignored my comment. “Look!” She
pointed at a gleaming white Fat Boy parked in front of the
dealership’s entrance.

“Isn’t it pretty,” Penny Sue gushed,
juggling her paraphernalia. “Help me—I’m stuck,” she said suddenly.
Clutching her prodigious load of stuff, she pushed the door open
with her foot. I cringed—footprints on my brand new car. “This damn
thing is too low. Gawd, how do you get out?” she griped.

I reached in, grabbed her folded forearms
and pulled. She made it halfway up, but fell back. The hot honey
next to us in the short shorts and thigh-high boots snickered and
rode away. I braced myself for another try. This time Penny Sue
made it. “I guess I should have gotten an ejector seat for the
passenger side, too,” I said, puffing.

“Your side has one of those lift chairs like
you see on television? The ones that hoist up old people?
Neat-o.”

I shut the door. “I was joking.”

“Very funny.”

Fortunately, a tall man strode out of the
dealership at that moment. Penny Sue inclined her head toward the
white bike. “I think that’s mine.”

“It is if you’re Penelope Sue Parker.”

“The same.”

“I have some papers for you to sign.”

Penny Sue handed me her helmet and jacket.
“Would you hold this, Leigh? I’ll only be a minute.”

I hoped so—I was already late for work. I
put her things on the passenger seat, pulled out my cell phone, and
called the office, informing them—as if they hadn’t already
noticed—that I would be late. Sandra, the director, answered and
assured me there was no problem as long as the billing was
completed by the end of the day. Compared to the workload at my
last job, a car dealership, the center’s books were a snap and the
people a lot more fun. There was also the satisfaction of working
for a worthy cause.

The Marine Conservation Center was a
nonprofit organization dedicated to education and the preservation
of the Indian River Lagoon, North America’s most diverse estuary. I
have to admit that I didn’t have a clue what estuary meant when I
started work, but soon learned the word referred to the part of a
river where it met the ocean, which in New Smyrna’s case was the
inland waterway. Initially, I visited the center because of an
interest in sea turtles developed on our earlier, chaotic visit.
Fortunately for me, a part-time job opening was posted on the very
day I arrived to take a tour. My inner voice said, “Grab it,” and I
did. Except for the kidding episode, I’d never had a doubt about
the decision. It’s hard to complain about living in paradise and
working at the perfect job. A year ago, I was in the pits of
depression over my divorce. Although I was not completely over it,
things had turned out better than I’d ever imagined.

Ruthie, our metaphysical expert, said that
stresses like divorces are the times for the greatest spiritual
advancement. “Unfortunately, we all get set in our ways. Sometimes
it takes a big jolt to catapult us to the next level.”

I’d been catapulted, all right. Shot from a
cannon, or so it felt. But, four months after October and the Big
Split, I had to admit that I was a lot better off. I’d come to
realize it was the fear of change that plagued me all those months.
I’d become comfortable with my BMW, big house, social standing, and
perfect kids (okay, they weren’t completely perfect; but damn good
by most standards.) Truth be told, I
had
stopped growing or
evolving as Ruthie would say. I was in a comfortable rut to
nowhere—a bored stupor of luxurious existence. A darn shame it took
a skinny stripper with silicon breasts to blow me out of the
rut.

Penny Sue emerged from the dealership with
the salesman.

“Remember,” the dealer said as he handed her
the key, “don’t go over sixty for the break-in period. And, be sure
to alternate your speeds.”

Penny Sue nodded obediently.

“Check the maintenance schedule in the
owner’s manual.”

She nodded again.

“I know you took the riding course, so you
can handle the bike. Is there anything you’d like to ask?”

“Yes,” she said with a glint in her eye.
“You’ve been very nice. Are you married? I have some single
friends.”

If he hadn’t been standing there, I would
have kicked her. The nerve!

He glanced at me and chuckled. “I appreciate
the compliment, but I’m taken. Four kids.”

Penny Sue gave him the up and down. “Too
bad,” she said, straddling the white and chrome bike. I retrieved
her helmet and jacket from my car. An instant later, the bike came
to life with a deep rumble.

I waved as she maneuvered the Harley into
the parking lot and headed for Route 44. I couldn’t help but notice
that all heads turned as she roared by. Decked out in white
leather, riding a slick new bike, Penny Sue was not as slim as the
woman in the skimpy outfit, but she was still a traffic stopper. I
glanced down at my cotton capri set and suddenly felt very frumpy.
I got in my car and started my Beetle. Next to the roar of Penny
Sue’s Fat Boy, my car sounded like the little bug it was.

Darn, I was totally out of sync with bikers
and Bike Week. There wasn’t anything I could do about the car, but
I could at least buy some biker-friendly garb. I resolved to swing
by the shops on Flagler after work to look for some cool duds. In
any event, The Wicker Basket had received a shipment of swimsuits
that I wanted to check out before they were picked over.

The Wildlife Nature Cruise had left by the
time I arrived at the center, which meant I had a good two hours of
uninterrupted work. As part-time bookkeeper, my primary duty was to
tally and reconcile receipts from donors and the various cruises. I
had all but finished the weekly reports when Bobby Barnes, our
pontoon boat captain, ambled in. A retired Navy Seal with bulging
biceps, he was the perfect person to lead the cruises. While most
of our patrons were responsible adults and families, sometimes a
vacationer arrived who’d had one Mimosa over the line. Bobby’s
commanding presence at the helm inevitably kept them in line. A
light-hearted comment about one of his Navy adventures was all it
usually took to keep the sobriety-challenged patron seated and
quiet.