The Road to Grace (The Walk) Read Free Page B

every year. The stories they would tell …”
    “Oh yes, there are stories. Last year there was a woman on a Harley who called herself ‘Lady Godiva.’ I don’t need to tell you what she was wearing. Or not wearing.”
    The town of Sturgis, South Dakota, is the epicenter of the world’s largest annual gathering of Harley-Davidson motorcycle riders. Every August, thousands of bikers, from business magnates to Hells Angels, descend on the town. There’s nothing else like it in the world.
    “How far are we from Sturgis?” I asked.
    “A little over fifty miles.”
    “I’d like to see that sometime.”
    “There’s not much to see this time of year,” she said. “’Course it’s not as wild as it used to be. It’s like Christmas—it got commercialized.”
    Just then I heard a doorknob turn and the back door opened. I looked over as Dawna’s other guest entered the room. It was Pamela.
    “Hi, Alan,” she said softly.
    I stared at her in disbelief. “I thought you’d given up.”
    “No.”
    I looked at her for a moment then stood. “Fine. Follow me to Key West if you want. But you should get some better shoes.” I turned to Dawna, whose eyes were nervously darting back and forth between us. “I need my bill.”
    “I’ll get it,” she said, standing quickly. She walked overto her cubbyholed maple desk. “It will be eighty-nine dollars for the night.” She held up a handwritten invoice. “Ninety-two fifty-six with tax.”
    Pamela stared at me. “Alan … Just five minutes. Please.”
    “I told you no.”
    I handed Dawna my credit card, then, as it was processing, went back to my room and got my backpack. When I returned to the dining room, Pamela was still there. I retrieved my credit card, signed the bill, then walked past Pamela to the front door.
    “Please, just hear me out,” she said.
    “I told you yesterday, we have nothing to talk about. Nothing’s changed since then.” I walked out the door, slamming it shut behind me.
    As I reached the other end of the parking lot, Pamela stepped outside. “You owe me,” she shouted.
    I spun around. “What?”
    “You owe me.”
    A flash of rage engulfed me. “I owe you ?”
    She walked halfway across the parking lot to me. “Yes. You do.”
    “For what? For abandoning a little girl? For ruining my wife’s life?”
    She looked me in the eyes. “Her life wasn’t ruined. She had you.” She stepped closer, and her voice was calmer. “If I hadn’t been a bad mother, would McKale have been yours the way she was? Would she have needed you like she did? Would she have even married you?”
    Her questions took me aback. After a moment I said, “Go home, Pamela. Go back to wherever you’ve been hiding all these years. You had your chance.”
    Her eyes welled up with tears.
    I turned back to the road. I walked fifty yards or sobefore I glanced back. I couldn’t believe it. She was still following me. Though, this time, with a slight limp. It didn’t take me long to leave her far behind.
    The strangest thing I saw that morning—other than Pamela—was a sign for Red Ass Rhubarb Wine . If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to flee my pursuer I might have stopped for a taste. I could have used some wine. Pamela’s questions bothered me.
    Just outside Hill City I came to a place called Mistletoe Ranch, which wasn’t really a ranch, but a Christmas emporium. A sign in front of the building proclaimed it The Ultimate Christmas Store .
    McKale was a die-hard fan of Christmas and, as she had in so many of her passions, converted me as well. Even in spring I couldn’t resist the allure of the season. Since I hadn’t seen Pamela for more than an hour I went inside.
    The place was indeed full of Christmas. Tinny, banjo Christmas music played from overhead speakers, and the room smelled of pine and buttercream scented candles. The walls were shelved and piled high with hundreds of unique holiday decorations, knickknacks, and collectibles, from Betty Boop