Page 52 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

BY MICHELLE MCCRAW

JANUARY, SUBURBAN COLUMBUS, OHIO

This is it. After everything that happened, I’m going to die in a freaking golf cart.

Gabe gripped the steering wheel, his normally tan fingers turning frost-white, all his focus on keeping the vehicle from slipping on the icy curve and spilling out his family.

“I could walk faster than this,” Uncle Bobby grumbled from the back.

“I couldn’t.” In the front passenger seat, Grandpa massaged his knee. “That’s why we’re riding.”

“Leave Gabe alone.” From the soft oof behind him, Gabe figured Aunt Pat had elbowed her brother. “You know he has—” Her voice faded to a whisper too low for Gabe to hear.

He didn’t want to hear it. After five years of therapy, he was well aware of his own issues.

He braked—slowly—and brought the cart to a skidding stop in front of the kiddie coaster.

Clenching his jaw, he glanced at the low, snow-crusted lift hill, just to show he could.

Then he turned his back to the sinuous steel structure and faced the Beach Island Board of Directors, also known as his family.

“We determined this one’s in pretty good shape,” he said. “The maintenance crew is checking each car and performing minor repairs on the track as the weather allows. Ramirez says they’ll be done in about two weeks.”

“Kiddie rides,” Uncle Bobby snorted. His smooth cheeks were red from the cold. “I want to see the moneymakers. Twister of Terror. The Basilisk.”

“Bobby.” This time, Gabe witnessed Aunt Pat’s elbow. For a woman who had to wear thick-soled sneakers to reach the you-must-be-this-tall-to-ride lines, she had a vicious swing. “We asked Gabe to give us a tour of the winter projects. Let him direct it.”

Uncle Bobby muttered something under his breath and crossed his arms over the Beach Island Amusements logo on his fleece jacket.

“Guests under forty-eight inches should enjoy the park, too,” Gabe said. Though he wished the kids would stay at home. He wished everyone would stay at home. Then Gabe wouldn’t have to worry all the time about someone getting hurt. And maybe he could do what he wanted for a change.

“Right you are,” Grandpa said. “Kids who ride this one grow up to ride Twister of Terror.”

Gabe shuddered inside his extra-large down coat.

“Plus, they buy plenty of snacks,” Aunt Pat said. When she nodded, the flower on her knit hat bounced. “Gabe’s a smart boy. He’s always done what’s best for the park.”

Gabe blew out a frustrated breath, which clouded in the icy air. At thirty, he hadn’t been a boy for a long time, not since the board had asked him to shoulder the massive responsibility of the park nine years ago.

“Fine, fine.” Uncle Bobby pointed over the trees to the wooden curve of Mystery Mountain. “But show us that one next.”

Gabe narrowed his eyes at him. “Seat belt.”

After Uncle Bobby refastened his belt, Gabe drove carefully along the blessedly straight path to Mystery Mountain. He fixed his eyes on the empty queuing area to avoid the towering hill.

“The team is checking the chain lift, same as every winter. Taking it apart, cleaning it, reassembling it. The cars, too.”

“I’m glad we kept this one,” Grandpa said. “Not too many wooden coasters left.”

“’Cause they suck,” Uncle Bobby grumbled.

Gabe silently agreed. The wood warped in the rain and again in the sun.

Left unchecked, the coaster would become rough over time, leading to injured passengers.

Ramirez griped about it constantly. Year-round, his maintenance chief dedicated a small crew to assessing and repairing this ride.

Grandpa probably had no idea how much it cost to keep his pet coaster’s ride smooth, even though Gabe called it out every quarter in the financial reports.

His phone buzzed, and while Grandpa and Bobby argued the merits of wooden versus steel coasters, he checked it. Another call from DN-YAY. He hit the Ignore button. He’d deal with that annoyance later. For now, he had a bigger concern: the hill to Twister of Terror.

He cast a glance at his passengers to ensure their lap belts were buckled—too bad golf carts didn’t come with beefier restraints—and hit the accelerator. He hoped someone from Ramirez’s crew had laid down some ice melt. Despite the cold, his palms started to sweat.

“Gabe, you going to take a vacation this year?” Grandpa asked.

“What?” Was the incline just wet, or was that a thin layer of ice?

“A vacation. You know, sunshine, sand, umbrella drinks?”

“No time,” Gabe said through gritted teeth. “Less than four months to opening day.” He gambled and accelerated to build momentum to climb the hill.

“It’s your turn to go to the Expo this year,” Aunt Pat said. “You can get your umbrella drink on in Orlando.”

Crap. They’d skipped his turn last time. He’d hoped to pass on the Expo again this year. How was he going to get to Florida? He’d never survive a fourteen-hour drive. He pressed harder on the accelerator, making the tiny engine whine. “Why don’t you go, Aunt Pat? I’m more of a beer guy.”

“They have beer in Florida. Besides, you know I prefer the snow. I’ve already got my trip to Whistler planned.”

If Gabe hadn’t been steering the cart up the hill, he’d have shivered. He’d spent all his life in Ohio, but, unlike the rest of his family, he dreaded every winter. Why would anyone go somewhere even colder and snowier on vacation?

The cart’s back half fishtailed, arrowing his attention back to the road.

His pulse roared in his ears. Straighten out.

Don’t tip. The adrenaline pumping through him urged him to yank the wheel.

Instead, he held it firm, steering gradually in the direction of the skid.

At last, the cart leveled out, finally gaining purchase at the top of the hill in front of Twister of Terror.

A shuddering cloud of his breath gusted out as he peeled his fingers off the steering wheel.

He should’ve predicted that Aunt Pat and Uncle Bobby didn’t weigh enough to counterbalance his mass in the front.

Uncle Bobby chuckled. “Way to give us a little excitement, Gabe.” He stepped out of the cart. Gabe did, too, though his legs trembled. He wiped the slick of sweat from his brow.

“Yo, Gabe!” The safety gate clanged shut, and Tony Ramirez jogged out from the maintenance area.

Relief mingled with the dissipating adrenaline. The board would listen to Ramirez. Safety was his job. Gabe’s jaw unclenched. “Ramirez. I didn’t expect to see you out here today.”

“I thought I’d show the board what we’re working on here. Give you a break.”

Gabe was still too tight-strung to smile at his friend, but he nodded. “Thanks.”

Uncle Bobby and Aunt Pat followed Ramirez toward the blue steel monstrosity. Grandpa clutched Gabe’s arm, bending him down closer to the old man’s height. “I’ll drive the cart back with your aunt and uncle. Why don’t you head over”—he tipped his chin—“and pay your respects.”

The warmth that rushed through Gabe’s veins had nothing to do with the weak winter sunshine. Still, he checked his watch, his father’s battered old Omega.

Grandpa said, “Don’t worry. We’ll meet you back in the office in half an hour. Take your time.”

“Thanks, Grandpa.” Gabe might not have looked much like the short, slender old man, but Grandpa always seemed to know what he was thinking. “See you later.”

He meandered toward the circle of trees Grandpa had indicated. Stepping between them into Founders’ Park always calmed him, even in winter with ice coating the young trees’ branches and the flowers—yellow tulips for his mother—still resting underground.

He avoided the plaque and lowered himself onto his favorite bench, the one that faced away from Twister of Terror’s steel corkscrew.

He traced the round watch face on his wrist, the smooth, cool glass settling his nerves.

He’d never looked much like his dad—too tall, too broad, too dark—so, instead of looking in a mirror to remember him, he came here and dug through his memories for images of Dad’s hand clutching his smaller one as they walked through the park, of Dad’s almost hairless arm with this watch on it.

The watch he’d handed to Ramirez before— Before.

His phone buzzed again in his pocket. Again, he pulled it out. Dismissed another call from DN-YAY. A few minutes of peace was what he needed. No phone calls, no ice, no board of directors. No Theme Park Expo in flipping Florida.

A crack rang out, making Gabe duck his head. When an ice-coated tree limb clattered onto the next bench over, Gabe shut his eyes. Breathed deep to slow his racing heartbeat.

Pushing his hands onto his knees, he stood. He hefted the limb onto his shoulder and headed toward the park’s landscaping shed. CEO or not, when there was work to be done, Gabe did it. He might not have his parents’ light builds or their cold tolerance, but he’d learned that lesson from them.

If only they’d taught him how to enjoy their legacy, the park, without them.

* * *

“Gabe, what are you doing?”

Quickly, he straightened, tucking the snow shovel behind his back. He shouldn’t feel guilty. He was watching out for his employee. Employees. “Clearing this ice.”

Darlene crossed her arms and shivered. “The maintenance crew’s on the way.”

“They have important work to do. I’ve got this.” He chipped at a hunk of ice on the sidewalk in front of the administrative office building. What if Darlene had slipped on her way in this morning? Or Grandpa? He’d never forgive himself.

She leaned on the doorjamb. “Tough meeting with the board?”

“No!” But his voice rose in that petulant way he hated. He cleared his throat. “It was fine. They’re pleased with the work we’re doing. You should go back inside. You’re not wearing a coat.”

“Neither are you. Come in here. You have real work to do.” Carefully, she turned and walked into the Beach Island administrative office building.