No Place Like Motorhome

By Lisa Mills

City girls LOVE country boys ... right?

 

When a country-loving bachelor gets a rude introduction to a cultured, sophisticated city-girl, they instantly clash. But as they're thrown together time and again, they realize, their two worlds might not be as far apart as they initially thought.

Meet Darcy...
As Darcy Granger finishes her graduate degree and looks for employment, her parents make the inexplicable decision to abandon successful careers, lease their New York City apartment, and purchase a motorhome to become "full-timers." As a young adult she should be eager to start her own life, but her wounded inner child mourns that her safety net has been pulled away and there's no nest for her to fly back to. To make the transition easier, her parents invite her to stay with them while she looks for a job as a research librarian. Born and raised in New York City, Darcy struggles to acclimate to the campy lifestyle her parents have adopted. They drag her out on rural excursions where high-heeled shoes dare not go and forms of outdoorsy torture lurk around every bend in the road.

Then there's Marc...
Marc Fitzsimmons is a twenty-seven-year-old writer who roams the country, pulling a travel trailer behind his pickup truck and penning articles for magazines. He loves living a casual life on the go, seeing new sights and meeting new people at every stop. The career he's chosen feeds his adventurous soul and fills him with satisfaction, but it's definitely made it difficult to date. He's almost given up the idea of marrying and having children, knowing the odds of finding a woman who wants to share his lifestyle are slim to none.

When these two meet on the campground, sparks fly, but as they get to know one another, those sparks ignite a flame in their hearts that is hard to ignore!

A lighthearted clean & wholesome romance novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Mills
• Release date: May 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393258933

Book preview

Chapter 1

Asign teetering precariously on the steep edge of a mountain slope loomed up on Darcy Granger’s right. Shady Pines Campground — 3 miles.

Thank goodness, she breathed, rolling her shoulders to alleviate the tension. In a few more minutes she could get out and walk around. The tedious drive to Gatlinburg became even more taxing when a vicious rainstorm assailed her in Kentucky and followed her across the Tennessee border. The storm slowed highway travel for two hours before letting up.

Now, west-facing mountainsides basked in the amber glow of the early evening sun. The tangle of trees and ferns on the shady inclines might be appealing to some, but to Darcy they seemed rugged and forbidding when compared to the glistening high-rises and linear streets she was born and raised in. How her parents were faring the drastic change in scenery, she wasn’t sure.

From the moment they’d announced their early retirement and plans to travel full-time in an RV, she’d sensed they weren’t telling her the whole story. Something was up, but she hadn’t been able to wheedle enough information from them to piece together the puzzle. They’d evaded the questions she’d posed during phone conversations. Vague answers, subject changes, or hasty goodbyes. She couldn’t abandon the internship she’d served at Chicago’s Newberry Library the last six months, she’d been forced to wait until it ended to see them in person, ask the questions, and look them in the eye when they answered. They couldn’t avoid a conversation now that she was joining them in their motorhome, traveling with them for a while until she found work. Her stomach did a churn and twist move that had been plaguing her often lately.

She was eager to see their dear faces, hug them, feel the comfort of their presence, and assure herself her family was okay. At the same time she dreaded facing them. At her age she was embarrassed not to have a job, a husband, a home. That last one carved an aching hollow into her chest. Home. The only home she’d ever known had been with her parents. The Chicago bed-and-breakfast she’d lived in during her internship had never had the same feel as her parents’ apartment in New York City. What would holidays be like now that Mom and Daddy had decided to live in a motorhome? What about family dinners, birthday parties, and movie nights with endless bowls of popcorn? Were warm family occasions going to be a thing of the past?

The stilted voice of the GPS unit broke her reverie. Your destination is ahead one-quarter mile on the left. She slowed the car and turned at the large wooden sign marking the campground’s entrance. The place looked so rustic with its log-cabin buildings and split-rail fencing. Nothing like the concrete jungle she called home.

She steered her red Jaguar toward the guard shack and came to a stop beside the window. On the other side of the glass, a teenaged boy reclined in a chair, his head lolling back, eyes closed, and mouth agape. She punched her horn to wake him.

He startled and jumped to his feet, rubbing his eyes as he leaned out the window to greet her. She rolled down her window.

His eyes lit with awe as he examined her car. Whoa, nice ride!

She’d heard it a thousand times before. The male gender never failed to honor her car with a shock-and-awe reaction. Would you be the person in charge of this gate here? She waved at the orange and white striped crossing arm blocking the road into the campground.

Yep. Camping or visiting?

I’ll be staying with my parents who are camping here.

In that case, I need eight bucks from ya.

She scanned his freckled face, suspicions rising. Why?

Day pass into the campgrounds.

But my parents are staying here in their motorhome. I’m a guest.

I still need eight bucks.

A plump brown spider chose that moment to drop down in front of the window, dangling by a silk thread. Darcy followed the strand upward until her eyes found an intricate web stretched between the open eaves of the building. She shuddered.

The boy seemed unfazed by the intruder. He pinched the silk a few inches above the spider and tugged, breaking the line. The spider floated to the ground and scurried away. Eight bucks is the daily rate for any motor vehicle. You get a gate pass and a map for the fee. He waved some colorful literature at her.

As if a map of his bug-infested campground was a treasure she should be coveting! The super in her New York apartment building would have had the exterminators on the phone the instant he saw an eight-legged creature. He never would’ve toyed with the bug like it was a pet or something. What would motivate her parents to trade a life of comfort and affluence for this? Could they be having money problems? Daddy and his legal firm had put a lot of people in jail. Could he have been threatened and forced into hiding? Or—her greatest fear—could they be having marriage problems? With worries chewing an ulcer into her stomach lining, she dug some bills from her wallet.

Last name?

Granger.

He nodded, looked something up in a tattered book on the window ledge, then scribbled a red circle on the map. Here’s where they’re staying. Just follow the road around to the left until you get to the dump station. Swing a right and it’s just past the horseshoe pits.

Dump station? Horseshoe pits? She was afraid to ask for an explanation. Probably better not to know. And besides, Mom and Daddy were waiting on her. And she couldn’t wait to see them.

MARC FITZSIMMONS LEANED closer to the grill and tantalized his nose with the meaty aroma he was creating. He’d spent half the day marinating the chicken in a special sauce and staring out the window, hoping the heavy rain would let up and allow him to grill his dinner outdoors. Nothing beat the smoky flavor a charcoal grill added to chicken. The process was labor-intensive and time-consuming, but it left the meat tender and juicy, a taste worth the effort.

Maneuvering a pair of tongs with deft skill, he flipped the chicken halves over. He’d decided to make six of them and eat them for lunch and dinner a couple days in a row. They were minutes from being done, and after smelling them for a half-hour while they slow-cooked, he could hardly wait to get his first mouthful. He retrieved a platter from the picnic table and transferred the first two chicken halves to the serving dish, admiring his work.

The purr of a motor rumbled up the road behind him, competing with the squeals of the kids playing in the park across the road from his camping lot. He glanced over his shoulder. A slash of cherry red and sleek lines snagged his attention. Whoa! The piece of chicken in his tongs dangled between the grill and the platter as he studied the vehicle. A Jaguar ... now that was a fine piece of machinery.

The car sped up the road, doing well over the 10 MPH speed limit. Sports cars should be driven fast, but not here where kids often darted into the lane without looking first. He frowned and shook his head, squinting at the tinted window, hoping to catch the driver’s attention. The windows were so dark he couldn’t see inside. As he watched, the wheels veered off the pavement and splashed into a puddle left by a rainstorm earlier in the day—a puddle which was just a few yards from where he stood grilling.

A thick spray of muddy water shot Marc’s direction. Before he could duck or move, he’d been showered and soaked. Bits of brown goo clung to his skin and clothes. His chicken too. Behind him the grill sizzled and hissed as water dripped onto hot coals.

Nooooo, he moaned, staring at his dinner, now peppered with dirt and dripping with a mud puddle seasoning he didn’t care to sample. Bachelors were known for eating less-than-palatable food, but there was no five-second rule that would salvage this dinner. He glared at the Jaguar’s taillights as the car sped away from its misdeeds. Whoever was driving that vehicle might have money, but they had no consideration. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches wouldn’t satisfy his craving after looking forward to chicken all day.

He stomped inside his travel trailer and chucked the meat into a trash can. After peeling off his shirt and pants, he rummaged around his bedroom for clean clothes. The built-in drawers along one wall were nearly empty except for a pair of khaki shorts. He slipped them on then looked for a shirt. Dirty laundry spilled over the rim of the hamper standing in the corner. He snagged a shirt off the top of the pile and sniffed it. No particularly offensive odors registered to his nose, so he deemed the shirt wearable. He’d do laundry tomorrow. Or maybe the next day. If he had to.

In the kitchen, he pulled out the bread and peanut butter and laid them on the counter. During his rummage through the refrigerator for jelly, he lost heart. He wasn’t all that eager for dinner now that he wouldn’t be getting his chicken. Maybe he’d work on some story ideas he’d been tinkering with and wait for his appetite to recover from the disappointment. He moved to the tiny desk area in the front of his trailer and tapped the keyboard to wake his laptop from sleep mode.

When the computer had whirred itself to life, his e-mail program chimed. He moused to the inbox, noting the sender on the latest message. RV Enthusiast Magazine. He’d sent them a query on a series of articles he’d like to write if he could find a publication willing to pay to print them. He clicked on the e-mail and read.

Dear Mr. Fitzsimmons,

Your query came at a fortuitous time. Normally, we work with staff writers to supply our content, purchasing only a few articles a year from freelancers. We have just lost a very valuable writer and need to replace him. The sample writing you sent with your query caught my eye. Your voice and style would blend well with our publication, and I’d like to give you a shot at filling our vacancy.

Please send me the first article you’ve proposed at your earliest convenience. I’m also looking for someone to go to the Camping Association of America’s national rally four weeks from now to cover that event. Please let me know as soon as possible if you would be willing to commit to this assignment.

If these first few articles are satisfactory, we’ll talk about the future.

Jerry Potts

Editor, RV Enthusiast Magazine

Marc pumped his fist in the air and let out a victorious, Woohoo! He’d sent that query so long ago, he’d almost forgotten about it. The job assignment couldn’t have come at a better time. He wanted to write an article about how older couples living the full-timer lifestyle dealt with medical needs. Yesterday, fishing down by the river, he’d met some men who would be perfect interviewees. The one gentleman had recently suffered a heart attack, which led to his early retirement. The other was a severe diabetic. Both had to deal with health issues on the road.

If they would talk to him about their challenges and the solutions they’d found, his article would have the human-interest angle he wanted. Phone calls and Internet research would unearth the necessary facts. And he’d be well on his way to a staff writer’s job with the most prestigious, widely distributed RV magazine in the United States. It could be a big step in his career plan. Maybe this milestone would be the one that convinced his father that writing was a legitimate career choice.

An ache formed behind his ribs. Home seemed far away. Maybe a quick call, just long enough to say hello and hear Dad’s voice, would ease the homesickness. But why did he always have to initiate the contact? His father never wrote letters and he refused to try that computer nonsense. When Marc had left home eight years earlier, he’d tried to call at least once a week, but the conversations never went well. His father only wanted to know when Marc was going to move back home and work in the family auto shop. Their differing perspectives had opened a rift between them, each man too stubborn to admit there was validity in the views of the other.

Marc rubbed his hand across his face, scraping his palm over the three-day beard lining his jaw. Lately, he’d avoided calling, finding it hard to face his dad’s disapproval. Soon, when he had some really impressive credentials, his father would understand and approve.

Sunlight danced over the curtains in the west-facing window of his trailer. Still a few hours of light left. He knew the general area the fishermen were camped in. At this hour, most people were standing at their grills or sitting around picnic tables eating supper. If he found the men, he could set up interviews for later in the week and get the article underway immediately. A quick turnaround would impress the editor.

Marc grabbed a small tablet and a pen and shoved them in his back pocket. His PBJ dinner could wait until later.

Chapter 2

G-34, G-36, G-38. Darcy followed the wooden signs at the edge of each campsite, searching for her parents’ lot. She stared at the motorhome parked in G-40. It looked like a tour bus, big and fancy with chocolate brown exterior and swirling graphics in shades of tan and cream. The tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. Okay, so her parents had good taste. She should have known they wouldn’t buy a tiny RV, nor one that was beat-up or ugly. They were, after all, Grangers, and Grangers enjoyed the best of everything. Maybe she could cross money off her list of possible reasons for their sudden change in lifestyle.

She eased her vehicle onto the gravel parking pad at the edge of the lot. A striped awning extended the length of the motorhome’s side, hovering over a picnic table occupied by half a dozen adults. One of the people stood—one with a very familiar face that made Darcy’s heart squeeze.

Mom!

Darcy! You’re here.

Her heart tripped over the swell of joy that surged inside her. The internship she’d served at The Newberry Library had kept her away for months, and she’d missed Mom and Daddy. She’d missed home and the feeling of warmth and security she got when all the people she loved were gathered together in familiar surroundings.

Her mother hurried around the table and toward the car. Darcy put the Jag in park and threw open the door. She met Mom halfway in a giant hug. As soon as Mom let go, Daddy grabbed Darcy and wrapped her in his long arms. She hugged him around his middle, noting how much smaller he felt. Had he lost weight? She pulled back and looked up into his face. Definitely thinner. Hey, where’s the rest of you? She gave his less-rounded stomach a pat.

His deep, charming laugh rumbled from his chest. Now, Princess, there’s still plenty of me to love.

Oh, Daddy! The warmth in his eyes filtered straight to her heart. It’s good to see you.

We’re glad you’re here. Her father draped his arm across her shoulders and led her to the picnic table. Come say hello to our friends. Two other couples who looked to be about her parents’ age rose for introductions.

Her father gestured toward the man closest to him. Darcy, you remember Wendell Mansfield, my old golfing buddy, and his wife Jeanette. Over here we have Glen and LuAnne Forks.

Darcy shook their hands and murmured polite greetings. She remembered the Mansfields from a few garden parties and charity fundraisers in New York City, though she’d never seen them looking so ... well, casual. The Forks were new acquaintances.

We were just finishing our dinner. Have you eaten?

Not for a few hours.

Then come sit. The other couples resumed their places on the picnic benches, causing the old wood to creak out a protest. Darcy’s father moved a lawn chair to one end of the table and seated her, while her mother fixed her a plate of mystery casserole, fruit, and a small salad. She nibbled at the food and listened as the grown-ups continued an earlier conversation.

If we leave after lunch, we can spend the afternoon shopping, Mrs. Mansfield said.

Mrs. Forks leaned forward. Could we eat dinner at the Old Mill in Pigeon Forge? I saw a brochure on the place. I’d love to visit while we’re in the area.

Mom returned to her place at the table. That sounds like a lovely day. Darcy, would you like to come along?

Darcy lowered her fork and looked at her mom—really looked at her. A ripple of unease rolled through her chest. Her mother had gray roots showing near her scalp. Her fingernail polish was chipped and messy. She even had a tiny stain on her shirt. On Claire Granger, that little spot was a giant warning sign.

Her parents had taught her early in life that appearances were important ... the right clothes, trendy hair, and manicured nails. That was how people lived when they had money and an image to uphold. Claire Granger had never had so much as an eyelash out of place in all Darcy’s growing-up years. Her mom prided herself that the city’s gossip reporters had never taken a bad picture of her. She always looked impeccable. Until now.

Honey, did you hear me? Would you like to go shopping with us?

Darcy looked around and noted all eyes were on her as the group waited for an answer. I came to spend time with you and Daddy. I’ll do whatever you’re doing. She wasn’t sure what she was agreeing to, but she wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to investigate. If that meant following her parents around on whatever excursion they had planned, then fine.

Her father leaned his elbows on the table and drummed his fingers against the red-and-white-checked tablecloth, a quiet, satisfied smile on his face. Then it’s settled. We’ll go to the Arts and Crafts Community tomorrow after lunch.

She watched his fingers work, comforted by the familiarity of the habit. Then she noticed the scrapes across his knuckles. And the smudge of dirt—or was that grease?—near his wrist. And his fingers looked rough and weathered ... like he’d been doing manual labor. She’d never seen his hands like that. He was the senior partner of New York’s most powerful legal firm and the most sought-after litigator in the state. He practiced law, and sometimes he golfed. But he didn’t do anything to roughen his hands. At least he didn’t until a few months ago.

Worries rolled through her mind like the endless waves on a stormy sea. Seeing the state her parents were in only confirmed her suspicions. Something had happened. Something big. Something that changed them on a deep and intrinsic level.

Losing her childhood home was bad enough, but losing her parents? They sat right in front of her but they seemed more like strangers than the people she’d left in New York City just after Christmas. Fear clawed at her throat, making it feel raw and achy.

Everything and everyone was changing. And change scared her senseless.

MARC JOGGED DOWN THE thin swath of blacktop that snaked through the rows of tent campers and travel trailers. He figured he could combine his search for the fishermen with a short workout, and negate the effects of sitting at his computer too many hours a day. Occupational hazard.

He turned a bend in the road and began to jog down another line of camping lots. These RVs were the larger ones, mostly motorhomes or high-end fifth wheels owned by full-timers. A spot of red burned against the green and brown backdrop of the campgrounds. The Jaguar had parked at one of the lots up ahead, a spattering of dirt and water spots along the lower edge of the door and back bumper the only evidence of the muddy assault it had inflicted on him.

Tension rippled down his back, drawing the muscles tight. He’d like to stop and give the driver a piece of his mind. At the very least, he’d like to look that person in the eye and see what kind of a jerk was so unconcerned about others that he didn’t even stop to apologize when he soaked someone and ruined a perfectly good chicken dinner. He neared the car, testing out clever insults and scolding phrases in his head.

At that moment an older gentleman with his arm draped around a matronly woman strolled alongside the Jaguar and stepped onto the pavement. Marc zeroed in on the man’s face and recognized him as one of the fishermen he was looking for. Mansfield was the name if memory served. Another couple followed close behind, waving back at the large brown motorhome as they walked away from that lot.

He slowed his steps to a quick-walk and raised his hand in greeting. Hello, there!

Both couples turned his way. The fisherman flashed a smile of recognition and offered a handshake greeting.

Marc reminded the man of his name then stood through the introductions to the man’s wife and the other couple, the Forks. Mr. Mansfield, do you have a few minutes to talk? I have a business proposal for you.

The older man cocked his head to the side, curiosity in