1. Clarry

CLARRY

My motorcycle, Bessie, roared through the jungle, cutting through the underbrush, splattering the mud and slashing through the dense ferns and fronds like a machete as I revved the throttle even harder.

The sun was setting between the trees. She was a brutal goddess, a savage ball of fire that beat down on this tropical hellhole, but at that moment I'd have given anything for a few more hours of daylight. Our combat team of elite mercenaries and renegade Marines already had their orders to blow the jungle compound to kingdom come at precisely nineteen-hundred hours—killing the evil warlord General Zorkin and every last one of his filthy insurgents—whether I had succeeded in my mission or not. If I didn't get to Captain Raven in time and rescue him from the chains of our enemy, then the two of us would become collateral damage in the strike.

As the sun sank in the sky, I felt the chances of our survival slipping away by the second.

But if there was one mantra I was willing to live and die by, it was that no man gets left behind… especially the man I loved.

My heart revved in time with the throttle of the motorcycle .

I ducked as I sped beneath a hissing python dangling from a moss-covered branch.

I skidded to avoid a perilous pool of quicksand yearning to drag me to my death.

I spotted the compound ahead, a fourteenth century Spanish fortress, half of which had been claimed by nature, the other half by Zorkin who had turned the crumpling stone structure into a camouflaged jungle lair.

I poured on the speed.

There was no time to make a stealthy entrance, to sneak past the guards or high-wire in from the roof.

No sir, this was one party I was going to have to gatecrash… literally.

I saw the entrance to the fortress up ahead, but I knew there was one last obstacle to cross before I reached it—the moat surrounding the ruins. It was a veritable river of death, filled with man-eating crocodiles and flesh-devouring piranhas.

Thankfully the drawbridge was down.

But for how long?

Suddenly I heard gunfire.

Bullets shredded the trees as I sped past them.

I zigzagged left and right, dodging the assault.

It seemed the element of surprise was well and truly gone. Someone had to have let Zorkin know I was coming. There must have been a rat-mole in our tightknit team of heroes. But who?

It was a mystery I would have to solve later as I watched the drawbridge over the moat begin to rise.

"Fudge!" I swore under my breath, pouring on the speed once more.

Frantically Zorkin's men scrambled on the other side of the bridge, trying to cut off my access as quickly as they could.

But the drawbridge was heavy.

And Bessie was fast .

Mud flew into the air from her back tire as I tore through the jungle.

The drawbridge cranked its way higher and higher.

Zorkin's goons heaved on the chains.

I pushed Bessie to full throttle and saw a log ahead, slanting up like a ramp.

I veered the motorcycle, drove straight up the log, and launched Bessie and myself into the air over the moat.

But the drawbridge was too high.

I realized I might make the jump…

But Bessie wouldn't.

I pushed myself off the seat of the motorcycle, reached as far as I could, and snagged the edge of the drawbridge in my white-knuckled grip.

Bessie wasn't so lucky.

I glanced down to see my motorcycle plunge into the murky waters below.

"Farewell, Bessie. Your country salutes you."

Yes, that motorcycle had served me well on many a mission. But the only ones who had time for tears at that moment were the crocodiles below as they broke their teeth on Bessie's chassis.

As the drawbridge continued to rise, I threw one leg over the edge and hoisted myself up.

Instantly the goons started firing their weapons.

I ducked their bullets as I hurled myself over the edge of the drawbridge and slid down the other side, pulling the two pistols from my dual shoulder holster and firing at my attackers as I glided down the drawbridge.

Bullets flew at me as I returned fire, but I had no fear.

That's the thing about bad guys… their aim is terrible.

Mine on the other hand was exceptional.

I scored a direct hit with every bullet I fired, until soon I landed at the foot of the drawbridge to see Zorkin's goons lying dead on the ground, while there was not a single rip in the fabric of my MARPAT camouflage.

I had gained access to the stronghold.

Now all I needed to do was find Captain Raven before the airstrike blew us all to hell.

Finishing this mission was going to take more than just courage…

It was going to take music.

From my utility belt I pulled out my Discman, the one my grandparents had bought for me from a thrift store when I was seven. I plugged the earphones into my portable CD player and set the disc spinning to track number one—Bonnie Tyler's " Holding Out for a Hero "… because that's what my man needed right now…

A hero.

I sprinted across the courtyard of the fortress, somersaulting and firing my weapons at the occasional guard who appeared from nowhere in a futile attempt to stop me.

As they bit the dust one by one, I darted through the entrance of the citadel's main chamber, coming up against a large iron door with a keypad on one side, prompting me to enter a password.

I had been studying Zorkin's past before signing up for this mission. I knew everything about him—his dysfunctional childhood, his rise to villainy, his strange obsession with ostrich feathers… and yes, the birth date of his favorite movie star, Zsa Zsa Gabor.

02-06-17

I punched that date into the keypad, and with a low rumble the door rose open, revealing a large chamber framed by bamboo scaffolding that supported the ceiling of the ruins on all sides.

In the center of the chamber was a large glowing pit, and dangling over it—suspended by a rope that bound his hands over his head—was Captain Raven .

Pistols still in hand, I ventured cautiously into the chamber. Almost immediately I felt an intense heat and heard a distinct gurgling and bubbling sound, and realized with horror that Raven was suspended over a pit of spitting lava.

Quickly I pulled the earplugs from my ears and raced toward the edge of the pit, desperately promising, "I'll get you out of here, Captain. I'm here to save you."

Captain Raven only shook his head. "Save yourself, private. I know the strike force is on its way. There's no chance you can rescue me in time. Just get the hell out of here now. That's an order, soldier."

"With all due respect sir, that's an order I refuse to take."

"Good," hissed a sinister voice from somewhere above. "Now I'll have the pleasure of seeing you both die, right before I press this button and send my missiles to intercept your strike force."

My eyes followed the voice up into the shadows, and atop the scaffolding I saw General Zorkin, a pale and puny skeleton of a man with sunken eyes and lips like a lizard. His military uniform hung off his bony shoulders like a set of ragged drapes, the medals he stole from the corpses of others too heavy for the worn fabric. In one hand he held a pistol aimed straight at me. In his other hand was a remote-control device with a large red flashing button, begging to be pressed.

I quickly raised my weapons, pointing them at him in return.

But instead of pointing his gun at me, he turned it on Captain Raven as he dangled over the lava pit.

"Don't even think about it," I warned, even though Zorkin held all the cards.

"Save your breath, butterball. You'll need it for your final farewells. You see, first I'm going to shoot the rope, so you can watch your beloved captain plunge to his fiery death. Then, I'll put you out of your misery with a single bullet to the heart."

I knew I wasn't in a position to shoot.

If I fired at Zorkin now, he could still get a shot off, severing the rope and sending Captain Raven plummeting into the lava below. Not only that, but Zorkin's muscles would probably flinch in the throes of death and his thumb would hit the button on the missile interception device.

This was checkmate.

Or was it?

My eyes followed the scaffolding down to the base of the bamboo structure, noticing a section that was bowing and bending under the strain.

Outside I could hear the distant rumble of the airstrike approaching.

At the top of the scaffolding, Zorkin declared—"Say goodbye to Captain Raven."

Time was up.

He fired off a shot.

But the bullet only grazed the rope.

The twine began to fray.

Captain Raven dropped an inch lower, the rope above him unraveling strand by strand.

"Dammit!" cursed Zorkin.

He aimed his gun again at the snapping rope.

Raven dropped another inch, then another.

Even if Zorkin missed again, that rope wasn't going to hold much longer.

I shoved the earplugs back into my ears. The CD had skipped to Deniece Williams' " Let's Hear it for the Boy ," which was no music for a do-or-die rescue mission.

I flicked the CD back to Tyler.

I swung about, both guns blazing as I fired bullet after bullet not at Zorkin, but into the bowing base of the scaffolding.

My gunfire shattered the bamboo poles, snapping them like twigs.

Before Zorkin could pull his trigger again, a tremor rippled its way up the scaffolding .

Bamboo buckled and broke.

Zorkin stared at me in shock, our eyes locking long enough for me to smile. " Now who's the butterball? It's time to fry, dirtbag."

The general gasped as the entire structure beneath him wavered, then fell toward the middle of the chamber.

As the scaffolding came crashing down, it missed Captain Raven by mere inches before the toppling structure threw Zorkin into the air—

And straight into the lava pit below.

With a blood-curdling scream, the villainous general plummeted into the molten pit, taking the missile interception device with him, the lava consuming him whole with a fiery belch.

The remainder of the bamboo structure clattered over the top of the pit.

A second later the rope above Captain Raven snapped.

He fell—

But the dozens of crisscrossed bamboo poles now covering the lava pit formed a makeshift safety net that saved his fall… and his life.

As he bounced safely onto the bamboo, I looked up to see the ceiling begin to crack and cave.

Without the scaffolding, there was nothing left holding up the roof of the ruins.

Dust rained down from the crevasses that opened up and streaked along the ancient ceiling, before giant chunks of rock began to fall.

"Oh, sugar cookies!" I uttered.

I raced for Captain Raven who was trying desperately to pull himself off the makeshift bamboo net that had fallen across the lava pit. I could see his leg was bleeding and he was clutching his side in pain.

"You're hurt," I said as I reached for him.

He nodded. "You need to get out of here! Leave me! "

"Not a hope in heck."

Another chunk of rock smashed apart on impact as it fell from the roof, then another.

I tried to crawl across to Captain Raven, but the bamboo wouldn't take both our weight.

I reached for him. "Take my hand. Don't argue… sir!"

Captain Raven looked into my eyes, and I could see that he hated the thought of losing me as much as I hated the thought of losing him.

He grabbed my hand, our palms slapping together and our fingers interlocking in a grip that no man or missile could tear apart.

I hauled him off the makeshift safety net just as the heat from below set bamboo ablaze, the burnt remnants plunging into the lava.

Another section of the ceiling fell to the left, one to the right.

Smaller rocks and debris were showering down on us.

The captain tried to hobble, but his leg was too badly injured.

"I can't walk," he winced.

"No. But I can."

With all my strength, I bent low and with a grunt I hoisted the hulking, muscled frame of my captain onto my shoulders.

As the roof began to collapse completely, sending a mountain of rock down upon us, I charged through the chamber, dashing for the doorway with Captain Raven draped across my shoulders.

I could feel the heat of him.

I could smell the sweat of him.

I could hear his words as he whispered, "I hope I'm not too heavy. I kinda overdid it on the carbs for lunch."

"You're as light as a feather, sir," I lied, secretly loving the manly weight of him pressing down on me.

As the entire roof of the chamber came thundering down, we bolted through the doorway, a plume of dust and rock exploding out from behind us .

But we weren't safe yet.

In the sky I could hear the roar of the airstrike jets closing in.

Across the courtyard, the drawbridge was still up.

My legs burned.

My back ached.

But I couldn't give up now.

As I looked up, I saw the fighter jets appear in the darkening sky.

I saw the bright flare of their missiles launching, soaring through the dusk, heading straight for us.

I ran with the last of my strength, pulling out one of my pistols and aiming at the lever that held the drawbridge chain.

With a single shot the lever snapped, the chain unfurled, and the drawbridge came crashing down, opening the way for our escape.

The missiles blazed a trail like comets through the sky.

I tightened my grip on the captain, my shoulders quivering under his weight, my feet pounding across the drawbridge as fast as they could carry us.

The missiles roared overhead.

We made it across the drawbridge, and I launched us into the air, diving into the safety of the jungle as the missiles slammed into the stronghold behind us.

The citadel erupted in a gigantic ball of fire.

The explosion was deafening.

The shockwave blasted leaves and fronds from the trees that fell over us, protecting us from the wave of heat and flames.

As the fireball plumed high into the night sky, Captain Raven and I watched, having once again escaped certain death by the skin of our teeth.

That was when he took me by the hand. "Private Pinkerton… thank you. I owe you my life."

I shook my head. "You owe me nothing, sir. And you never have to thank me, at least not with words. "

He looked into my eyes. "Then let me thank you with a kiss. Kiss me, Private Pinkerton. Kiss me now."

I gasped, my heart racing faster than it had in the face of danger. "Are you sure, sir?"

Captain Raven nodded with utter certainty. "Kiss me, Private Pinkerton. That's an order."

He leaned in close, his lips pursed.

Mine were parched, desperate for the sweet taste of him.

At long last, our love would be complete.

But as I closed my eyes, waiting for his lips to press themselves to mine, a strange clicking noise filled the air.

I opened my eyes to see that my captain had heard it too, our kiss interrupted before it could even happen.

"Did you hear that clicking sound?" he asked. "What do you think it is?"

"I'm not sure. Perhaps we should just ignore it and kiss."

I moved in close, but he held me back. "No. It could be the sound of our enemies stalking us, their boots stepping on a fallen branch."

"I don't think so."

"Or it could be the sound of pins being pulled from grenades."

"Probably not."

"Or perhaps it's the sound of our foes cocking their pistols."

The clicking became more urgent.

My shoulders slumped, as I realized exactly what the sound was. "Oh fudge. I know what it is."

"What?" Captain Raven asked.

"That's the sound of a drag queen clicking her fingers."

As the vision of Captain Raven slowly faded away, I heard a voice accompany the clicking, like the voice of God calling to me from starry skies above. Only it wasn't the voice of God. No, there was way too much attitude in that tone.

"Clarry! Clarry, you're drooling darling, it's time to wake up now! Hello! Earth to Clarry Pinkerton, do you read me? You're dreaming again."

I jolted upright in the uncomfortable wooden chair that I had somehow managed to fall asleep in, calling out at the top of my voice, "Take cover! Incoming missile! I think they're launching another round of…" My voice trailed off as I rubbed my eyes awake to see Aunt Bea standing in front of me. Around me sat Ronnie and Lonnie Larson, Doc Morgan and old Walt Bucket from the hardware store, all of them staring at me.

We were inside the Mulligan's Mill firehouse, our chairs all facing the front of the room where hardware store owner Harry Dalton had been going through the agenda for our weekly volunteer Fire Department meeting.

I bit my bottom lip and blushed with embarrassment. "Oh jeepers, I fell asleep again, huh? Did I do that thing where I talk?"

Everyone nodded.

"You sure did, sweetie," said Bea. "It all sounded very exciting. You even did sound effects this time."

"Like bang, bang, bang! " nodded Ronnie.

"And whoooooosh! " added Lonnie.

"And a big KA-BOOMY right near the end there!" chimed in Walt. "But then things went all fifty shades of weird and you tried making out with the Invisible Man. It was like watching a peep show. Anyone else feel like a cigarette?"

I felt my face burn bright red. "Oh juniper berries! Was it that bad?"

"Relax, Clarry," said Doc Morgan reassuringly. "It was just a dream. We all have them. There's no need to be embarrassed. Don't listen to Walt, he's just jealous because his own dreams are so boring they'd put him to sleep if he wasn't already."

"Oh, shove it up your ass, you old quack."

"Speaking of shoving things up asses, you're overdue for an enema, you old fart. Why don't I book you in for this afternoon? "

Old Walt stumbled up from his chair. "Why I oughta wrap that stethoscope of yours around your wrinkly old neck."

Doc pushed his chair out and teetered to his feet. "I'd like to see you try, you rickety old trainwreck!"

Ronnie and Lonnie didn't have to put in much effort to hold Doc back, while Aunt Bea held Walt back with a single finger pressed against his chest.

Meanwhile, from the front of the room, Harry called for order. "Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Gentlemen! It's a little early in the day to start bickering, don't you think? Is it asking too much for you to please keep things civilized for once, instead of acting like a pair of cranky old bastards?" Harry glanced at Lonnie and added, "Sorry for my French, Lonnie."

"Oh, that's fine and dandy, Harry. We work for Pascal now: he speaks French all the time. We're practically fluent now, aren't we Ronnie?"

" Oui oui! Merci beaucoup ." Ronnie's eyebrows waggled up and down in some sort of mating dance as he spoke.

Lonnie gave a flirty giggle. "Oh, Ronnie. Not in front of our friends."

"Everyone, please… now that Clarry is awake again, can we just focus on the meeting at hand?" Harry flipped through the pages of the thick journal he kept, returning to his agenda. "Okay, so we covered the upgrade of the smoke alarms in the town hall, we've finalized the repairs to the siren on the fire truck so it doesn't sound like a cat coughing up a furball anymore, and we've submitted the inspection report to the authorities regarding the hazards that need to be addressed at the Ritz which, just between us, doesn't bode well for poor old Mavis. But if the old movie theater needs to undergo repairs to save lives, then so be it. Now where were we? Ah yes, item number twelve, pole maintenance. Aunt Bea, you put yourself in charge of the upkeep of the firehouse pole. How's that going? "

"Fabulous!" said Bea, standing to attention, her hand to her forehead.

"You don't have to salute here."

"I wasn't. I was making sure my tiara was still on straight. It's new. I bought it just to wear to our meetings at the firehouse. Do you like the rubies? They represent fire. Its design was inspired by the flames that erupt from the Towering Inferno as Jennifer Jones plunges to her death from the glass elevator. If you look at it in a certain light, you can almost picture the terror in her eyes when she falls."

"Is that entirely appropriate for this job?" Harry asked like a schoolteacher.

"Oh please, this is volunteer work. If I can't get paid for what I do here, at least let me look très eleganza while I do it."

"I think your tiara's beautiful," gushed Lonnie. "Where did you get it?"

"A divine little online jewelry store for drag queens called Breakfast at Stiffany's . Trust me, it's much classier than it sounds."

I could see Harry clinging to the last of his patience. "Bea, if you don't mind, can we please just get an update on the fire pole?"

"My pleasure." Strutting to the front of the room as though she was taking to the stage, Bea pointed to the iridescent fire pole in the middle of the station house. "My fellow firefighters, my distinguished extinguishers, my beloved blaze-busters, my celebrated cinder-snuffers, when I chose this mission, our poor pole had lost its luster, shuffled off its shimmer, said goodbye to its gleam seemingly forever. Its sparkle had simply sashayed away. But with a little love, a lot of lubricant and more stroking than a Kama Sutra masterclass, I can proudly declare that our pole has been transformed from a medieval death-by-chafing torture device into a shining maypole for unicorns to dance around at a midsummer cult festival. Why, it's now so slippery and slick, that from this day forth sliding up and down that pole will feel like making love to a stick of butter. You're welcome."

Lonnie and Ronnie blushed and giggled hysterically.

Doc and Walt just sat there, blinking back whatever was happening behind their eyes.

Harry gave an almighty sigh before saying, "Bea, your town thanks you for your dedication. But for future reference, you can't slide up a pole."

Bea scoffed. "Oh Harry… my hunky honeybunch… if you're not sliding up and down the pole, then you're not doing it right."

With a loud thud Harry slammed his journal shut. "And on that note, I declare this meeting of the Mulligan's Mill Volunteer Fire Department officially adjourned. Thank you everyone for coming, I'll see you all here next week."

"Unless something happens and the town needs us," interjected Ronnie, probably sounding a little more hopeful than he should have, given the subject.

Harry just shook his head. "Ronnie, this town never needs us. I'll see you next week."

Bea glanced at her watch. "Oh goodness, is that the time? I promised Bud I'd fix a loose crystal in his chandelier. And no, that's not a euphemism so minds out of the gutter, people."

Lonnie looked at Ronnie. "What's a euphemism?"

"More French, dear. We can look it up on the interweb later."

As everyone else left the firehouse, I quietly approached Harry as he packed up his journal and the notes he'd brought to the meeting. "Hey Harry, I'm so sorry I fell asleep. I didn't mean to, I guess I'm just a little tired lately."

"Everything okay, Clarry? I've noticed you haven't been yourself lately."

"Oh yeah, I'm all good," I fibbed. "I've been working on some new flavors for summer, and I guess my brain's still a little wired when I go to bed. That's all. "

"You'd let me know if something was bothering you though, right? You know you can always talk to me."

"Totally. Absolutely. Thank you."

Harry clapped his big paw on my shoulder. "Good. I know I joke about this town never really needing us, but one day when it does, we'll need our entire firefighting team at the ready. Maybe ask Doc Morgan if he's got something that might help you sleep better."

"Good idea. I'll be sure to pay him a visit. So long as he doesn't get cranky at me."

"The only one he ever gets really cranky with is Walt. But that's been going on for decades. How it all started is anyone's guess." He tucked his notes and journal under his arm. "Well, time to get the working day started. It's almost nine. You heading back to the ice cream parlor?"

"Yep. Those flavors won't concoct themselves."

Together, Harry and I walked out of the firehouse then went our separate ways.

I strolled down the street and turned onto Riverside Promenade, passing Pascal's Patisserie just as Pascal was setting up his outdoor chairs and tables, sliding the furniture into place with his one good hand, his other arm still in a cast. I was about to offer my help when Bud emerged from inside the café, a croissant between his teeth, still pulling on one shoe as he hopped toward Pascal. Bud got his shoe on and together they set up the furniture, before Bud pulled the pastry out of his mouth to kiss his French lover.

My heart gave a little sigh, happy for them both.

They saw me, and Pascal called out with a wave of his plastered arm. " Bonjour Clarry."

" Bonjour Pascal. Bonjour Bud," I called back.

Bud came running up to me. "Hey Clarry, I'll walk as far as the flower shop with you." He sidled up to me and broke his croissant in two. "Want some? It's good. "

I patted my round tummy. "No thanks, Bud. I already ate breakfast before this morning's meeting at the firehouse. Besides, I've got a ton of tastings to do today so I need to leave some room. I've got some great ideas for this summer's flavors."

Bud's eyes lit up. "I can't wait. If you need a guinea pig, you know where to find me." We arrived at the flower shop, and he gave me a friendly farewell clap on the back. "Have a good one, pal."

"You too, Bud."

As I glanced at the windows of the flower shop, I saw Maggie inside waving frantically before sticking her head out the door as Bud opened it.

"Hey Clarry! Have you tried the recipe I gave you yet?"

"Ah, no. Not yet," was my reluctant reply.

"Let me know when you do. Did you like the name I gave it? Puppy Chow Chunder Thunder. I think it's gonna be your biggest-selling ice cream flavor ever! It'll be an experience no customer will ever forget."

"I don't doubt it," I had to agree.

She disappeared back inside the store, and I continued on to my little pink ice cream parlor, with its purple-and-white striped awning and pink bicycle cart parked beside it. The summer day was already hot, and as I entered through the side door, I instantly felt the cool of the freezer room, radiating a soothing chill throughout the darkened parlor.

I leaned my back against the door and clicked it shut.

I released a long, soulful sigh that turned to steam in mid-air.

And finally, I let the damn wall burst.

Tears didn't just spill down my face, they gushed.

I cupped my hands to my eyes like they had any hope at all of stopping the sobbing, only to smear the wetness all over my crying, crumpled face.

I slid my back down the door till I was squatting on my haunches on the floor .

I wailed.

I let out an endless stutter of hurt.

I groaned in pain.

Yes, the pain was physical. The ache in my chest felt like there was a hole there that went all the way to the center of the earth.

Lately, this is what happened every time I stepped from the real world into the safety of my parlor. The relief, the heartache, the utter emptiness, they imploded all at once the moment I no longer had to pretend they weren't inside me; the moment I no longer had to fake being happy or fine or normal.

And there I'd stay, in the cool, in the dark, alone…

Weeping…

Bawling…

Sniveling like a lost child in a corner of a Walmart who thought their parent would never find them again.

In the last few days—ever since River had arrived back in town—I'd learned that this was the best time and place to get all the angst out. On Monday I had bottled it up for as long as I could, then almost started crying into a bowl of whipped cream. On Tuesday I was taking an order from my confectionary delivery company and spotted a tear splat on the order form I was signing, before I ran inside without so much as a "thank you" or "see you in two weeks." Then on Wednesday as I handed a cone of Cheery Cherry Curly-Swirl to little Sue-Ann Sullivan, she asked me why I was blubbering like a baby.

I hadn't even realized I was.

She ended up walking away empty-handed, saying she'd rather go hungry than eat a cone of sadness from me.

That was when I figured out it was best to just let it all out in the silence and solitude of those first few minutes at the start of my workday, before I began mixing flavors and shaking sprinkles and opening up the parlor for business. I learned that if I cried it all out before I had to smile and greet customers, then I had a better chance of getting through the day without completely breaking down.

Every morning, once the tears began to fade, I would pull myself together as best I could and get to work, wiping my face, blowing my nose, clearing my throat to try and push past the grief I felt… But over what?

Over the fact that River had been in town for three and a half days already and hadn't called or dropped by for a visit?

Over the fact that he clearly didn't feel the ache, the tug, the physical pain that came from a desperate need to see me, like I felt for him?

Over the fact that I still hadn't gotten over my stupid, childish, unrequited infatuation with him, even after all these years?

Yes.

It was a hard "yes" to all those reasons.

I knew better than anyone how irrational my feelings for River were, and so the best—the only—solution was to keep them bottled up inside.

I learned that letting out my heartache in the dark, cool, lonely minutes of the morning before putting on a smile, was required.

I learned that pretending to be happy and fine and normal , for as long as humanly possible, was necessary to my survival.

Yes, this start to my day had become something of a routine.

Step inside the parlor…

Melt down into a teary mess…

Pull myself together, eventually…

Get busy, as though I was a little worker bee, and the parlor was my hive.

If that was the case, then at least my parlor was, in fact, as neat and organized as I imagined a hive to be.

It was made up of three sections: the freezer room and cold room where I stored all the perishable ingredients and ice creams; the workbench and pantry where I kept all the non-perishables and created all my flavors and mixed all manner of delicious goodness together; and the shop front where I displayed the ice creams and served the customers. Above the parlor was my tiny living space, no bigger than an attic really, with a small kitchenette, a pokey little bathroom, a sofa that folded out into my bed, and a separate entrance in back.

The Volunteer Fire Department meeting was held once a week. That was the only day I left the parlor before starting work. Every other day, my commute to work was a plod down the stairs at the back of the parlor and in through the side door.

For as long as I could remember, the parlor had been my happy place, my safe place, my haven and my heaven. It had been owned by my grandparents, and when my parents died early in my life, Gramma and Grampa took me in and raised me amongst the towers of ice cream tubs and maraschino cherry jars. For a kid it was paradise, waking up every day to the smells and tastes of ice cream. Unfortunately for my grandparents though, it was never the most profitable of businesses. Of course, no ice cream parlor would be, if all it sold was chocolate, strawberry, vanilla, and rum and raisin ice cream… with a liqueur-laden cherry on top, as was tradition back in the day.

I was almost twenty when my grandparents died, both of them passing away gently in their sleep within three weeks of each other.

I laid them to rest.

I grieved for them.

And when I was ready to move on with my life, I reinvented the ice cream parlor.

I experimented with flavors, I added bold new ingredients to the ice creams, I painted the store bright colors and I even put my name on the awning, renaming the shop to simply, Clarry's Ice Cream Parlor . I felt bad when I painted over the previous name—the rather old fashioned, Rum'n'Raisin Rendezvous —but I figured Gramma and Grampa would be proud of me taking some initiative and updating the business.

Every day more and more people came to the parlor.

Every night I knelt beside my bed and thanked my grandparents for the gift they'd left me.

While in every other moment, waking or sleeping, I dreamed about a happily-ever-after with the man I had secretly loved since we were twelve years old… the man who had no idea how I felt about him. I dreamed that one day he would look inside his heart and realize that all along he had loved me too. I dreamed that when he returned from service, he'd move into the parlor with me, make ice cream with me, and every now and then we'd do our favorite thing together—sneak off to the old Ritz Theater and watch a romance from yesteryear, snuggling into the lumpy cushioned seats, one arm around each other while we tucked into a box of popcorn to share.

"For fudge sake, Clarry. Snap out of it," I muttered as I picked myself up, straightened my pink-and-white striped bow tie and dried my eyes with the pink handkerchief I plucked from my shirt pocket. "You've got cones to roll, candy to separate into sweet and sour tubs, and a whole batch of Scrummy Yummy Bubblegummy to make. There's no time to think about him, or if he's ever going to call, or if you're ever going to see his face again. So, you might as well get on with your life, one scoop at a time. Get motivated, Pinkerton."

And the best way to get motivated, was to listen to one of my favorite motivational CDs on my Discman.

I put my earphones in.

I clicked the Flashdance soundtrack into place.

I went straight to the title song—" Flashdance… What a Feeling " by Irene Cara.

I turned the volume way up, and got down to business.

In the cold room I pulled out tubs of cream, milk, berries and a whole bunch of tropical fruit, all sliced and diced in sealed bags. From the pantry I grabbed sugar and cinnamon and sprinkles and vanilla essence and extracts and tiny bottles of food dyes that made up the colors of the rainbow. I set my mixing bowl twirling on its turntable and began to pour ingredients into it.

But if I wanted to keep my mind off River, it was going to take more than a batch of Scrummy Yummy Bubblegummy to get me through.

And so, as I sang along with Irene Cara at the top of my lungs, I spent the morning whipping up an epic batch of flavors.

Toffee Dribble Red Velvet Ripple.

Very Merry Mulberry Magic.

"I am music now! I am rhythm now!"

Chestnut Cherry-Bomb Bliss

Creamy Peach Cobbler Palooza.

"Take your passion, and make it happen!"

Choc Fudge Butterscotch Buzz.

Ooey Gooey Gooseberry Gobsmacker.

"What a feeling! What a— aaaahhhhhhh! "

The song turned to a terrified squeal as I felt a tap-tap-tap on my shoulder, my heart leaping into my throat.

I spun around in terror, yanking the earphones out with one hand and grabbing a jar of Gummy Bears in the other, ready to throw it at whoever had snuck up on me, only to hear—

"Woah! Woah! Woah! Clarry, it's just me, River."

And as though he had suddenly materialized—like a genie out of a bottle or a dream come true—there he stood.

My best friend.

My secret crush.

My—

"River?"

Suddenly my legs turned to Peppermint Marshmallow Jello…

My vision turned to Liquorice Swirly Whirl…

And the whole world faded to black.