Page 13 of Vodka and Chocolate Drops

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Amber felt defeated and untethered.She no longer had the image of the mysterious Philip, her deadbeat dad, residing in the back of her mind. Now there was a big, open question mark. A man who would be bothered if Amber knew who he was.

Was he someone she knew? Was that why her mother was so intent on protecting him? In Amber’s books, he certainly didn’t deserve it, and she needed to know who she was supposed to direct her angst and feelings of rejection toward.

Unable to concentrate on fixing a non-urgent bug in a work database, Amber closed her laptop. She would earn her paycheck by telecommuting later. Right now she needed to talk to her mother.

Daring to brave any gossip about her and Russell that might still be swirling through the atmosphere, she decided to head to town once again in a quest for information.

Her car started, then sputtered and died. She got the old beater running again, producing a cloud of smoke so black and thick that she feared someone would call the fire department. Amber tentatively put the car in reverse, coaxing it back a few feet before the engine died again. She was going to need a different set of wheels.

The backhoe was still parked near the cliff’s edge, as she’d been too afraid to move it, and she considered driving it to town, before discarding the idea.

Amber tapped her thigh, thinking, as she took in the craggy mountain view. How was she going to afford fixing her car and saving up to move back to the city, when she had to pay the full rent on the house now that Russell was gone? She hadn’t wanted to return to Blueberry Springs, but he’d insisted it was the place to write his book.

She turned her gaze to the machine shed. She’d had to climb over a motorized cart of some kind to reach the backhoe. Surely Rosalind wouldn’t mind her borrowing a vehicle to get around. Amber opened the building’s massive doors, allowing light to streak across the dirt floor, which smelled of spilled oil, earth, and stale air.

It was a golf cart. She kicked the tires while circling it. The key was in the ignition and she slid onto the cracked seat. Finding the choke, she pulled it out, then gingerly pumped the gas pedal twice and, holding her breath, turned the key.

A weak whine came from the engine.

She turned the key again and the motor let out a few halfhearted, unconvincing chugs, but refused to turn over. Keeping the key cranked to the right, Amber finessed the gas pedal with her toe, flooring it to drain the extra gas from the carburetor when it seemed flooded, then pumping it once more, hoping the battery would hold out through the effort. She pushed in the choke, then pulled it out halfway when the machine chugged and protested.

“Come on, baby. Come on.”

Finally the engine coughed and sputtered, almost leveling out before falling into a death-throe unevenness that had Amber yanking on the choke and pumping the gas pedal again.

“Don’t do this. Don’t make me walk.”

A few more sputters and the cart’s rumbling and coughing eased into a quiet hum and tick, punctuated by the odd hiccup and gasoline-laden fart.

Oh, thank goodness. There were bears out there. She wanted wheels.

A few minutes later she was gliding down the mountain toward town, wondering why she hadn’t thought of driving a golf cart as her get-around vehicle before. There was plenty of room for groceries and even a passenger, plenty of fresh air, and the fuel economy had to be excellent.

As she turned into town she caught Scott giving her a second glance from behind a hedge, where he stood with his radar gun.

A speed trap. Well. That was surely going to ruffle some feathers. She waved as she drove past, her heart skipping a beat as he popped up to watch her pass. But Amber was determined not to give him time to figure out whether her mode of transportation was street legal.

She parked in the alley behind Benny’s restaurant and entered through the back door, crossing the small staff room before peeking out to see if she could spot her mom serving the midafternoon coffee crowd.

“Amber, you look hungry.” The chef, Leif, ushered her into the kitchen. He cut her a slice of the semi-famous chocolate pie he made daily and had put Benny’s on the map for most women in the area. He poured Amber a glass of milk and his cologne reminded her of the hours she’d spent watching him cook while she waited for Gloria to finish her shift. Without a word Amber shoveled a large bite of chocolate into her mouth and savored its decadent richness. Nothing better in the world.

“Still your favorite?” Leif asked.

She broke off another piece with her fork and said, “Are you fishing for compliments? You know your pie’s up there with Mandy’s brownies.”

“Who do you think taught her to bake? She wasn’t just a waitress during her years here.”

Mandy Mattson had won the town’s Fall Fair for years with her old brownie recipe, but when she’d quit waitressing and opened her own Wrap It Up restaurant, she’d upped her game and changed her brownie recipe to a whiskey-and-gumdrop one that had solidified her status as an automatic blue ribbon shoe-in. The new brownies were responsible for at least ten of the pounds riding on Amber’s hips.

“My pie hasn’t won any awards,” Leif said thoughtfully.

“Have you entered it in a contest?”

He smiled and wiped his hands on a tea towel. Of course he hadn’t.

“Did you ever get your online recipe forum working properly?” Amber asked. “I’m making the chocolate chip squares in the squares section for the seniors’ bake sale.”

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