Chapter 8
Gabe
I watch Izzie sleep while formulating more plans for how to keep her safe. I really blew it this morning, and we’re just lucky the only thing the angry woman wanted to do was scream at Izzie. It could have been far worse.
The format we came up with for the San Diego book signing worked well, so I’ll replicate that at the other venues. I reached out to the General and requested extra security at the stores that aren’t owned by Izzie’s uncle, the ones in Denver and New York. Since the store we’re headed to in Phoenix is the exact same layout as the San Diego store, Barnaby has already contacted the store manager and lined employees up to assist with security and setting up the reading nook like we did at the San Diego venue.
My research last evening ended in a dead-end when I tried to trace the source of the latest email. This cyber stalker isn’t leaving any tracks. Fortunately there wasn’t a new email to contend with, making me wonder whether the stalker knows Izzie now has a bodyguard and has given up or is just laying low. Even if Izzie doesn’t receive another email, we still have to remain vigilant.
As we put the city behind us, traffic decreases until it feels like we’re the only ones on this two-lane highway. I decided to take backroads rather than the interstate. Considering how desolate this feels, maybe that wasn’t the best decision.
The big car is a joy to drive. It eats up the miles and almost drives itself with the GPS, lane departure system, and cruise control. Wishing I had another cup of coffee to keep me awake, I watch for a gas station or store, and thirty minutes later pull off at a hole-in-the-wall establishment with two gas pumps and a sign touting tamales, fresh coffee, and clean restrooms. The clean restroom claim is doubtful based on how run-down the exterior is.
“We’re stopping?!” my passenger exclaims as she bolts upright when the vehicle rolls to a stop. She squints out the windshield, then crinkles that pert nose—a body language sign I’m becoming quite familiar with. “This looks like a dump, Gabriel,” she says, disgust lacing her voice.
She’s not far off the mark, considering the peeling paint, cracked sidewalk, and gas pumps that look like they’re from the 1950s. Do they still even operate?
“Well, it might be a dump. But I need more caffeine to stay awake,” I say crisply. When I open my door and get out, she stays in her seat. “Are you coming with? This might be our last opportunity for a restroom for several hours.”
Emitting a put-out sigh, Izzie unbuckles her seatbelt and slides out. She retrieves her heels from the back and slips into them. Wise decision, since she could easily step on a rusty nail or other object hidden in the weeds that have infiltrated the sidewalk. Shielding her eyes from the bright sun, she reads the sign I referred to earlier. “Roadrunner Junction, famous for our homemade tamales, strong coffee, and clean restrooms.” Her brows arch up to her hairline. “Clean restrooms? That’s about as likely as running into Martha Stewart here,” she scoffs, then strides towards the entrance.
I catch up with her and enter first, quickly scanning the area for threats. Who am I kidding? Two grizzly-looking old men sip coffee at a dilapidated lunch counter, a kid with a nose ring idles behind the register, and a woman wearing a dress more fitting for a flamenco dancer perks up from where she was leaning on a hostess stand. The bright orange ruffled skirt swirls around her legs as she walks towards us.
“Welcome! How may I assist you?” she says in a lilting Spanish accent. She’s a very attractive woman in her forties or fifties, and I’m shocked that she runs such a decrepit establishment.
“Where are your restrooms?” Izzie asks in a polite voice, clearly as taken with the friendly gorgeous woman as I am.
“Let me get you the key to the Ladies’ Lounge! They’re located outside beside the RV dump station.”
That image brings another wrinkle to Izzie’s nose. I’m even a little put off by it. Maybe I can just find a saguaro cactus to pee behind.
Izzie accepts the key, holding it with two fingers as if it’s contaminated, then somewhat reluctantly heads outside. I watch through the sand-streaked window to make sure she gets to the restroom safely, even though there’s only a few tumbleweeds between here and the Ladies’ Lounge. Once she’s ensconced inside the restroom, I saunter to the lunch counter.
“May I get a to-go cup of your fresh coffee?” I ask the friendly woman, who’s now moved behind the scarred laminate counter that separates the serving area from the dining room.
“Certainly! Our tamales are fresh every day as well, would you like a few of them to go?”
Hesitating to order any food cooked on site other than coffee, my eyes dart around the store. I note that although it’s old and run-down, it’s very clean. My stomach encourages me to take a chance on the tamales.
“Sure, I’ll take four tamales to go.”
The woman works to quickly fulfill my order. After she opens the ancient-looking cooker holding the tamales, my nose detects their distinct, enticing aroma. These should make a nice lunch to eat along the way.
I’ve just paid for the food and coffee when Izzie returns and hands the woman back her key. “That is the cleanest restroom I’ve ever been in,” Izzie says with a smile. Maybe I don’t need to pee behind that cactus after all.
“Thank you! We pride ourselves in tamales, fresh coffee, and clean restrooms,” the woman says as she beams back at us. The marketing slogan effortlessly rolls off her tongue.
“I’d like a Diet Dr. Pepper to go,” Izzie says as she points to the beverage cooler along the back wall. We both walk over to the cooler and select a bottled soda.
“Did you order any tamales? They smell delicious,” Izzie says.
I nod towards our order sitting on the counter, then we saunter up to the storekeeper to pay for our sodas. So far, the kid with the nose ring hasn’t taken his eyes off his phone, making me wonder what his purpose is. Maybe he’s here for when they get a rush? Unlikely.
“Um. Are you Ismeralda Harrington?” the storekeeper says in a hesitant voice.
Izzie cautiously positions herself behind me before she replies. “Yes, I am.”
Genuine delight flashes across the woman’s face. “Oh my! I’m so honored to have you stop by! You are my inspiration and idol,” she exclaims, putting her hand over her heart. “I watch your videos all the time, and I can’t wait to get a copy of your new book. I’m Sofia.” She extends her hand for a handshake while blinking back tears. These makeup enthusiasts are sure an emotional bunch.
Encouraged by the flattering comments, Izzie steps forward and shakes Sofia’s hand. “Thank you for the kind words. I’ve been getting backlash from my review of the Glam makeup line, so hearing your positive comments is so refreshing!”
The two ladies grin at each other for a few beats.
“Gabriel, can you get my satchel from the vehicle? I’ve got an extra copy of my book in there.”
As I jog out to the car, the women have an animated conversation, both sporting beaming smiles. After I return, Izzie quickly signs the copy of her book and hands it to Sofia. “I hope you enjoy this, although I’m not sure you need it since your makeup is already flawless.”
Smiling while clasping the book to her chest, Sofia says, “I use only the brands that you recommend. I learned my lesson when I tried the Glam by Kat V line. It was just as you reported. Overpriced, the eye shadow flaked off, and the mascara was clumpy.”
Both ladies cackle with laughter, soul sisters bonding in the quest for perfect makeup.
Deciding this is my cue to use the restroom, I obtain the key to the Gentleman’s Lounge from Sofia while the women chatter like old friends. The two codgers departed a few minutes ago, and the kid is now napping on a bean bag chair in the corner. Threats neutralized.
My eyes blink as they adjust to the bright florescent lighting in the restroom bouncing off the shiny white tile surfaces. Every fixture is spic-and-span, and I have to wonder why the owners aren’t as attentive to the exterior as they are the interior.
When I get back inside, the women have exchanged emails and are talking about a collaboration on one of Izzie’s upcoming videos. Several minutes later, Izzie and I stroll back to the car with our food and beverages.
After we’re a few miles down the road, Izzie says, “It’s a shame the facade is so rundown, because that gas station is immaculate once you get inside. Sofia says the owners refuse to invest even a dime in the place.”
It’s as if she read my mind. “I agree. The exterior grunge made me hesitant to purchase the tamales.”
Izzie’s laugh tinkles throughout the vehicle. “I’m glad you took the chance! Speaking of, how about we break those out?”
Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, I laugh. “It’s only 8:30!”
She giggles, then picks up the bag and shakes it. “Can you resist this tantalizing aroma for three hundred miles?”
“Well, when you put it that way. No, I can’t.” My mouth waters, and my stomach informs me that the Dunkin’ Donuts have worn off.
Izzie distributes the tamales and we eat in silence, enjoying every savory bite.
“These are delicious!” she says. “I’m so glad you stopped, not just for the tamales, fresh coffee, and clean restrooms, but because we ran into Sofia.” My heart softens as Izzie thoughtfully chews her tamale, then takes a sip of soda, all the while staring out the passenger window. Her honesty and vulnerability make her so much more attractive; I find myself drawn into her orbit. A few minutes later, her eyes snap back to mine. “It’s people like her that motivate me to continue what I’m doing. All in all, there’s more good people in the world than bad ones. Unfortunately, it’s usually the bad ones that get all the press.”
“Amen to that,” I say, holding up my coffee cup and tapping it against her soda bottle. Shaking my head in amusement, I can’t believe we happened upon the best tamales in the US, found the cleanest restrooms in a hundred miles, and bumped into one of Izzie’s loyal fans, all in the middle of nowhere. I’ll believe anything is possible after this.