“No.”

“It’s not just a motor home, you know. It’s where we live. But with you giving tours all the time, I feel like I’ve always got to keep it spotless.”

“Ah,” he said, sliding a cutlet from the platter onto his plate, “you’d do that anyway.”

“Still,” she said. “You never gave tours of the farmhouse.”

He shrugged. “Nobody ever wanted to look at it. It’s just a house, sweetie. Nothing special about a house.”

Said Sylvia heatedly, “A house where we raised eight children.”

“You know what I mean,” he said. “Hey, good pork.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, “here they come again.”

The dark SUV with the Illinois plates didn’t proceed all the way up the drive to the campsite, but it braked to a stop just off the access road. Sylvia could see two people in the vehicle-two men, it looked like. And maybe someone smaller in the back. A girl? She glared her most unwelcoming glare, she thought. It usually worked. This time, though, the motor shut off and the driver’s door opened.

“At least they didn’t drive in on top of us,” she said.

“Good campground etiquette,” Marshall said.

“But they could have waited until after our supper.”

“You want me to tell them to come back later?”

“What,” she said with sarcasm, “and not give them a tour?”

Marshall chuckled and reached out and patted Sylvia’s hand. She shook her head.

Only the driver got out. He was older, about their age or maybe a few years younger, wearing a casual jacket and chinos. He was dark and barrel-chested, with a large head, slicked-back hair, and warm, dark eyes. He had a thick mustache and heavy jowls, and he walked up the drive rocking side-to-side a little, like a B-movie monster.