The More, The Merrier (Gretchen)

Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are together again in Hatteras, North Carolina, to write a book about their adventures along the way to the Annual Fanstory Writers' Convention in Atlantic City. Little do they know they are embarking on another adventure.

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I run upstairs to grab my phone from the charger. I haven't talked to Chuck since last night, and should be home from work by now. He answers on the second ring.

"Hello," he says. "Getting much writing done?"

"Some. I'd really be stretching the truth if I were to say lots. We drank too much last night. I was feeling terrible for most of the day. I haven't had a hangover since Tracy was in diapers," I say, referencing our twenty-eight year old daughter.

"What did you drink?"

I shudder as the words come out of my mouth. "Muscadine wine."

"That's nasty, in the first place. Sweet wine makes you twice as sick."

I nod, even though I know he can't see me. "Oh, and we have weirdo neighbors."

"Oh, yeah? Let me guess, a family from Jersey."

"Nope. Worse. Two guys, one from Jersey, definitely. The other guy, looks like if Prince Harry and Hagrid had a baby."

He laughs. "Miss you," he says.

"Wait, I'm not done yet. The Jersey guy's name is Larry Lipschitz. The Prince Harry/Hagrid guy, his name is Slap McKeester."

"You're making that up."

"If I were making it up, I promise I would have them looking like Zac Efron and Paul Newman."

After hearing about his day, and saying our goodnights to each other, I end the call and lean back against the pillows. I miss him, miss our house, miss being able to sneak into my studio and work on a collage. I, once again, remind myself that this is an incredible opportunity. "Suck it up, you big baby," I tell myself.

I shake off the homesickness and walk over to the window. The house next to us, which had been vacant yesterday and most of today, was now looking like a college dorm. I see a multitude of twenty-somethings out on the deck. Guys, with starter mustaches and muscles that I can see from this distance, are tossing a frisbee to each other. The girls, in shorts that took me back to the old "Dukes of Hazzard" days. Their boobs defying gravity.

I let the curtain fall back and look down at my own breasts. When did they give up? It's like I went to bed with an above average rack and woke up with two very tired and lifeless sacks of tissue. Don't get me wrong, I still love them. They did nurse four children, after all, but when I weaned my youngest, they phoned out and never returned. I do a ceremonial bra strap tug and give each breast a sympathetic smile.

I trudge back downstairs and grab my laptop. Before I open the slider to the deck, I press my face to the glass and look to see if Banana Lipschitz is out. Thankfully, he isn't. With the coast being clear, I go outside. I check Google news and see that Hurricane Jane was spinning out in the middle of the Southern Atlantic. All the reports say she will dissipate by mid-week. I guess we sure lucked out this week.

I churn out nearly ten pages by the time Rachelle gets back from her walk. "Is the water cold?" I ask, without looking up. My fingers seem to fly over the keyboard with a speed I've never mastered before. I can see the barn, the guy with the scythe, the corn husk doll. I think about the bath in the hot spring. I try not to giggle as I replay Rachelle face planting in the mud when exiting the buggy.

"Give me a second, Rachelle. I'm knee deep in Amish Country, right now."

"No problem. I'm going to get some water, want anything?"

"Water would be great. Still feel a little dehydrated." I mutter, then start to read back what I have written up to this point. It's rushed , but I like it.

I take the glass of ice water from Rachelle when she returns. "How was your walk?"

"Interesting," Rachelle says. "I had company. Slap joined me."

I wrinkle my nose. "Why do I think we're gonna have a problem with these guys," I state it rather than leave it as a question.

Rachelle smiles. "Slap is harmless. Just think of him as a big loveable dog."

"He knows you're married, right?"

"Oh, he's not interested in me like that. He's just never met a person he didn't like."

I nod, hoping she is right, not just being naive.

I turn the laptop around and show her my progress. "Eight pages. Impressed?"

"Very." Rachelle sits on the adirondack chair beside me and sighs. "This is absolutely beautiful. You're a very lucky woman, you know that, Hargis?"

"I do. But, I do have to work for a living. It isn't like I'm on vacation here. Mortgage, insurance, the odd hurricane, those are like the thorns on the stem of this paradise rose."

"Very poetic," she teases.

Our peaceful evening is suddenly finished when Larry, the grape smuggler, Lipschitz comes dancing out onto his deck. He is still clad in those awful man panties, nursing a drink that is probably eighty proof and flammable.

"Evening, Ladies," he says. "It's a marvelous night for a moon dance." He starts dancing around the deck like he's at the Trubadour or Cocacabana Club.

Rachelle starts to reply but I shake my head. "Don't encourage him."

I steal a glance over at him. There isn't anything even remotely attractive about him. Some men are on the low spectrum of looks, but make up for it with wit and charm, or some redeeming quality that makes them stand out. Banana Hammock Larry isn't one of those. I don't know what it is, but I don't trust Mr. Lipschitz.

Maybe Slap is just what Rachelle says he is. Maybe he is a big friendly dog, but I'm gonna keep my eye on those two. My gut says Larry isn't to be trusted, and I listen to my gut.