Chapter 3: Expedition

Tuesday dawned fair and clear, promising another beautiful, warm, sunny day of the Spring Break week. Mary and her sister dropped her offspring off at seven in the morning, an hour that Marcy clearly felt was far too early. I was joined in greeting my two budding naturists by my daughters Debra and Tori.

"Hey, Melissa! Ready to have some fun with the other kids?" Debra offered.

"Yeah! Bye, Mommy, see you later!" And with that, the nude nymph disappeared into the inner sanctum of Barracuda Beach Naturist Resort, escorted by my elder daughter.

That left my reluctant padawan Marcy, my younger daughter Tori, and Marcy's mother and aunt. The two women were still in the car.

"OK, Cottontail, you're on the clock," I informed Marcy. I pointed to the 1930's pickup that proudly bore the Resort's logo. "Get in the truck."

Marcy eyed me skeptically, not moving a step. "You're dressed," she observed, taking in my cutoffs and T-shirt. The T-shirt bore the legend, "Happiness is No Tan Lines".

"You're right. Get in the truck."

Marcy then eyed Tori, who wore the same "uniform" as Marcy: fluorescent orange ball cap with the Barracuda Bay logo, runners and SPF-45 sunscreen. The younger girl also bore a smirk, anticipating Marcy's Textile reaction to what was to come. I could see from the look on Marcy's face that she was cogitating as fast as she could. "I'm naked."

"You're nude," I corrected. " Naked means defenceless, nude just means you're not wearing clothes. Get in the truck."

Reluctantly she started walking toward the truck. "Where are we going?" she asked as she arrived at where we were standing.

"Into town to pick up the days groceries for the restaurant."

Marcy stopped dead. "WHAT?!"

"The restaurant. It's a place where people pay other people to cook-"

"I know what a damned restaurant is," Marcy growled.

"Language, young lady!" her mother called from the sedan.

"You don't expect me to go into town like this, surely?"

"Yes, and stop calling me Shirley," I deadpanned. I love the classic old straight lines. "Get in the truck."

"If you look closely," she informed me, pointing to her torso, "I'm not wearing anything."

I pointed in turn at Tori's equally unclad torso. "If you look closely, she's not wearing anything. Get in the truck."

"Yes, but she's not going with us, is she?"

"Why yes she is, as a matter of fact," I responded. "Get in the truck."

Marcy looked perplexedly at Tori, who nodded. As if mounting the gallows to her own hanging, Marcy got in the truck.

There are a few evil tricks I can play on overly modest young girls. Well, not evil - merely exercises designed to exorcise excess body modesty. I decided now was the perfect time to utilize one of those exercises. I stopped at Jed's Gas Station on the way to BreadBasket SuperMarket.

Marcy was sitting between Tori and me. I got out and went into the office, returning with 70-year-old Jed and his son and crown prince of crankshafts and carburettors, Harry. Both joined me for a long, long look under the hood. Marcy sat there, turning twenty-something shades of red, while Tori took to being nude around dressed adults in her stride.

Eventually we ended our conversation and slammed the hood down. Shaking their grease-coated hands goodbye, I re-entered the cab and we resumed our interrupted victualling expedition.

"What was that all about?" Marcy demanded suspiciously. "Is there something wrong with this scrapheap? It's not going to break down on us or something, is it?"

"No, nothing's wrong at all," I reassured her. "It's just Jed and Harry wanted to see the modifications we needed to do to get this pickup running on batteries."

"Batteries?" Her eyebrows made contact with her hat's brim.

I nodded. "Uh-huh."

"Waitaminute," Marcy blurted as the light dawned. "You mean to tell me this thing doesn't use gas?"

"Now that you mention it, no."

"You didn't even need to fix anything?" Her voice had become a squeak of outrage.

"She's running like a top," I pronounced.

"You didn't need to stop there just now?"

"Nope. But you needed more time to get used to walking around in your own skin."

Mouth agape, she turned to Tori for support. Tori merely nodded at the outraged girl, "Uh-huh."

I still don't know if it was at the BreadBasket, the Farmers' Market or Paco's Fish Market that Marcy began cluing in, but somewhere in there she began dropping her "hide-me-I'm-nekked!" routine. Sometimes, you just need to be hit with a clue-by-four before you realize that whatever it is that you've been worrying about, just isn't worth worrying about. It's had to happen with me on occasion.

I dropped off the previous day's receipts at the Manatee Bay Savings & Loan first, so as to not have anything perishable in the truck during the warm early morning. This part of the country doesn't get cold very often, and with food you like to take precautions. Plus, that food can get stolen by those who think it's "fun" to take what isn't theirs.

Normally Tori stays with the truck, but today she joined me in the Savings & Loan. As a corporate account holder, I get express service, so there's usually not much point to my youngest to standing in line with dear ol' Daddykins. Today was different. Might have something to do with the chance to challenge the comfort zone of a fellow girl just one year older.

Tori dragged Marcy out of the truck, literally, and using one hand to hold onto her, held onto my right hand with the other. When Marcy started to squawk about it, Tori reminded her sotto voce that she was in public and attracting attention to herself. The terrified girl shut up and hugged close to Tori.

We were served at the commercial tellers' window by the head teller herself, "Hello, Mr. Jackman, Miss Victoria," Mrs. Guggenheim greeted us. "How are you today?"

"Just fine, Mrs. Guggenheim," I replied.

"Good morning, Mrs. Guggenheim!" Tori burbled.