Page 48 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

“Oh, this ought to be good,” I muttered.

“Your mother chose the campground.”

“I did not choose it,” Mom protested somewhere in the background. “I made the reservation.”

“Exactly,” Dad said triumphantly. “And what did she fail to notice when she booked it? That the campground was hosting a line-dancing weekend and a bluegrass festival at the same time.”

I leaned back in my chair, trying to work out how those two events could possibly have become a problem. “I'm not seeing the issue, Dad.”

“Neither did your mother, apparently. She thought it sounded like fun.”

“It was fun,” Mom called. “Until your father decided he wanted to complain about the noise. And you knew about the bluegrass festival.”

“I did, and I did not complain about the noise. I merely pointed out that it was difficult to enjoy a peaceful evening when someone was playing a banjo three pitches above the level of human endurance. I’d expected all that to remain inside a barn or something far enough away from the camping pitches that we wouldn’t hear anything at the RV.”

“You spent the first afternoon watching the dancers.”

“I was observing.”

“You were tapping your foot.”

“I was keeping time.”

“And then you told the woman running the line-dancing class that you could do better.”

I sat up straighter, already grinning. “Dad, please tell me you didn't.”

“I said the steps looked simple.”

“You said you could teach them a thing or two,” Mom corrected. “So the woman invited you to demonstrate.”

Dad paused long enough to make the answer obvious.

“And?” I prompted.

“And I demonstrated.”

“Of course you did.”

“I did rather well, actually.”

“Until you tried to turn left when everyone else turned right,” Mom said.

“That was a misunderstanding of the choreography.”

“The instructions were quite clear.”

I laughed, imagining Dad trying to maintain his dignity while an entire line of experienced dancers moved in the opposite direction. “I would have paid good money to see that.”

“You'd have been impressed,” Dad insisted. “I picked it up quickly.”

“After everyone else had finished the dance?”

“Yes, they did, but that still was an unfair characterization.”

“Then,” Mom continued, clearly enjoying herself now, “your father decided the bluegrass musicians were playing too loudly, so he went over to ask whether they could turn it down. Somehow, he ended up being invited to join them.”

“I was being polite.”