The Great Peach Experiment 1, Erin Downing [books to read romance .TXT] 📗

water tank held each day’s used water. Freddy found the process of emptying it fascinating, which was lucky, since both Dad and Lucy gagged when they had to handle that particular job. There was a surprising number of unappealing tasks that had to be done every day when you ran a food truck—cleaning, scrubbing, emptying disgusting things, picking up trash. Freddy liked all the weird, gross jobs. Unless it involved mice or mouse poop, he was willing to do any of the icky stuff (but he left all the mousy tasks to his little brother).

“Let’s swing past the grocery store on the way back to the campground,” Lucy suggested. “Then Dad and I can get started mixing up some dough while you two do the gross jobs.”

“Gross jobs!” Herb chanted. “Gross! Gross! Gross! Gross!”

Freddy felt relaxed, happy, and hopeful. The Peach Pie Truck was running smoothly, the past week had been filled with plenty of adventure and fun, the whole family was enjoying doing something together, and—according to Herb’s calculations—they were finally making money. Real money.

But the best part was, Freddy was starting to discover his true calling: he was great at running a business. He couldn’t ace a math test, but he excelled at customer service. He knew how to deal with all the weird customers, and his family had begun to rely on him to run the front window. For the first time in his life, Freddy was actually better than anyone else—even Lucy—at something.

In a moment of sudden pride and solidarity, Freddy thrust his hand, palm down, into the center of the food truck. “Pile up!” he told the rest of his family. “Peach power!”

Lucy solemnly placed her hand on top of Freddy’s. Herb stuffed his own sweaty hand into the stack, and then Dad piled on his hand, too.

“Peach power!” the three kids cried, flinging their hands high.

“Peach power,” Dad repeated a second later, wiggling his hands slowly in midair.

“Yeah, that cheer’s gonna need some more work,” Freddy said with a laugh. “But you know what? It’s a start.” He winked. “We’ll get there.”

From the Sketchbook of Freddy Peach:

BEARDS!

In two days at the Madison Blues Music Festival, I witnessed some truly amazing facial hair. Beard labels © Freddy Peach.

15

  EATING PROFITS

Lucy sat in the back corner of the food truck on Monday morning, counting bills from their weekend haul for the twentieth time. She reported the total number to Herb, who did some quick calculations on the back of a napkin.

“We finally made a profit,” he announced. A huge smile lit up his face, and Lucy leaned forward to give her little brother a hug.

“Music festivals are our scene!” Freddy cheered.

“Yes, indeed!” Dad hollered from the truck’s big front sales window. Then he adjusted his hat, popped open the fridge to grab a fresh pie, and made an OK sign with his fingers. “Music festivals are da bomb!”

Freddy groaned. “No, Dad. Just…no.”

Dad kicked the refrigerator closed and balanced a pie on his palm. He boomed, “Madison Blues Fest for the win. We be jammin’!”

Lucy snorted a laugh. Herb giggled and raced over to offer his dad a high five. It had been a great weekend—they’d had solid sales, the family had gotten along and cooperated really well, and that morning they’d eaten the yummiest cinnamon buns ever at a farmer’s market in downtown Madison.

Feeling light and cheerful, Lucy stuffed all the pie cash into a big zippered envelope and stored it inside the small safe that was bolted into one of the food truck’s cabinets. “I’m glad we decided to stay here one extra day,” she said. That morning, the Peaches had set up shop on a busy street near the University of Wisconsin–Madison, hoping to sell some fresh-baked slices of pie to college students. They’d had a steady stream of customers from the moment they’d opened. “Madison is obviously our lucky city!”

“Hello,” Freddy said to someone outside the window a moment later. “Welcome to the Peach Pie Truck. What can I get for you?”

“I want a slice of pie,” the woman’s friendly voice said. “But what I need is a peek at your permit.”

Lucy stilled. She scooted a few feet to the left, until she could see the person outside the window. A cop!

Dad dropped the pie he was holding on the counter, and gooey whipped cream splattered everywhere. “Our, ah, permit?” he said, obviously flustered. “Yes, of course.”

The police officer nodded somberly, then lowered the kickstand on her police bike. “Your pies look quite tasty, but you can’t sell here without the right paperwork.”

Based on Dad’s worried expression, Lucy had a sinking suspicion they didn’t have the right paperwork. This stop had been unplanned and not part of Dad’s original schedule, after all. For a moment, Lucy considered stepping forward to try to charm the officer into letting them go with nothing more than a warning. But she wasn’t a fool, and she knew that wasn’t going to work. Stuff like that only worked in movies.

As Lucy picked at her thumbnail and tried to figure out how she was going to fix yet another problem, Freddy stepped in front of Dad and said, “You’re looking for our permit, Officer? Perhaps I can interest you in a slice of apple crumb pie instead?”

“Apple crumb is my favorite.” The policewoman gave Freddy a curt smile. “But that’s not gonna do the trick. I’m sure you all know there’s a hefty fine for selling without a license. If I can just take a peek at your paperwork, we should be able to work this out.” Freddy nodded, but Lucy knew even Freddy’s sweet-talking wasn’t going to make the officer go away without a good, solid look at a permit.

Dad shuffled through the stuff under the counter and pulled out the printed piece of paper that gave them permission to sell pies at the weekend music festival. Lucy sidled up beside her dad, her eyes quickly scanning the paperwork. The permit