Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(14)

The Pita Peddler, although a money maker, was a seasonal business. Her single umbrella didn’t offer much protection from the elements, and water-soaked falafel didn’t rate high in customer satisfaction.

“So you’re almost there?”

Emerson smiled. “Almost.” According to her plan, she was just six thousand dollars, or three private VFW parties, shy of her goal. Which meant that come January she would be trading up and accomplishing what she and her mom had dreamed of.

“Good, because look what came in.” Harper pulled a certified letter from the back pocket of her jeans and waved it in Emerson’s face.

“Oh my God!” Emerson grabbed the letter, a punch of excitement slamming against her chest. “Is that from—”

“Street Eats?” Harper’s grin was so big it shone. “Yup. The mail guy needed a signature, so I pretended to be your roommate.”

Emerson looked at the empty pastry box in the kitchen, the mango-colored backpack sprawled across the table, and the stack of Harper’s laundry on the chair waiting to be folded, and figured it wasn’t that far from the truth.

Emerson ran a finger across the side of the envelope, hesitating at the back flap. Inside could be a rejection, or an opportunity of a lifetime, and Emerson wasn’t sure which she wanted more.

Street Eats was the nation’s most competitive and prestigious food truck competition. Hundreds applied, only a few were lucky enough to be accepted, and this year it was coming to wine country. The cook-off would attract thousands of foodies and some of the best gourmet food trucks from around the country. The top chefs in her field would go head-to-head in her own backyard, showcasing their cutting-edge eats, and Emerson dreamed of being one of them.

A lot of things had changed since she’d applied last year. Violet had started school, her dad had found every reason in the world not to get a job—in fact, her family seemed more dependent on her now than ever. Plus, she was still shy a gourmet food truck. And short on cash to get one.

Harper scooted to the edge of the couch. “Open it before I combust from nerves!”

With a deep breath, Emerson pulled out the letter and—

“No freaking way.” She held up the gold script invitation certifying that Emerson Blake, culinary school dropout, had an exclusive golden ticket to live out one of her life’s greatest dreams. “I got in.”

“You got in!” Harper, being 100 percent chick, let out a huge squeal, then pulled Emerson in for one of her infamous hugs. It was warm, long, and full of all those female bonding sounds other women seemed to make when they hung in large groups. Emerson had never been big on large groups, or female bonding, but knowing it would go faster if she didn’t resist, she allowed the embrace—but didn’t return it. Counted to three. Gave a closing pat to her friend’s shoulder, then tried pulling back.

“Um, Harper?”

Harper finally released her and clasped her hands in front of her face. “This is huge, Em!”

“I know.” With a sigh, she dropped her head on the back of the couch, because it was also a year too early. Emerson had dreamed of competing in Street Eats since watching the first show with her mom and coming up with a plan for their Greek streatery fleet. Serving her food in that arena would be all the endorsement she’d need to get her truck into big events throughout San Francisco and Silicon Valley. One of last year’s competitors had gone from one truck on Main Street, USA, to six trucks in the six biggest cities in the country. He even had his own show on television.

“Then why didn’t you tell me you applied?” Harper asked, and Emerson slid her a sideways look. “No way! You didn’t tell me because you weren’t sure if you were going to do it, and that constipated look you have, yup, that one right there”—she pointed in accusation at Emerson’s face—“that says you have somehow convinced yourself the responsible choice is pass up the biggest opportunity of your life, which is insane since you have been talking about this for years, about how you would dominate and kick some serious culinary butt. Butt that cannot be kicked if you don’t show up.” She grabbed Emerson by the shoulders. “Why aren’t you going to show up?”

“Because it is a food truck competition, not a food cart competition.” The duh went unsaid but it was thick in her tone.

“You said you were almost there.”

“Yeah, almost there as in three months out.” Emerson took one last look at the letter, then folded it up. “Street Eats is one month away.”

“Whew,” Harper said, sitting back and making a big spectacle out of putting her hand to her heart. “And here I thought you were going to say it was because your dad is still unemployed and Pixie Girl got suspended for lobbing a lethal glitter bomb in class.”

“You know?”

“The entire mommy community knows. Brooklyn’s mom had it all over her mommy blog by lunch,” Harper explained as though it wasn’t a big deal. Although Harper wasn’t a mommy herself, she managed the Fashion Flower, the only kids’ craft and clothing boutique in town, which made her the great Mommy Oz of wine country. It also explained the Easter egg outfit and preschool teacher vibe she had going on. “But if a truck is all that’s stopping you from checking the yes box, then let’s get a truck.”

“Sounds great,” Emerson said, clapping her hands and mimicking her friend’s sunny tone. “You happen to find an extra six grand in the mail when you were snooping?”