“We’ll get to the letter right after this,” I said. The fish fry at the campsite was scheduled for late afternoon, early evening. I thought we’d have time to attend to Joe’s letter in between the two cooking events, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t point out the tight schedule to Gram, but she’d figure it out as we went along. My experience had been that she would never put the ghosts’ needs over real-life people or commitments, but with Joe I wondered.
“Oh, I know. I just hope he sticks around. We’re so close, you know.”
“Speaking of sticking around, Jerome’s back. Well, he was. I’m not sure if he still is, but he was.”
“Why? Was your life in danger?” Gram asked.
I shrugged. “Dunno, Gram.”
“So, how’s it between the two of you?”
I shrugged again. “Dunno that either.”
“But you’re working on it?”
“Yes.”
“I guess that’s all any of us can ask of ourselves. I hope I get the chance to see Jerome, though he’s been back so often lately that I haven’t had much time to miss him.”
I wished I could say the same. I just smiled.
“Come along, Betts,” Gram said. “Let’s get to work.”
As Gram and I ventured from station to station, it was difficult not to feel extraordinarily proud of our nighttime students. They knew their stuff, and they’d all been around Broken Rope long enough to know to add some Old West oomph to their characters and teaching methods. Their demonstrations were all peppered with just the right amount of knowledge and Old West humor and fun.
“Hi there, Betts,” someone said from over my shoulder as I observed the chili mac demonstration.
“Oh, hi, Cody, how are you today?” I said.
“I’m good. I ’fessed up to my past criminal behavior, and you were right—the police couldn’t have cared less. I feel much better.”
“Good.”
Cody was much less Western than he’d been in his costume the day before. He still wore jeans, but they were topped off by a simple green golf shirt. I hadn’t noticed that his hair had been crushed by his hat yesterday, but it was full and bouncy today. He was a cute young man, and I was surprised I didn’t see a gathering of cute young women around him.
“Cody, you have a minute?” I said.
“Sure. What’re we going to do?” he asked.
“I just have some questions about the convention, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Why not?”
We stepped back from the chili mac demonstration and moved to the far edge of the parking lot.
“I haven’t been around the campsite at night. Is it just one big party?” I asked.
“Well, not really. Oh, kind of, I suppose, but not super rowdy.”
“What do you mean? Are there more private parties, in tents and campers and such?” I said, hoping he caught on to what I was saying. He did.
“There’s some of that,” he said without needing extra time to understand my overt code. “They’re a nice group of people though. All I’ve really noticed is that the ones who’ve attended the convention for lots of years kind of hang out together, and the newbies hang out in their own group. The old-timers—that’s what I call them—are more fun than the new ones. I’ve been lucky to get to hang out with some of the old-timers. I like the guy running the show, Orly. He’s been busy, but when he’s just sitting around the campfire reading a poem or listening to someone else read one, he’s a very real kind of guy.”