One for the Road

  One for the Road

  by

  Lynne Marshall

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2006 by Janet Maarschalk

  registration number TXu1-329-140

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover art by Karen McCullough

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Lura Mae, my momma.

  I miss you!

  Praise for Lynne Marshall

  “Marshall writes about the perils of middle age—expanding waistlines, gray hair, Viagra—with tongue-in-cheek humor. She’s also great at capturing the joys of rediscovering love and sex in your 40s. This is a delightful, feel-good story that will have you grinning from beginning to end.”

  ~Barbara Anderson, Romantic Times Reviews

  4 stars

  “Marshall made the characters real with strengths, flaws, successes and failures. She wove in love, friendship and family so well…”

  ~Romancing the Book

  One for the Road was a 2012 Finalist in the Colorado Romance Writers’ Award of Excellence

  3rd place in Ancient City Romance Authors Heart of Excellence Readers’ Choice

  2nd place in the Wisconsin Write Touch Readers’ Award, Strong Romantic Elements category.

  D’Anne Palmer and her husband had a life others dreamed of going where they wanted in their luxury forty foot motor coach. But D’Anne suddenly finds herself a widow with the RV being her only asset. Without funds to return to California from Tennessee, she hires out the RV and herself as cook and chauffeur.

  Tyler White was a “one-hit-wonder” ten years back. Now at a crossroad in his life, he makes an attempt at a comeback. He’s hoping the three-week tour will reignite his nonexistent career. All he needs now is some cheap transportation and the widow with the RV might just fit the bill.

  D’Anne and Tyler discover a lot about life, love, and each other as they journey the southwest from Nashville, to Texas and on to Las Vegas with the band and Tyler’s dog, Dexter. Can Close quarters really help a has-been singer on the comeback trail and a new widow who is unraveling a family secret find love?

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “Reese, if you weren’t dead, I swear, I’d kill you!” D’Anne Palmer stomped from her mosquito-infested campsite toward the Laundromat. “Damn it!” she cursed, smacking a super-sized, bloodsucking pest feasting on her neck.

  Was this her fault? Had Reese tried to tell her? A month and a half ago, unable to comprehend the truth, she’d curled into a ball and cried for two weeks straight. Next came the zombie stage. Now, she’d moved on to anger, latched onto it with fury, and couldn’t seem to let go.

  Reese was dead, and she was broke and stranded outside of Nashville in a campground along the Cumberland River.

  D’Anne flung open the Laundromat screen and headed across the room to the bulletin board. She pulled a pushpin from the cork, and tacked up the index card she’d brought with her. Letting go of a disgusted sigh, she read her handy work one last time.

  For hire: 40 foot RV. Sleeps six. Cook and driver included. Fee negotiable. See owner at campsite 47, Paradise Park Campground.

  After a sleepless night of weighing her limited options, she’d made her decision—the first in twenty-five years without her husband’s input.

  “Unreal,” she muttered as she fished her cell phone out of her shorts pocket. Bracing for yet another argument, she called her son, Dean, back in Los Angeles.

  “This is your mother. Don’t start telling me I’m off my rocker again or I’ll hang up.” She squinted and glanced at the ceiling. “I’ve made my decision. I know you think that’s something I’m incapable of doing, but nevertheless…I’m going to pay my way across country by renting out the RV.”

  Dean began to rail, but D’Anne interrupted him mid-jibber-jabber. “My decision is final. Deal with it.”

  “I don’t think Dad would want you to do this, Mom.” His voice crackled over the line. “Sell the RV and fly home. Please?”

  “This RV is my home. It’s all I’ve got left in the world. And it was the last purchase your father and I made together. I’m keeping it.”

  “You know he’s probably rolling over in his grave, don’t you?”

  “He’s not in a grave.”

  “And Randy is going to hit the ceiling.”

  “What else is new? Your brother thinks everything in life is a crap frappé. He needs to grow up.”

  Still, she wondered, would Reese approve of her decision? She swallowed the dry wad lodged in her throat and pulled herself from the thought. “You tell Randy to call me when he has a job. Then I’ll consider his expert opinion about my life.”

  “Ma…”

  With water welling in her eyes, and not wanting Dean to catch on, she prepared to disconnect. “I love you, but I’ve got to go.”

  For the second time in the past month, she hung up on her eldest son. The first time was one week after Reese had died. She’d called home to have Dean wire money for a casket to ship Reese back to California. Dean told her Reese had invested their entire savings on one surefire stock. The last quarter earnings showed it down to two bucks a share. There was no money to send.

  She’d been too angry to cry. Instead she’d hurled Reese’s cell phone against the wall and had him cremated. He now resided in a jar in the motor home—the top-of-the-line RV they’d purchased with all but ten grand from the sale of their house. And that ten grand was now almost gone. Apparently, her brilliant economics professor husband hadn’t practiced what he’d preached in the classroom.

  D’Anne couldn’t tap into Reese’s college pension for another year without losing fifty percent of its worth. Even then, she’d only receive a portion of the value. She intended to live a long time, and fifty percent of a professor’s pension wouldn’t do. She’d have to hold out for the rest of the year.

  Glancing toward the ceiling, she said, “Reese, you’ve left me on my own, and this is my game plan. I’ll work things out. Don’t worry.”

  She left the Laundromat and headed for the corner market to post another index card.

  August in Tennessee: heat, humidity, and mosquitoes. Damn.

  At least the RV had air conditioning, even if it did make an annoying rattle lately. She trudged on, kicking up a dusty trail that settled on her sticky skin and turned her white socks and cross trainers an ugly shade of gray. Her shaggy hair fell across her face. She needed a style and a weave, but those luxuries, that and good California wine, would have to wait for when she returned home, found a place to live, and got a job outside of the home…for the first time in her adult life.

  As of today, her budget was thinner than her best friend Theresa’s thighs. Ma
ybe by the time I get home, I’ll be as skinny as she is. She’d kept the over-forty spread to a minimum, but could easily stand to lose a few. Couldn’t everyone?

  Glancing at her “to do” list, she worried who the hell would be interested in renting an RV with a person included? Fear smacked her upside the head and back to reality. What if she wound up with a pervert…or worse?

  When she’d devised her plan, she’d visualized a senior citizen couple who wanted to see the country but weren’t comfortable driving an RV. Or a family with little children and a pet. Hell, she could throw in free babysitting to sweeten the deal.

  Maybe this wasn’t the brainiest plan. For a heartbeat she hesitated and thought of marching straight to the RV to hide, but she’d done enough of that over the past six weeks.

  D’Anne glanced around the crowded street. Everywhere she looked, she saw boots, ball caps and cowboy hats. What if some tobacco chewing local wanted to rent her RV? Where would she draw the line? Preoccupied, she almost tripped over an old coffee can beside a bench. Tobacco juice? God, she needed to get home.

  Following a nosedive of jitters, an idea materialized. Rules! I better come up with a list of ground rules for prospective renters.

  ****

  Tyler White threw a second can of tuna into his grocery cart. He’d heard a high protein diet could help a person lose up to ten pounds in a couple of weeks, and that was exactly what he needed to do by September 5th, when a music scout would listen to his act. He ran his hand across his shirt, noting the strain of the middle two buttons. Tyler sucked it in and stood a little straighter when he saw his reflection in the frozen food glass door. He stopped himself from reaching for a gallon of ice cream and instead chose a pint of raspberry sorbet.

  Ten years ago he was on top of the world with the number one hit country song, “Your High Class Love Broke My Honky-Tonk Heart.” He’d packed concert halls, had played the Grand Ole Opry.

  His first wife left about the same time the royalties stopped showing up. He left his second wife when he realized she preferred a bottle of Southern Comfort to him. Now about all he had left was his dog Dexter.

  Tyler needed a comeback but after two months, all he’d lined up was three weeks worth of second-rate concerts for his new band. He’d gone out on a limb to hire musicians he couldn’t afford.

  It had taken him a long time to feel confident enough to write a few new songs and even more to muster the nerve to sing in a dive in Nashville, in The District. When he’d peddled the songs to the record companies on Music Row they’d all asked the same thing, “What have you done lately? Do people still want to hear you?”

  Who would have thought at forty-two he’d have to prove himself…again? And now he had another problem.

  His transportation plans had fallen through. How the hell was he going to get three musicians plus himself to eight concerts in four different states? He knew the drill from firsthand experience, and if he wanted to make sure his band showed up to work, he’d have to get them there himself. They could all squeeze in his old car, but could they sleep there? And where would they clean up, at gas stations? Not to mention toting the instruments around.

  He picked up a package of skinless, boneless chicken breasts, checked the price and put them back, settling for chicken tenders instead before pushing his cart down the aisle.

  Renting an RV from the dealership was way out of his price range. A friend had offered an old school bus, but it was unreliable. He’d just have to hope putting out a “wanted” ad would bring the transportation he needed.

  He took a three-by-five index card from his pocket and glanced at it one last time. Wanted: Large Crew Cab truck. Will swap Classic Eldorado Cadillac. Hell, he hated to part with the car once test-driven by The King—or so it was rumored. But a man had to do what a man had to do. Tyler was about to pin the card to the store’s bulletin board when another card caught his eye. Before anyone else saw it, he grabbed it, and left his in its place.

  ****

  Tyler stopped by campsite forty-seven to scout out the RV. It paid to have friends as campground hosts. Marlene Wyatt Judd had once been president of the Tyler White fan club. He’d suspected her of stalking him once upon a time. That was before she got a boyfriend and Tyler’s star went out.

  Under an ancient ash tree and over an iced tea, Marlene eased his concerns about “the widow” with the RV for hire being desperate or worse yet, crazy.

  “She’s in a jam, Tyler,” she said. “I think the old man left her broke and she needs to get home to California.”

  “Does she have a drinking problem?”

  Marlene’s eyes widened. “Why do you ask?”

  “The car license plate.”

  Marlene stood up, craned her neck, and looked across the yard. She squinted, trying to make out the letters on the old beat up subcompact car attached to the RV’s trailer hitch.

  The California vanity license plate read: ALKYMOM.

  “Alkymom?” she said.

  “Ain’t that slang for alcoholic? As in Alcoholic Mom?”

  “Tyler White, what mother in her right mind would want a license plate like that?”

  “She’s from California.” He pushed back his hat a tad on his forehead and took another gulp of tea.

  Marlene’s eyes darted back and forth from Tyler to campsite forty-seven. “Why you big handsome fool. Maybe it means, a lucky mom. Why don’t you ask her yourself when you talk to her?”

  “You don’t think she’s deranged or anything, do you?” He emphasized the de.

  “If I’d been through what she’d been through, I might be deranged, too. Something weird happened with her husband. Now, I’m not saying she killed him or anything, but he seemed too young to die.” She put her hand by her mouth and whispered the next part. “I think he died while they was making love. He couldn’t have been more than mid-to-late fifties, and he looked damn healthy, too. Maybe she plumb wore him out.”

  Was Marlene warning him or just being her crazy busybody self? Wore him out? Now that surefire caught his interest.

  “But she’s been a perfect lady her entire stay here at Paradise Park, I’ll have you know.”

  “If you say so. Tell her I’ll be back tomorrow at noon.”

  He stood to leave, shoved his hands in his back pockets, and gave Marlene a wink. She blushed and stopped her eyelashes after the second flutter.

  “Thanks for the drink,” he said. At least he still had a way with some of the ladies, even if they were over fifty.

  ****

  D’Anne didn’t want to admit it, but she probably was nuts to let a complete stranger come over to look at the RV. Why not just put a huge sign on the door, “Alone and vulnerable. Please take advantage.”

  Why in the world should she take the campground manager’s word about some cowboy country musician? If she hadn’t recalled his only hit record, something about a honky-tonk heart, she wouldn’t have. His one claim to fame evidently still opened doors for him, even if they were only doors to a deluxe RV.

  D’Anne practiced looking stern and businesslike in the mirror. It didn’t work. Smile lines etched into her cheeks and blew her cover. A tiny streak of gray across her brown bangs made her feel old. She’d been told she didn’t look her age, but today she felt every bit of her forty-six years. Several sleepless nights hadn’t helped much either. And she still had to come up with a list of rules before the singing cowboy arrived. She sat down at the kitchen table, picked up a pencil, and began to write. Number one: No smoking. Number two: Pick up after yourself. Number three: No drinking.

  She liked a glass of wine every now and then, so that wouldn’t be fair. She erased number three, and thought for a second, tapping the pencil eraser against her lip. No drunk or disorderly conduct.

  “God help me,” she whispered to the ceiling.

  Number four: No sex in the RV. She really didn’t want to go there, but figured she’d better cover the bases. Five: Be respectful and courteous to your driver a
nd she’ll be the same to you. Six: Five minute showers. Seven: Toilet seat must be left down!

  She read over her list then folded the paper and tucked it into her overall bib pocket. Thinking she’d like to sneak away and postpone the meeting, she put her foot out the door just in time to see a tall cowboy walking her way. He wore a brown Stetson propped on top of his head, tight faded jeans, and scuffed boots.

  One word popped into her head. Big.

  How would he fit? The RV was forty feet long and had slide-out extensions for added living space, but the man was huge. I am totally nuts. She couldn’t manage to look away, even felt dizzy watching him approach. It’s just the heat.

  D’Anne could tell he’d probably been a looker once upon a time. His face, partially shaded by the hat, revealed a tough lifetime, weathered yet handsome. Yellow-blond hair reached the collar of his pinstriped western shirt and matched the color of his thick nose-to-lip mustache.

  He lumbered her way looking determined. She fought the urge to run back inside, slam the door and lock it. Had he seen her? Could she pretend there was no one home?

  The man looked at her and nodded. “Afternoon,” he said.

  Rats, too late.

  She twittered with indecision, one foot in, one foot out the door. She took a deep breath and nodded back. “Tyler White?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He tapped his hat and took a few more extra-long strides her way.

  Don’t let him inside just yet! She sprang down the steps and met him at the picnic table.

  “I’m D’Anne Palmer. Have a seat, won’t you?”

  The tall cowboy flung his leg over the bench and prepared to sit in one quick move. She needed to gather her wits before she settled, and dusted the seat with her hand. He hovered above the bench, waiting.