Hot Point by M. L. Buchman

Author:M. L. Buchman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc
Published: 2015-06-07T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

“This is kind of fun. Though the automatic really is a crime. I can’t imagine a single situation in which you’d think an automatic is better than a standard.”

Vern had foolishly assumed that riding in his Corvette would feel less life-threatening than in her Fiat Spider.

Giving Denise a five-hundred-horsepower engine in a car capable of a sub-four-second zero-to-sixty was not a wise choice. How she didn’t get a ticket, he’d never know. Maybe it was because they were little more than a bronze-colored streak as they soared along the roads. Whether he’d live to tell about it was still in question.

The quiet country roads of Vashon Island would never be the same. They’d reached the Tahlequah ferry at Tacoma in record time. The fifteen-minute crossing to Vashon gave his heart a few moments to recover. But any recovery was wasted as soon as Denise launched off the boat. They should never have let her be first off—she’d treated the raising of the red-and-white traffic bar at the head of the ferry ramp like a green flag at the Indy 500.

He hoped that Mike had his cruiser in for service or was working his speed trap up by the Fauntleroy-Southworth ferry at the far end of the island, a dozen miles away. Hopefully that would be far enough away that Mike couldn’t hear six liters of engine begging for an open stretch of road.

The number of times Vern had cruised these roads was beyond counting. Headed down to the Tacoma Dome for a Bruce “The Boss” or Britney concert, his old Chevy Blazer packed to the gills. Fetching some boat hardware for his dad. Headed off to find a quiet corner of the island for a round or two of female adventuring.

He guided Denise down narrow two-lanes almost lost in the towering trees, at first to slow her down, and then because he wanted to show her the views and some of his favorite hangouts. The view from Neill Point out by Kevin’s construction shop. Camp Sealth perched over Paradise Cove on the West Passage. Up to the Wax Orchards airport.

The last was a small, private grass strip with apple trees planted down either side of the runway and for a fair way around. At this time of year, hundreds of small planes flew in because they could pull up right beside the cider press, buy a couple gallons of the best apple cider on the planet, grab a caramel apple, and zip aloft once more.

They parked and drank glasses of cider that were less than a minute old, so thick you couldn’t see the shadow of your fingers through the glass, and snacked on local Dinah’s cheese that put paid on any Camembert he’d ever had. Those were two of the tastes of the island. For all the traveling he’d done, he was surprised each time he came home how much he’d missed it.

“I love this place.”

Denise nodded her agreement. She seemed to downshift gears herself as he showed her the island.

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