LITMIR.BIZ

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was going to be. Forever? She shrugged.

      Her father had died suddenly—she hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye. Taking over his truck was her homage to him. Plus, it promised to get her out of the four-walled kitchens she’d spent too many hours trapped inside, where stress, too often, drove the show. That wasn’t what she wanted anymore—this was. Outdoors. Hungry guys. She could do with a little less noise, but why be picky?

      She was ready to be her own boss, to take charge of her life. This overly bright truck was her ticket to renew her love of cooking and reclaim her independence. She wasn’t looking to get rich, just to get by. She didn’t want to put too much pressure on Zack Gardner or to come off as desperate, but she slipped a subtle please, please, please glance his way. No harm in sending subliminal messages, right?

      He was obviously still fighting some internal battle, looking at the other half of his chicken wrap, checking out his work boots, gazing at her silly logo again, then into her hopeful stare. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll try you out three days next week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and we’ll see how it goes from there.”

      It wasn’t a total yes, but it was a maybe, and maybe was better than good enough today. Yes! She’d count it as a victory. Besides, she was bound to win over those hungry-looking men who’d quit sawing and hammering and were still watching the show over by her pink truck. After they’d had a taste of her hearty wraps, they’d be begging their boss to let her come back.

      “That’s a deal. May I leave my menus for your men, and heat up a few more hand pies for them to sample as a thank-you? I’ve got a pot of coffee ready to go, too.” She’d thought ahead and set up for half of her hundred-cup coffee maker, just in case. “Just say the word.”

      She’d arrived not only hopeful but prepared for success, and now it’d paid off.

      His somewhat flirtatious smile alarmed her. It set off a relay of tingles across her neck and shoulders, and strategically dipped below her collarbone, making her glad she wore a full apron over her thin top.

      “Sounds like a good idea.”

      Putty in her hands! She’d been privileged to see his handsome and far-too-appealing smile again. And it did wonders for her mood.

      “Thanks.” And he was thanking her!

      She tipped her head and grinned, unashamed how glad she was he’d given her a chance. It was all she asked. Then she got right to work heating a couple dozen assorted hand pies as the coffee brewed. While she did, she couldn’t help but notice that Zack had picked up the rest of his wrap to take home. Oh, yeah, she’d sold him all right. Good food in person was always better than a phone call sales pitch. Thanks, Dad.

      “See you Monday,” he said. “We break for lunch at noon.”

      “I’ll be here by eleven thirty!”

      “Park under those trees.” He pointed to a shady spot across the way. “I’ll rig something up for the men to sit on.”

      If that didn’t sound promising for a permanent spot and job, what would?

      Grinning, she watched him walk off toward his office, long strides, narrow hips, construction worker arms and shoulders. Once he was inside, after she’d let herself imprint that fine image in her mind—because, come on, no way was he ever going to be more than a nice fantasy in her life—she finished her preparations for the guys. With everything laid out on the counter and the coffee brewed, she honked her Happy Days theme horn, a horn she’d spent an entire day choosing from the usual and long list of food truck horns. She’d chosen that one because she knew it would make her dad grin. She couldn’t help but notice Zack Gardner peering out his modular office window through the blinds at the sound. Then the guys came like zombies to feed at her truck, and she handed each of them a menu to take with them. “I’ll be here next Monday. Be sure to bring your appetites.”

      Her cheeks were nearly cramping. She hadn’t smiled this long or hard, or been this happy, since she’d landed her first job as a line cook right out of community college working up to short orders in record time. All without going to culinary school. How’s that for beating the odds, Dad? He’d always been proud of her following in his chosen profession, chief cook and bottle washer.

      Sunday afternoon Lacy showed up early for a wedding reception at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History. She parked, as instructed, out of sight of the outdoor wedding ceremony on the museum Mission Creek grounds. Four other trucks were there for the three-hour-reception gig. She’d been instructed to serve three different wraps—chicken, steak and vegetarian—and to skip the pies since another truck would be the main cake and dessert truck. Whatever. The job was paying a flat rate, which was fine with her. She’d make a good profit. With the next installment payment on her updated truck overhaul, plus the custom paint job due, she was happy just to be here. And in the day and age of monkey see, monkey do, who knew what other jobs it could lead to.

      It was a lovely spring day, California style. The sun was out, temperatures in mid seventies, with only a hint of a breeze. The old and modest museum, designed in the Spanish Colonial Revival style, was located in the Mission Canyon area of Santa Barbara and had been recently renovated. It was beautifully redone, combining minimal architectural improvements to enhance the surrounding nature. Each complementing the other. Literally nestled in riparian oak woodland, the museum setting seemed idyllic for weddings.

      Lacy glanced around at the young, hip and rich group arriving in the reception area. The ceremony must be over. A few women even wore hats, maybe influenced by the royal weddings in England over the last few years. Who knew the reason, but those hats dressed up the crowd. It made the occasion extraspecial, which caused Lacy to smile. The few spring pastel dresses mixed with the artsy black many guests chose to wear made for a nice contrast.

      She’d thought hard before accepting her first wedding job last month, when she’d just finished revamping her father’s food truck and had gotten all the required certifications. Weddings were a tough subject, even after all this time.

      Five years ago, she’d been engaged to be married to the greatest guy on earth. She’d never believed she could feel so much love for someone other than her parents. Of course, her love for Greg had been on a totally different level, and she couldn’t wait to be his wife. Ever the military gentleman, he’d gone old-school and, in her mother’s rose garden, dropped to his knee to ask her to marry him. So thrilled and excited by his question, she’d fallen to her knees to be face-to-face with him when she’d said yes. They’d cried and laughed and hugged and kissed, and then, because she’d had the house to herself that day, they took it inside.

      There’d been one problem though. He’d been called up for a six-month deployment to Afghanistan, so they’d have to wait at least that long before they could tie the knot. Going in, she’d known and accepted that this would be the life of a military girlfriend and future wife. What were a few months in a lifetime, they’d rationalized together to help make his leaving a little easier.

      Two months after Greg had left, his parents called, sounding shaky and asking her to come to their house. Once there, they’d all been told together in person by an army major in their jurisdiction that Sergeant First Class Gregory Timberland had been killed by friendly fire. Lacy, though stunned, remembered thinking what a horrible job that major had, having to tell families the awful news. In his low and respectful voice with a slight tremble, the major had gone on to say that one of Greg’s own guys had killed him in a horrific mistake. It was an accident, of course, but nevertheless, who had come up with such a terrible term for what had happened? Friendly fire had to be the world’s worst oxymoron.

      She couldn’t imagine the horror the other military guy—the one who’d made the mistake—must have felt when he’d realized what he’d done. At the news, she’d melted into a sadness so deep she couldn’t imagine ever seeing her way out.

      The last time she and Greg had spoken over the internet

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