Last Resort by Jeff Shelby

and I hopped out of bed to grab the binder Delilah had left for us. I remembered seeing ads for several restaurants in town and, sure enough, there was a pizza place that looked promising. So we dressed and  got into the rental car and drove into the town closest to Windy Vista.
    The drive only took about ten minutes. We didn't go back the way we'd come but pointed the car in the other direction, maneuvering down a long hilly road that bisected a golf course. The course was in good shape—the grass was green and well-groomed, and there were several homes that dotted the course. I was surprised, mostly because Windy Vista felt like it was in the middle of nowhere. It was hard to imagine that people lived in the vicinity year-round, in homes that ranged from quaint A-frames to brick ramblers to brand-new log mansions. It was possible that all of the houses were vacation homes but I had my doubts. A quick glance into an open garage confirmed my thoughts: a snowmobile was parked inside, next to a red snowblower and a stack of snow shovels. Unless it started snowing here in August—not outside the realm of possibility in Minnesota—I was pretty sure there were year-round residents up there.
    Golf carts zipped along the road and Jake pressed on the brake to slow down as he drew closer to a blue one driving in the middle of the road.
    “We should have taken the cart,” he said.
    “It would have taken forever to get here.”
    “It goes twenty miles an hour. We would've gotten to town eventually.”
    “But I'm hungry now.”
    He waited until we crested a small hill, then gunned the engine so we could pass the golf cart. Five minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot for The Landing. It was a large rectangular brown building on a hill that looked back toward the golf course and the lake. It had advertised lake views, but as I got out of the car, I was pretty sure the only way you could see the water was if you climbed up on the roof and stood on your tiptoes.
    We walked inside and were greeted with a blast of cool air. A very bored teenage hostess tried to smile at us before leading us to a booth. The table was still damp and she told us she'd send someone over to wipe it down. She dropped the menus in front of us and disappeared back toward her hostess station.
    I grabbed the menu and looked around. The booths were worn, most of them with cracked leather seats attached to tables that didn't look terribly sturdy. The carpet was thin and, while not exactly dirty, could've benefited from a good cleaning. Several of the booths were occupied with other sunburnt tourists but for the most part, the restaurant was empty.
    Jake scanned the menu. “Let's hope the pizza is better than the rest of the place.”
    “It's just...old.”
    He snorted. “I'm old. This place is one bad week away from closure.” He smiled at me over the menu. “But I just want a big beer and some mediocre pizza and I'll be fine.”
    “I'll bet we can get both of those here,” I said, winking at him.
    Ten minutes later, the hostess showed back up, a pad of paper in her hand. “I guess I'm gonna be your server. You want something to drink?”
    We both ordered beers and before we could tell her that we were also ready to order our food, she vanished again.
    “Over-under on how long the beers take?” Jake asked, leaning back in the booth.
    “I'm going to be optimistic,” I said. “I'll say four minutes.”
    “Wow. That's half my guess.”
    He won.
    Our hostess/server set them on the edge of the table nine minutes later, then looked at us. “You know what you want?”
    “Your pizza's good?” Jake asked. The menu had other options listed, too—burgers and chicken and fish—but he knew I had my heart set on pizza.
    She shrugged. “It's pizza.”
    “Excellent,” he said. “We were hoping for something that tasted like pizza.”
    She looked at him like he was insane.
    “Pepperoni and sausage,” I said. “The biggest you have.”
    She left