Chapter 1

I had only been working at the local bus depot for two weeks when I had my first major screw-up.

I was the ticket agent, but it was a small town, so I was also the freight agent, the restroom-cleaning agent, and the close-the-place-up guy after the last bus left at 8:25 p.m.

But the 8:25 bus had just left, and -- omygosh! There were two big cylindrical cartons still sitting in the waiting room, waiting to be loaded onto the bus.

I felt my stomach drop a little. Those cartons, I was pretty sure, held ice cream. I looked at the labels, and felt the thick cardboard cartons. Sure enough -- it was ice cream destined for delivery to Newark, the next city down the line, maybe 40 miles away.

The next bus was 10:42 a.m. tomorrow -- 14 hours away. I was pretty sure the ice cream wasn't going to last that long.

My new boss wasn't going to be pleased. Those big cartons -- jeez, they must cost a lot of money. And it was plain dumb of me to have forgotten to supervise their loading onto the bus.

Maybe you don't know about it, but interstate buses are a major freight-delivery system for perishables and other small packages. Their delivery rates compare favorably to the big 'overnight' companies, like UPS and Fed Ex. Of course, the customer receiving the item generally has to go to the local bus depot to get it, but sometimes the price differential makes that an acceptable inconvenience.

And for short hauls, delivery speed can even beat the big boys.

But now what? What was I going to do with the ice cream? I decided to take the matter into my own hands. Newark was just under 40 miles away. I could make the delivery myself!

It beat confessing to the boss that I'd screwed up, and sticking him with the cost of 100 pounds of melted ice cream.

So I called the number on the delivery label.

"I Scream for Ice Cream!" The girl who answered was almost really screaming.

"What?"

"Sorry. That's the way my dad wants me to answer the phone. This is Marty's Ice Cream Parlor."

"Hi. I'm calling from the bus depot in Carlton."

"Yes?"

"The bus to Newark has already left, and the ice cream that was supposed to be delivered to Newark is still sitting here."

"I was supposed to go over and pick it up at the bus station here, in about an hour."

"Well -- don't go."

"Oh. OK. What are you going to do with it?"

"I wondered -- how much it cost? Maybe I could send you the money, because it'll be melted, before the next bus."

"I think they run about $60 a carton," she said.

"Wow. That much. Hey, how about if I bring it over there to you?"

"You mean, from Carlton?"

"Yeah. It's only 40 miles. Frankly, I'd rather do that -- deliver it in my car -- than to have to tell my boss I'd forgotten it."

"We're closing pretty soon."

"Well, you said you had to wait for the bus to arrive, delivering the ice cream. That bus hasn't even had time to get to Newark yet. I'm closing here, too -- it was our last bus of the day. I could bring the ice cream directly to your store, and you'd probably be able to get away just as quickly."

"I guess that would be OK."

"Great! Thanks! Tell me where your store is located."

I didn't have any trouble finding the store. The girl's directions were good and Newark was a fairly small town. The place was all lighted up, although the neighborhood around it was mostly tree-lined residential, and immersed in darkness.

I parked outside and went in. I saw a girl bending far over the interior of the high counter, evidently having just replaced an empty cylinder of ice cream in the glassed-in space.

"Hi." I said. "I'm from Carlton. I've got the ice cream outside. Are you the person I talked to?"

"Yes," she said, raising up and looking at me across the counter.

Oh my God! This girl was tall, had coal-black hair tied up with some kind of hairnet, but still stunningly rich and beautiful, and blue eyes that penetrated straight through to my heart -- and my groin.

"I'm Annette Granville," she said.

I was still gathering my wits. She was about my age -- perhaps 19 -- and I was having my normal reaction to extreme female gorgeousity -- I was tongue-tied.

I think Annette was accustomed to getting such a reaction. She waited patiently for me to come around.

"Ahh -- I'm -- ahh -- Terry Spenser," I said, as soon as I could remember who I was.

There was another pregnant pause. Finally the girl said, "So. Where's the ice cream?"

"Oh. Yeah. --It's in my car. Let me get it."

I brought in the two cylinders -- in two trips, and Annette allowed me behind the counter to help her add them to the collection in the display case. "These two flavors were out," she said. "They're a couple of the favorites. We didn't have any in stock at all, so I'm glad you came over."