Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(7)
Today she’d set up her cart in front of town hall to attract the tourists who were in town for Crush, wine country’s harvest season. The big clock above the pillars of town hall told her she had fifteen minutes until Twofer Tuesday began, and with her own twist on her mom’s famous lamb gyros, she wasn’t surprised by the line of hungry customers roughing the harsh wind, waiting for her to open.
With one last attempt at relighting the pilot light, which failed the second the wind passed through the duct, Emerson slammed the access panel. Telling herself it would take more than a temperamental starter to take her down, she raced down Main Street toward Cork’d N Dipped.
“Sterno,” Emerson announced as she pushed through the wooden door. “Where did you store the big ones I ordered last month?”
“Used them to keep the hot buttered wine steaming last weekend,” Ida Beamon said from beneath a display of chocolate plantains. “But I think I have some of the fondue size left.”
Ida had frosted hair, violet bifocals, and was wearing enough pink feathers on her shirt to be confused for a flock of flamingoes. She was also the owner of St. Helena’s only wine and chocolate bar—and most likely the artist behind the dipped plantains.
“Those will do.” They’d have to. She was desperate, not a new feeling for her, and with the clock ticking, it was time to get creative.
“They’re in the kitchen pantry, next to the his-and-hers fondue skewers,” Ida said.
“Thanks.” Emerson raced past the glass walls of wine bottles and into the commercial kitchen she subleased from Ida for her business. In order to make her mom’s dream a reality, she’d needed a commercial kitchen to secure her food licenses—and Ida had the only one on Main Street that wasn’t being used regularly. So in exchange for a few hundred bucks a month and catering a couple of events at the wine bar each year, Emerson wound up with the female Willy Wonka as her kitchenmate.
And a resident duck as her neighbor. As Emerson flicked on the light, she found Norton on the center island, beak covered in pistachios, tail lowered to the metal tabletop, looking ready to defend the baklava he’d discovered. The baklava she’d spent two hours making.
“Norton! Down!” Emerson commanded, even snapped her fingers and pointed from the bird to the floor.
Norton puffed out his wings and, tail straight back, parted his beak—duck for What? What?—then went back to pecking the baklava. In fact, the plate was practically pecked clean and he was already eyeing the other full tray.
“One more peck at my profits and you will end up a pillow. Got it?” To her frustration, all she got was a good look at the duck’s backside when Norton gave tail before going for the tray. “You want to play dirty?”
Emerson pulled a squirt bottle out from the pantry and fired. Once, twice, all the while making a psht psht sound, just like the Dog Whisperer did on the show Ida watched while prepping for happy hour. And because Norton was more concerned with proving himself a dog instead of a water fowl, he hopped off the table and scuttled his tail feathers right out of the kitchen and through the doggie door.
Quark! Quark! Quark!
Emerson slid the remaining tray of baklava onto the top shelf of the pantry for safekeeping, then located the his-and-hers skewers, which had interesting places to secure the fruit and meat. Next to them were the fondue cans. They were small, too small for what she needed, but they would have to do. She grabbed every last one, located a candle lighter, just in case, then made her way back to the front—snatching a stick of chocolate-covered bacon because, yeah, it was going to be one of those days.
“You got any duct tape?” she asked.
“Yup.” Ida set down the fresh fig she was dipping in a vat of bitter-smelling dark chocolate and walked to the register to pull out some tape. “Add some of those nautical ropes I bought for last week’s coastal wine tasting and I’d say you were looking to get lucky.”
Emerson laughed while bagging her stuff. She wouldn’t mind getting lucky right about then. With her cart, that was. “The Pita Peddler’s pilot won’t light. I think there’s something wrong with the starter.”
“Uh-huh.” Ida studied Emerson’s outfit and frowned. “Seems to me like you’re looking to be noticed. Even before you picked up that dating starter kit.”
Emerson was wearing her uniform—KISS MY BAKLAVA tee and leggings—but she’d swapped out her usual black skirt for a short denim one with a million zippers and pockets, and, because attitude leads to altitude, her American flag Converse high-tops. And okay, so she’d seen Dax jogging around the community park yesterday, all hot, sweaty, and breathtakingly shirtless. That didn’t mean she’d applied mascara for his sake.
Emerson dropped the lighter inside when Ida grabbed the bag and held it hostage behind the counter. “Lunch starts in ten minutes, Ida.”
“Promise me you’ll wear the cork costume on Saturday night, and I’ll give you the bag.”
A subtle throbbing started behind Emerson’s forehead. “What’s Saturday night? And why am I wearing a cork costume?”
“Saturday night the girls and I are throwing a party. It will be our first weekly Blow Your Cork Singles Night,” Ida said as though the words party and the girls didn’t inspire terror in townspeople everywhere.
The girls referred to Ida, Peggy, and Clovis—a blue-haired trifecta of trouble. All three were kissing seventy, stubborn as hell, and loved to stir up serious trouble. And when men and alcohol were involved, it usually wound up in someone pulling out the cuffs—sometimes even the cops.