Autumn Anthology

by Heather B. Moore

  Click on the covers to visit Rachelle’s Amazon page:

  by Annette Lyon

  Chapter One

  Manhattan—November 2010

  Whitney’s morning shift on the last day of the New York Chocolate Show could not end soon enough. She glanced at her watch as she finished ringing up a customer who’d bought two pounds of her handmade, cocoa-dusted truffles. Five more minutes, and her shift would be over. Thank heavens she didn’t have to work the afternoon shift; she was starving for something not sweet, and her feet were killing her.

  In the four years she’d been Canyon Valley Resort’s executive pastry chef, this was the first time she’d worked the booth—and it would be her last. She much preferred her job of creating chocolate masterpieces for the event’s competition and fashion show. But Ellie, the resort’s exhibit manager, was short staffed, with two workers coming down ill— one with chicken pox, of all things, and the other with bronchitis. They were both holed up in their hotel rooms, so Whitney ended up manning the booth, selling the very chocolates she’d spent weeks preparing for other people to sell.

  She wasn’t used to even seeing the show floor, let alone working it. A nearby booth sold kitschy posters and postcards with chocolate images and phrases. Another had children’s cooking supplies— which had nothing to do with chocolate but were plenty popular nevertheless. Farther down was a booth with three chocolate fountains, followed by a display of actual cacao pods cut in half, a bowl of cacao beans and roasted nibs, with explanations showing how chocolate was made and placards defining terms like ferment and conch, along with a sign assuring parents that chocolate liquor had no alcohol in it.

  She tried to assure Ellie that she could handle the shift alone, but for some unknowable reason, Stephen, from Snow View Lodge, had offered to fill the second slot. Ellie had welcomed the extra help, so Stephen ended up working the same hours as Whitney.

  His offer was puzzling, as he was not only from a different— competing— Park City resort, but he was Whitney’s greatest chocolate-sculpting rival. He’d beat her every year she’d competed in the New York show, and he almost always got better reviews. He had an ego the size of Hershey, Pennsylvania. He always tried to catch her eye after a win, as if he deserved her praise or something. To make matters worse, he was drop-dead hot. It would have been easier to ignore him if he’d been beanpole thin, fat, or gay. Most of the other chefs in the field tended to fit into one of those three categories.

  Stephen probably even likes Hershey’s, Whitney thought with a smirk as she finished with the cash register and handed the bag of truffles to the middle-aged woman. “Here you go,” she said. “Enjoy.”

  I know you will.

  Whitney used only the best Vahlrona and Amano products, which made them expensive, but oh, so worth every mind-numbingly amazing bite. Her creations were practically bits of heaven on the tongue. She turned around, planning to grab her purse and coat in preparation for a speedy exit when the clock finally hit twelve. She did so fully ignoring Stephen, who stood by a set of wooden shelves filled with product. He was showing product to a young, flirting co-ed.

  The bottle blonde flipped her hair and giggled at something he said then touched Stephen’s bicep. “Thanks for your help. I don’t know the first thing about chocolate, except that I like it.” She giggled again, making Whitney roll her eyes. “Maybe you can teach me about it sometime?”

  The girl left without buying anything, but she walked with a definite sway to her hips, which she obviously hoped Stephen would notice and appreciate. As Whitney crossed to the table under which they stowed personal belongings, she tried to watch Stephen out of the corner of her eye to see if he was indeed watching the girl’s hips retreat. The angle wasn’t quite right, though; to see him clearly, she’d have to turn her head, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  I’d bet my Chocovision tempering machine that he got her phone number. Whitney reached the table and lifted its skirt to find her purse— and found her eyes making their way over to Stephen anyway.

  He must have felt her gaze, because he looked over right then and smiled. Whitney’s eyes flew the other direction. She focused her attention under the table as the very fate of the world’s cacao crop depended on it.

  What was I looking for? Purse and jacket— right.

  Had she imagined it, or had Stephen’s smile turned into a smirk when he’d caught her looking at him? With disdain, she tossed his jacket to the side as she hunted for hers. Always winning the sculpting contests, even when my stuff is better— higher percent cocao, better execution, innovative design. I bet half of his stuff blooms, and he hides it under all that glitter. He really did use an awful lot of edible glitter, so maybe it wasn’t just his trademark; maybe it was to camouflage the white discoloration of improperly stored and handled chocolate.

  That, or he has an in with the judges. Nothing else could explain why he always took first place while she took second. She’d just grabbed her purse when a deep voice sounded near the register.

  “Whitney. Fancy seeing you here.”

  She lifted an eyebrow, not quite recognizing the voice, but knowing she should. Furrowing her brow, she straightened and slipped her purse over her shoulder then turned to see Jeremy Stoddard. He’d recently graduated from a questionable culinary school and had competed in a dessert contest that she’d judged. He’d placed dead last. He hadn’t taken the results well.

  “Hi,” she managed with a forced pleasant tone, reminding herself that he deserved her low ranking. His pastry had been soggy and chewy, his custard had curdled, and the plating and presentation were amateurish. At the time, she’d wanted to pull him aside and encourage him to pursue a different career, but she hadn’t gotten the opportunity.

  But why was he here? She’d assumed he’d eventually find a position somewhere in Park City, as that was where he’d interviewed, even if that meant being a waiter instead of an assistant executive pastry chef. Yet here he was on the east coast.

  She cleared her throat and chased away the uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. “Have you enjoyed the chocolate show?” she asked, making an extra effort to sound casual. She stepped away slightly, making sure to keep the table with the register between them.

  Jeremy shook his greasy hair out of his eyes and leveled a gaze at her, one she couldn’t read. “I didn’t come to New York for the chocolate show.”

  Getting into the show wasn’t cheap, and while a ticket probably wouldn’t break the bank, the New York Chocolate Show wasn’t exactly something you wandered into when you had nothing better to do and just happened to be in the neighborhood. Unless he’d recently gotten a job, Jeremy had no regular income. He could be with one of the exhibitors. Except that he wore only a dirty t-shirt and jeans with holes, while most attendees wore business casual. Maybe he was just in the neighborhood.

  But who visited Manhattan in November for sightseeing? That was only slightly better than frigid January. The Rockefeller tree wasn’t even up yet.

  She gripped the handle of her purse. “So. What does bring you here?”

  Jeremy’s reply wasn’t an answer. “You never answered my last email.”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry about that.” She’d purposely deleted the email unanswered, thinking he’d sent it in the middle of an emotional storm; she understood all too well how hard it was to lose. So she hadn’t responded; chances were good that the next day, he realized what an idiot he’d been to send the message and felt embarrassed about it. Besides, what was she supposed to say to a string of profanity?

  As Jeremy stood in front of her now, an eerie smile spread across his unshaven face. Her eyes darted to the side of the hall. She’d have to navigate through the maze of exhibitors to get out. But she couldn’t leave now; Jeremy would follow. She could stick around for the next shift, but she was starving, and her feet were killing her.

  He glanced in the same direction she had. “Going somewhere? But I came all the way from the other side of t
he country.”

  “Why are you here?” she asked, narrowing her eyes, unwilling to let him scare her. She wished he was at the show in some professional capacity, but his clothes and lack of a lanyard with the right ID said otherwise.

  “To see you.”

  At those words, Whitney could have sworn spiders were crawling up her back. “How did you know I’d be here?” Of course she’d be at the show— she flew out with other resort staff for the competition and chocolate fashion show— but how had he known she’d be at the booth, right now, when she’d never worked it?

  Jeremy laughed. “You practically begged me to come after tweeting about a hundred times that you’d be here, and that you had to work the booth this afternoon.” He tilted his head one way and then the other. “I considered popping in at the Met yesterday morning when you checked in on Foursquare, but then I thought that seeing you here in you element would be more… apropos.” He looked around, arms outstretched.

  This booth was hardly her element, and he knew it. Her element would be the professional kitchen back in Park City, where she made sculptures for competitions and desserts for celebrities who were on ski vacations in the Rockies.

  He stepped to the side, coming around the register’s table, making Whitney hold her breath and take a matching step back. “Last night’s contest result were more your style, am I right? You look radiant in royal blue, by the way.”

  A different deep voice spoke behind her. “Okay, that’s enough.”

  Whitney’s eyes widened as she turned to see Stephen coming up behind her. He didn’t so much as look at Whitney. He had his eyes on Jeremy.

  “It’s time you left.”

  Whitney nodded in agreement. “Please go, Jeremy.” He’d been there last night, watching her. And he admitted to practically stalking her Twitter feed and Foursquare check-ins. He knew exactly when she’d been at the Met. Get the heck away from me.

  Jeremy chuckled. “Or what?”

  Stephen took a step closer to Jeremy. “Go, or I’ll call security.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” Jeremy sneered. “Whitney’s leaving. I’m leaving. She can come with me.” He looked at her. “Right?”

  Whitney took a step closer to Stephen; rival or not, he was on her side. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  Jeremy raised one hand in surrender. “I get it. Just one more thing.” He took two quick steps to her, so fast she didn’t realize it until she smelled his body odor and alcohol breath.

  Stephen pushed past them and hurried into the corridor. “Security!” he called, trying to get someone’s attention.

  But while Stephen was looking the other way, Jeremy drew even closer, patted Whitney’s cheek and said, “We both know I’ll be anywhere you go.”

  A hand grabbed Jeremy by the shoulder and whipped him around. Stephen took Jeremy by the front of his jacket and shoved him away from Whitney, pinning him against the register. “You stay away from her.”

  Jeremy struggled to get away, but Stephen held on and swung a punch that landed squarely on the nose. The only response Jeremy gave was a smile, but it wasn’t sheepish or defeated. If anything, he looked amused and victorious. “Enjoying yourself?” he said as blood dripped from both nostrils.

  Finally two big security guards arrived. Stephen still held Jeremy down.

  The black guard, the bigger of the two, folded his arms and eyed Jeremy. “What’s going on here?”

  “Take this guy,” Stephen said, panting. “He’s threatening Whitney here.”

  Jeremy shrugged— as much as he could with Stephen holding him down. “Sir, who does it look like is causing the scene? I’m the one bleeding.”

  The guard took Jeremy away, his arm pinned painfully behind his back.

  “It’s not like you’re a cop,” Jeremy protested as he was led away. “You can’t hold me.”

  The security guard muttered something, but they’d turned a corner, so Whitney could no longer hear their voices. She let out a breath. “Didn’t expect that today.” She held her right hand out, palm down. It was trembling. “What’s my problem? He’s just a creeper.”

  “Look. Our replacements are here,” Stephen said, pointing at the two staffers who’d just arrived.

  “What happened?” Stacie asked.

  “Yeah,” Jenny said as she took her jacket off. “We saw security taking away this guy who had blood all over his shirt. He was swearing up a storm.”

  Whitney shook her head, exhausted. “I’ll tell you later. For now, I’m getting out of here and finding something to eat. See you guys.”

  She headed along the path between booths, where Jeremy had walked only moments before. Stephen caught up and walked beside her. Whitney’s normal response of not wanting him around was tempered by the fact that he’d basically saved her from a jerk. “Thanks,” she told him. “For what you did back there.”

  “He deserved a lot worse,” Stephen said, shaking out his hand, which looked bright red from the punch.

  “Punching a nose that hard must hurt,” Whitney said, eying his hand. “Oh, I hope he doesn’t try pressing charges of assault or anything.”

  “Nah,” Stephen said, waving the idea off. “I’m pretty sure we have enough witnesses to back me up. You would, anyway, right?”

  “Right,” Whitney said with a smile. She still didn’t have to like Stephen, but she could at least admire his convictions. And his right hook.

  Stephen stayed close as they walked through the hall until they’d meandered through the path of booths and out to the lobby, where a five-foot wide globe of chocolate rotated on its axis. She pointed at the globe. “When I first saw that, I wanted to study it for hours. But right now, I just want to get out of here, get something to eat, and take a long bath.”

  “Long day?”

  “You could say that. The whole show’s been rough. Today a guy I judged in a contest followed me. Oh, and last night, I lost the sculpture competition. Again. But you’d know that, because you took the grand prize.”

  They headed out the front doors and onto the bustling streets of Manhattan. The frosty November air bit at her skin, making Whitney realize that she’d never picked up her jacket. It had to be under the table. Stephen didn’t have his either; they’d both left them behind after the craziness that was Jeremy.

  “You didn’t lose,” he said. “You took first place.”

  “But you still beat me; you took grand prize,” she countered.

  “First place is still fantastic. Yeah. We’re pretty much the best.”

  Whitney couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be okay with forever placing behind her in contests. They walked to the end of the block and turned a corner, where Stephen hailed a cab. When one pulled over, he opened the door and gestured for her to get in first.

  “You really don’t have to come with me. I’m a big girl.”

  “Hey, you said you’re hungry,” Stephen said with a shrug. “So am I. Besides, in your shoes, I’d like to get far from Jeremy, and I know a place he definitely won’t wander into.” He opened the cab door open and waited for Whitney to get inside.

  She hesitated for a moment before getting inside. After he climbed and shut the door, she said, “So where’s this restaurant away from Jeremy?”

  “I didn’t say it was a restaurant.” Then Stephen leaned forward to speak to the driver. 259 West 55th Street, please.”

  Whitney had no idea where— or what— that was, but remembering Jeremy’s bloody nose, she opted to trust Stephen to get her a decent meal.

  The drive lasted ten minutes or so. Stephen checked the digital counter and paid the fare. They got out, and he led Whitney along a road that seemed to have a lot of apartments along one side, and most of the buildings had reddish brick. He stopped by a big white awning— a white circle with the words The Original Soup Man on it. Below that, a service counter. No door, no tables or chairs.

  “What’s this?” Whitney asked.

  Stephen leaned in to whisper
. “Ever watch Seinfeld?” When she nodded, he grinned. “This is the home of the original Soup Nazi.”

  “No way!”

  “Shh!” Stephen laughed. “He hates the attention from the show, so don’t mention it. But his soup really is amazing, and you get a whole meal with it— bread and fruit.”

  As they approached the counter and the day’s menu, Whitney blew on her hands, which were getting cold in the nippy air.

  “Here,” Stephen said, taking her left hand and sandwiching it between his warm ones. “Better?”

  “Yeah,” she said. His hands had to be so warm that they’d melt the chocolate he sculpted with. Was that his secret?

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “The lobster bisque looks good.”

  Stephen spoke to the man behind the counter, who looked strikingly like the guy from the Seinfeld episode. “Two large lobster bisques, please.” Then, just like in the show, he stepped to the left, paid, and waited for their food. After the soup man’s assistant handed over their order, Stephen and Whitney walked down the block in silence. She was waiting for the chance to laugh and exclaim over meeting the Soup Nazi. Right before the corner, she noticed a big vertical sign that read Soup Man at Work, with an orange arrow pointing toward the awning.

  “How did I miss that before?” Whitney said with a laugh.

  Stephen got out the cups of soup and spoon. “We can warm up with the soup as we walk. Central Park’s not too far from here. We can eat the rest on a bench there.”

  From the first bite, the lobster bisque tasted heavenly, and it was the perfect temperature— enough to warm her from the inside without burning her mouth. Whitney breathed in the cold air that smelled so different from autumn in Park City— New York asphalt and hot dogs and a special something that belonged to Manhattan alone.

  As they headed for the park, they talked about all kinds of things. Stephen told her about a chocolate-sculpting class where a student— a sixty-year-old woman— had used a length of chocolate and gold-dusted chocolate spheres in a way that inadvertently looked like a piece of anatomy. “The class had several younger people in it, and they weren’t at all shy about calling it out by name. That poor lady, though. She looked ready to crawl into a hole— or have a stroke. I wasn’t sure which.”