Dangerously Dark (2 page)

That was the name of Carissa's cart pod: Cartorama. I had to say, its kitschy moniker suited the neighborhood. I passed a few corners where construction crews appeared to have torn down an old gas station or a block of careworn houses and were turning one plot or another into apartment buildings. Aside from that, the whole place looked as though it could have doubled as a set from an old Technicolor movie. It was downright charming.

It was also going away quickly. Gentrification was de rigueur in Portland. Thanks to the city's “no-sprawl” edict—which limited development to a designated urban-growth boundary—anyone who wanted to live or conduct business in the area had to squeeze into older houses or remodel dated business sites or, in the case of the cart pod, pay rents to park their food service trailers on an otherwise unused (for now) parking lot.

Demand was high. Availability wasn't. My own Airbnb hosts had cashed in on the demand themselves. They no longer lived in their once-affordable 1920s foursquare, instead using the fees they earned to finance their larger house in a nearby suburb.

I was glad, for once, that I didn't have a home base of my own to worry about. I could afford a mortgage, a husband, 2.2 kids, and a golden retriever (for instance), but I wasn't in the market for domesticity. I couldn't be. Thanks to my eccentric uncle Ross and the trust fund he left me (to be administered by Travis, my hyperintelligent keeper), I had no choice except to . . .

. . .
snag the handy street-side parking space that suddenly became free and swerve my rental Honda Civic into it. Score!

My parking job was haphazard at best. I cut the engine and grabbed my gear, anyway—my excuse being that I don't drive much.

I prefer to walk, take the Metro, Tube, or U-Bahn, or grab a cab during my worldwide travels. That means I'm fairly rusty when it comes to expertise behind the wheel. If catching that killer in San Francisco (technically, the Marin Headlands, but who's quibbling?) had depended upon me making sharp U-turns and navigating the Bay Area's notoriously hilly streets . . . Well, let's just say I'm glad it didn't and leave it at that.

Clambering out of the car, dressed in my go-to uniform of jeans, a slim gray T-shirt, and Converse sneakers (plus a jacket, my concession to the brisk prenoon weather), I headed toward Cartorama. The cart pod was easy to spot. It occupied what appeared to be the very last empty-corner parking lot in the area. Directly across the street from me stood a freshly built high-rise apartment building. Its banner outside boasted about its über-high-speed Internet, eco-friendly construction materials, and tricked-out “community gathering place,” aka fancified rec room. Next to that, a row of buildings hunkered down straight out of the Eisenhower era, sporting a variety of indie storefronts and looking especially geriatric (but charming, in a funky way) next to their sleek, new neighbor.

The whole thing was a lesson in new supplanting old, but I didn't have time to wax philosophical about time marching on. I'd agreed to meet Carissa for her “surprise,” but between my scheduled and rescheduled flights (and my usual
A.M.
fogginess), our plans had gotten jumbled. I wasn't sure how long it would take for Carissa to arrive, but I wanted to look around before she did.

Up close, the unopened cart pod reminded me of an after-hours amusement park. Or a deserted carnival, cut loose from its clowns and barkers. All of the food carts were different—one was housed in a cheerfully painted lumber shack, one in a repurposed metal storage container, one in a vintage VW bus, one in an Airstream trailer—and most were closed for the morning. Since Cartorama specialized in everything chocolate (or so Carissa had told me), the pod wouldn't see much business until lunchtime.

The chocolate whisperer in me knew that someone ought to bring in a chocolate-themed donut cart or a mobile
boulangerie
specializing in
pain au chocolat
—something to lure in customers during the morning hours. But I wasn't here to work, I reminded myself. I was here to reconnect with my long-lost friend.

Despite Cartorama's momentary lack of customers, though, the place had definite appeal. The gimmick of offering all chocolate, all the time, was working on me. I was hungry already.

If you're not familiar with the food-truck phenomenon, let me explain: We're not talking ho-hum spinner dogs and dodgy kebabs served on the sidewalk in Anytown, USA. We're talking delicious, locally sourced fare from innovative restaurateurs, served up without pretension but with plenty of imagination and verve. Everyone from the
New York Times
to Anthony Bourdain has raved about Portland's food cart scene, and with good reason.

At Cartorama, the kitschy carts were parked facing an inner courtyard of sorts, which featured scrubbed wooden picnic tables beneath a sheltering awning. The awning's canopy cover was tied back—probably on account of the clear weather—but the whole getup looked as though it could be covered quickly if diners needed protection from the elements. Overhead, strings of festival lights were hung with industrial-chic Edison bulbs, all of them dark for now. At the edges of the pod, tall oaks and graceful Japanese maples swayed in the breeze, playing host to what sounded like a whole Hitchcock movie's worth of birds.

Birds.
I shivered and kept moving.

Birds and I don't get along. Maybe because of that aforementioned (terrifying) Hitchcock film. (Speaking of which . . . do you know what creepy old Hitch used as a stand-in for blood in
Psycho
? Chocolate sauce. Yep. What a waste, right?)

Anyway, I don't like birds. Maybe that's because I'm a city dweller at heart, used to seeing pigeons and seagulls for what they are: rats with wings. Either way, those birds put a crimp in the whole sunshiny springtime vibe I'd been enjoying.

I could feel their beady little eyes on me as I wandered toward the cart pod's inner courtyard. Their avian shrieks sounded like warnings. But that was probably just me, feeling easily (and unreasonably) spooked after Maison Lemaître.

I was fine. Everything was fine. It was
fine.

Hoping to assure myself of that, I texted Carissa that I'd arrived, then distracted myself by exploring the pod further. I watched as a few vendors began setting up for the day. I was interested to see how their various carts unfolded and opened (Transformers style) into mobile kitchens and service areas. One by-product of my vocation is that I'm curious. Just then, I was curious about Carissa's work at Cartorama with Declan.

She'd been playing it coy so far. But if I'd guessed right, my old friend's new career likely involved something social, uncomplicated, and fairly frivolous. Something like advising the cart entrepreneurs on installing fab new décor. Or writing a gossip column for a local blog. Or doing PR. Carissa would have been good at any (or all) of those things. She'd always been outgoing. Popular. Able to talk anyone into anything.

Even me. I was there in Portland instead of cornering Travis in Seattle for some one-on-one time, wasn't I?

“Hayden!” someone yelled from nearby. “Woooo!”

I recognized that unmistakable feminine squeal.
Carissa.
I turned to see my old friend bustling toward me, all toothy grin and long auburn hair, dressed in ankle boots and a boho-cool, direct-from-Etsy ensemble, with her arms outstretched. A few dainty footsteps later, she engulfed me in a hug. “Hiiii!”

Simultaneously, the scents of her hair products and perfume engulfed me. So did a jolt of girlish exuberance. My friend was nothing if not excitable. And strong. Freakishly strong for a woman so thin. I hugged Carissa warmly, complimented her cute boots (girlspeak for
“Hello”
—I could do it, I just didn't indulge often), then extricated myself long enough to catch my breath.

Seeing her hurtled me back to my college days. Not that it was that long ago, but a lot's happened to me since then.

“Ohmigod! Look at you!” Carissa marveled at me, her face pretty and pale behind her geek-chic tortoiseshell glasses. “I
love
your hair! And your jacket! And your Chucks! I'm
all
about that nouveau-retro look. Hey, you cut back on the eyeliner!”

I grinned and shook my head at her reference to my short-lived emo past. “When you're backpacking through Kazakhstan, a face full of L'Oréal doesn't cut it.” These days, I tended toward lip gloss and (maybe) mascara. Combined with my shoulder-length brown hair and (aforementioned) Converse sneakers, it made for a low-key look—one that traveled as well to Beijing as it did to Thessaloniki. “Congratulations on your engagement!”

That incited a fresh squeal. Carissa thrust her left hand forward, then waggled her fingers. “Thanks! See? Isn't it fab?”

I dutifully examined her engagement ring. But when you've gotten up close and personal with the Crown Jewels at the Tower of London, ordinary baubles have a tough time competing.

I couldn't think of much to say about it. Sometimes my globe-trotting upbringing leaves gaps. “Pretty!” I gushed.

Carissa sighed, then hugged her ring finger, obviously disappointed . . . but willing to wait for me to rally. I sensed a long weekend ahead of me. What else was I supposed to say?

“It's so big!” I tried. Hey, it worked on men, didn't it?

My friend brightened with pleasure. “I know, right? Declan is
so
generous with me. He's a sweetheart.
Really,
he is.”

I couldn't help thinking that, generally, people who temper their statements with “really” or “honestly” or “actually” (or similar qualifiers) are hiding something. Which only made me wonder . . .

“Do you think he's ‘the one,' Carissa?” I asked. “This has all happened so fast. You haven't been dating all that long—”

“Declan is
totally
the one,” Carissa interrupted with certainty, literally waving away my question. “He's sweet and caring and
super
handsome! And, okay, so sometimes when I text him an ‘I love you' and he texts back ‘U2,' I get a little stabby”—here she broke into a wider grin—“but overall, Declan is fantastic!” Carissa inhaled. “What about you? Seeing anyone?”

Ugh. It was the question dreaded by singles everywhere.

I'd been seeing several people, actually, across a couple of continents. But that made me sound flighty at best and promiscuous at worst—neither of which was accurate (and that's before you add in my three ex-fiancés). It's just that I'm a people person. That tends to lead to a lot of dates.

“We can get to that later.” It was my turn to wave off a query. I gazed around at Cartorama. “So, what's your surprise?”

“You'll
never
guess.”

That's what people said when they
wanted
you to guess. It was a tendency that traveled to the far corners. So I did my best. “You're doing interior decorating at one of the carts?”

Carissa gawked at me, disappointed again. “
That's
what you think of me? That I'm good for nothing but decorating?”

Hastily, I backpedaled. “You're writing a blog?”

Wisely, I omitted “gossip” blog. I learn quickly.

“I'm running a cart!” Carissa shook her head, then grabbed my arm. Again, I was reminded of her surprising strength. “An ice-cream cart. It's called Churn PDX. It's a budding chain. You know, as in Churn PDX, Churn LA, Churn Las Vegas, Churn Tokyo. . . .”

I bumped along in her wake, letting myself be towed toward the vintage Airstream trailer I'd noticed earlier, while Carissa described the food cart she'd founded and hoped to expand to the aforementioned cities. She was dreaming big. But why not?

I've known other food entrepreneurs who've succeeded fantastically, even with admittedly niche products. Ice cream sounded like a slam dunk to me. Who doesn't like ice cream?

“Who doesn't like ice cream?” Carissa echoed my thoughts as she set up an awning at the business side of the trailer, then pushed out a locked rolling service counter. “My ice cream is even better than most, though. It's
scientifically
better.”

The sorority girl I'd known at university had joked about “paying a nerd” to take Chemistry 101 for her while she pursued a degree in design. “Tell me another one, Einstein,” I joked.

To my surprise, she did. “My ice cream is frozen with liquid nitrogen,” Carissa explained as she went on setting up.

Her cart had all sorts of cleverly designed features crafted to be stowed away for the night, then set up the next morning. In no time flat, she'd established a work space without even needing to go inside the trailer. I envisioned a
Punk'd
-style camera crew hiding in there, stifling guffaws as they waited to see if Carissa's old college friend bought the idea of her as an ice-cream impresario who rattled off details like the boiling point of liquid nitrogen (-321 degrees Fahrenheit) and its dielectric constant (1.43) as easily as she'd once nailed the names of fashion designers and reality-TV celebs.

Formerly ditzy Carissa wound up her spiel with a slightly more down-to-earth reference to British culinary wunderkind Heston Blumenthal, but by then I was already agog.

“So, what flavor would you like?” she asked. “We only serve chocolate—of course—but we've got bittersweet chocolate, white chocolate, malted chocolate, mocha swirl, chocolate caramel—”

“Bittersweet.” It's my once-and-forever
amore.
I like my chocolate dark—dangerously dark. The darker, the better.

Not that there isn't room in my heart for a mellow milk chocolate. Of course there is. But if we're talking favorites . . .