The Bride Wore Chocolate (Sweet and Savory Romances)

by Shirley Jump

  “I'm not carrying you,” Candace told him. “Be a man. It’s just grass.”

  Percy plopped his miniature butt on the stoop, wagged his tail and cocked his head to the right, eyes wide and full of dejection. Hoping to garner sympathy for his lawn phobia.

  “You've got four feet of your own.”

  Percy whimpered.

  “Oh, all right,” Candace said. “But just this once.” With her free arm, she scooped up the dog, padded down the deck stairs and deposited the puffball on the lawn. Percy took three steps forward, lifted his leg and...

  Peed on the lilacs.

  “See if I carry you again, you ungrateful bundle of fur,” she muttered, returning to the deck. Percy followed, staying a respectable distance behind. To his credit, he only whimpered twice about the four-step hike.

  “Breakfast of champions,” she told Trifecta, dunking a cookie into her coffee. The dog barked her disapproval, then headed back through the dog door into the house, with Bob close on her heels. Percy decided going inside took too much effort, and curled into a ball on the deck.

  Candace sighed as she put her feet on a second lawn chair, then closed her eyes and inhaled the thick, sweet smell of smog, late spring and fresh-cut grass. Traffic hummed down the street behind her house, the continual drone of people navigating their way into South Boston like a Pac-Man game.

  Finally. Peace, quiet and solitude. Maybe, with a proper chocolate-induced high, she could figure out the meaning of life. Or at least why her perfect life had turned into a reality show.

  She'd risked her upcoming marriage and Barry, all for some guy she didn't even know. How stupid could she be? And what the hell had she been drinking?

  She should call off the wedding. Or disappear into a cave in Guatemala until she could figure out why she had this constant nervous feeling in her stomach. Getting married was supposed to be the happiest time of her life.

  Then why did she feel like Marie Antoinette facing the guillotine?

  Cold feet, that's all. Even Rebecca had been stressed about getting married, and look how happy she had been since the “I dos” were over. Jeremy Hamilton was the right choice for Rebecca. Just as Barry was the right choice for Candace. They had the same taste in almost everything, from menus to music. Sometimes they even completed each other's sentences. To her, those moments were proof positive that she and Barry were perfect for each other in every way.

  Candace devoured another cookie and felt better.

  “Need some company?” Grandma Woodrow poked her head around the short length of fence that separated the two decks. She wore a sunflower yellow towel, the scent of cocoa butter enveloping her like a cloud.

  “Grandma, what are you doing?”

  “Tanning,” she said with a shrug, as if everyone's grandmother laid out at seven in the morning in early June. “George calls me his little brown muffin. And I'm brown all over. Not a tan line on this body.” Her hands went to the towel, as if she were about to prove her uniform baking job.

  “Grandma!”

  “What? No one can see me in the yard. And if they do, and get a little thrill out of a naked granny, well, I haven't lost my touch.”

  “But at your age—”

  “At my age, I can do whatever the hell I want and people just smile and think I'm senile.”

  Candace laughed. “You have a point.”

  Grandma settled into the opposite chair, tucking the towel in tighter. “What's troubling you—besides your mother crashing through your front door, expecting food, lodging and sympathy over the loss of yet another husband?”

  Between Grandma Woodrow and Della, there were about as many warm fuzzies as between a hyena and a vulture. When Della had left Jacob Woodrow for a trapeze artist with a lisp, she'd gone on Grandma's shit list and stayed there, hovering around number one, right next to the checkout girl at the Stop & Shop who always insisted on giving her the senior's discount.

  “I'm fine, Grandma. Really.”

  “Then why do you look so unhappy?”

  Candace took a sip of coffee, then sighed. “I miss Barry.”

  Grandma let out a little snort.

  “He's been at his mother's house in Maine all weekend. I won't get to see him until tomorrow night.”

  “Nothing else bothering you?” Grandma laid a hand on Candace's arm.

  For a minute, she considered letting it all pour out—the night in another man's bed, the impending feeling of doom that seemed to follow her around like the Addams family storm cloud. The queasy feeling in her stomach that even Pepto-Bismol couldn't conquer. But she knew, if she said any of that, Grandma would insist it was all a sign that she was courting disaster by becoming Mrs. Barry Borkenstein.

  Barry was the right man for her; Candace knew it. Except for his last name and his little obsession with carpet fringe—but she couldn't expect a man with no flaws. And, well, that weird thing he did with his nose when he laughed, but really he didn't laugh all that much...

  What was she doing? A mental pros and cons fest on her fiancé? Candace stopped herself, reached for two more cookies and took a bite.

  “I'm fine, Grandma,” she repeated.

  “You sure?”

  “Sure as a monkey in a tree.”

  “Hey, that's my saying.”

  “It's kind of cute. I think I'll make it my new life motto.” Candace dunked a cookie in her coffee and took a bite. “I need to get to work.”

  “You work too much.” She waved at Candace in reprimand. “All that time you spend at those charities, the hours you put in at the shop. You don't have to do it all, you know.”

  “I like volunteering. And I'm not the only one working at Gift Baskets. Besides, I don't hear you complaining about my hours when I bring home leftovers and samples.”

  Grandma grabbed two cookies from the container. “True. But I do have to wonder...” She tapped a finger to her chin.

  “Wonder what?”

  “If you're keeping really busy to avoid something.”

  “What I'm avoiding is bankruptcy.” Candace got to her feet. She didn't avoid things. She was a confronter. Sort of. “I've got to hop in the shower. I'll see you later.”

  “You're looking pale, honey.” She put a soft, crinkled palm against Candace's cheek. “Why don't you come over to my deck for a while? George won't mind if you lay out with me. And if you want to do it naked, I'll draw the drapes.”

  “Uh, thanks, Grandma, but I'm all set.”

  Grandma shrugged. “Suit yourself. Or don't suit at all,” she laughed, gesturing to her towel. She toodled a wave, then disappeared around the corner.

  “My life totally and completely sucks,” Maria announced, breezing through the door later that Monday morning. She had a clutch of tissues in one hand and a bulging Macy's bag in the other. A bag of Krispy Kremes dangled from a pinky.

  “What happened?” Rebecca paused in the assembly of a large wicker basket of cookies, coffee mugs and oversized chocolate bars spelling out “Congratulations Graduate.”

  “David and I broke up. Can you believe it? He told me all that crap about how he wanted to marry me, how I was the most wonderful woman he'd ever met, how perfect my hips were for birthing his children ...”

  Candace raised an eyebrow.

  “What? He's a gynecologist. He thinks about those things.'' She dropped the bag of clothes on the floor, tossed the tissue into the trash, took a seat on one of the stools in the kitchen, then opened up the Krispy Kremes bag and dove in.

  “So why'd you two break up?” Candace asked. She handed Rebecca a stuffed bear in a miniature cap and gown to tuck into the right side of the basket.

  “Bambi.” Maria sighed. “With a heart over the i, no less.”

  “As in the deer?”

  “As in the stripper who gave him the lap dance of his life last weekend when he went to that bachelor party for his brother. He said he hasn't been able to stop thinking about her. She came to his office on Wednesday to have him check her out,
if you know what I mean.” Maria took a bite of a jelly-filled, chewed, then swallowed. “I think getting the inside view of her lap pretty much shorted out every decency cell David had in his brain.”

  “How did you find out?” Rebecca asked.

  “I caught him screwing her. On our dining room table. He was holding onto the chandelier, for God's sake, and whooping it up like Tarzan on top of a bull elephant.” She closed her eyes, shook her head and dug into her pocket for more tissues. “We refinished that table together last week. He said it would be where we'd have our first dinner as Mr. and Mrs. And now there's this big fat imprint in the polyurethane from Bambi’s butt.”

  “What did you do?” Candace thanked God she'd never have to worry about Barry doing something like that. For one, he wouldn't be caught dead in a strip club. He broke out in hives whenever he was around too much silicone.

  “I threw them both out then I dragged that table down the stairs and threw it at David's car.” Maria smiled. “I made quite the impression in his Beemer. He won't forget me, or our table, any time soon.”

  “Are you okay?” Rebecca draped an arm around Maria's shoulders. The anger in Maria's face disappeared.

  “No,” she cried, swiping at her eyes. “I-I-I loved that goddamned table.”

  All three of them laughed, then finished the assembly of the baskets, bashing David and cursing his name three hundred different ways. By the time the last bow was attached, Maria had moved on. She had the resiliency of a paddleball when it came to men and breakups.

  “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you! I've got good news,” Rebecca said. “I think we all could use some, too.”

  “You have that right,” Candace sighed.

  “I think we might have landed a huge account with Vogler Advertising. I talked with the president of the company on the phone Friday. They received one of our baskets from a client, and apparently the office staff went nuts over it.”

  “We're freakin' good,” Maria quipped, blowing on the tip of her finger like a smoking gun.

  Rebecca chuckled. “He sent me an e-mail this morning saying he'd be coming by to talk to all three of us about using our shop for a lot of different projects for his agency. Sounds like it means major business, from what he said.”

  “When's he coming?”

  Rebecca glanced at the clock. “Shit! Now. I totally forgot about it. See what happens when you let me live vicariously through you two? I get all caught up in Bambis with fat butts and Candace's one-night stand with a stranger and I forget—”

  “You had a one-night stand and didn't tell me about it? And after I brought in Krispy Kremes and everything?” Maria yanked the bag of donuts away from Candace's vicinity. “Dish, girlfriend, or I'll make you sugar-detox cold turkey.”

  “You wouldn't.”

  “Just try me.”

  Candace started to speak, but then the shop door jingled. She turned around and froze, coffee mug halfway to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

  “What?” Rebecca asked.

  Through the glass, Candace watched the approach of the man she'd prayed she'd never see again. Only this time dressed in navy Brooks Brothers instead of silk boxers and Levis.

  She would have run out the back door if her shoes hadn't suddenly filled with cement. “It's him.”

  Rebecca tugged on Candace's arm, pulling her toward the door. “Yeah, I told you, we have an appointment with the owner of Vogler.”

  “No. It's him.”

  “The one-night stand?” Rebecca whispered.

  “Oh my God,” Maria echoed. “You went to bed with him? Wow. He's cheesecake. With fudge topping. For a guy like that, I'd build a dining-room table.”

  Before Candace could run, hide or enter the Witness Protection Program, Romeo/Loverboy Vogler swung open the glass door to the kitchen and ruined her perfect, planned-out life. Again.

  1 21-ounce can cherry pie filling

  2-1/4 cups all-purpose flour

  1-1/2 cups white sugar

  3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder (choose brand well)

  1-1/2 teaspoons baking soda

  3/4 teaspoon salt

  1-1/2 cups water

  1/2 cup vegetable oil

  l/4 cup distilled white vinegar

  1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

  Grease a nine-by-thirteen-inch pan and spread the pie filling evenly in the bottom. When life is crazy, at least get your cake level. Eat any cherries that look bigger than their roommates. In a separate bowl, mix the flour, sugar, cocoa, baking soda and salt. Then take a second bowl (bribe the kids to do the dishes in exchange for a slice of cake), and mix the water, oil, vinegar and vanilla. Dump liquid ingredients into dry. Stir. Faster. Time's a-wasting and the cake won't bake if you dawdle (not to mention, someone's going to need you before you know it, so hurry). Pour over the cherry pie filling. No eggs in this one, so feel free to taste the batter. If you've had an exceptionally bad day, add more chocolate and sugar. Bake at 350 for thirty-five minutes. Invert cooled cake onto a serving dish. Serve with chocolate sauce, whipped cream and more cherries. Or slather the decorations over a good-looking man and satisfy more than your taste buds.

  Better yet, take a slice into the tub, lock the door and let the hubby deal with the kids. Sometimes, escape is the only option.

  CHAPTER 5

  Of all the people Michael Vogler expected to see standing in the kitchen of Gift Baskets to Die For, Candace Woodrow was not one of them. She wouldn't even have made his list of top one hundred possibilities. Not that he hadn't wanted to see her again—in fact, he hadn't thought about much else since he'd kissed her and then watched her storm out of his apartment.

  Their kiss had been phenomenal. The kind that wrapped up Christmas and Easter in one huge package, tied it with a bow and sprinkled Stardust over the outside.

  Not to mention she'd looked damned good in his sheets.

  Too damned good. He'd about had to put a leash on himself just to stay away from the bed after he'd woken up and seen her in there, all spread out in black lingerie. Like his own personal Playboy centerfold.

  Only sweeter. And nicer. And with a hell of a lot of sass.

  The night they'd met, Candace had mentioned owning a gift shop somewhere between her third and fourth margarita. She hadn't elaborated, and he hadn't put the pieces together. Boston was, after all, a hell of a big city. Her shop could have been located anywhere.

  But, no, it was here.

  Damned good luck, if he said so himself.

  Apparently, Candace didn't agree. She stared at him like he was the Antichrist, bringing Armageddon to her neat, organized and gleaming stainless-steel kitchen.

  He smiled at her to show he wasn't all bad.

  She glared back.

  A thin, trim brunette stepped forward. “Hello, Mr. Vogler. It's nice to meet you.” She stuck out a hand. “I'm Rebecca Hamilton. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Michael Vogler,” he responded, shaking hers. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Candace take a few steps back.

  “These are my partners at Gift Baskets to Die For.” Rebecca gestured toward a smiling woman with chestnut curly hair and wide, interested eyes. “This is Maria Pagliano, our designer.” Then she gestured at Candace, who had ducked behind the Kitchen Aid mixer. “And this is—”

  “Candace Woodrow,” he interjected with a lazy smile. “We've met.”

  Candace straightened and figured if she couldn't blend in with the kitchen appliances, she'd do a damn good impersonation of Miss America. The glass door reflected back lots of teeth and a face that looked more like a raving lunatic than a beauty queen.

  Okay, maybe the mixer had been a more attractive cover.

  She scrambled for a businesswoman-type reply. She rejected “Nice to meet you in your clothes,” and “Good to see you outside the bedroom” and went with her gut instinct— pretend the night never happened. Claim amnesia. Cop an insanity plea. Grab the first pill bottle she saw and insist she'd missed her last dose.


  She thrust out her hand and shook his. “I'm looking forward to doing business with you.”

  “You left so quickly that morning, I didn't get a chance to get your phone number. I wasn't sure I'd see you again,” he said. “This is a very nice surprise.”

  “I—I—I...” I need a Valium. And a double-thick chocolate shake to help it go down my throat.

  Rebecca stepped forward. “Mr. Vogler, why don't we step into the office and talk about how we can help your agency?”

  As soon as he left, Candace vowed to nominate Rebecca for a Nobel Peace Prize.

  Rebecca led the way through the kitchen and into the office, with Michael following behind. Maria and Candace brought up the rear, Maria's favorite position. She jabbed Candace with her elbow, gesturing with an enthusiastic two thumbs up at Michael's ass.

  Okay, it was cute. And tight. Better than some football players. Heck, better than Russell Crowe's. The image of him in the silk boxers came to mind.

  Even better than that Jean-Claude Van Damm naked butt scene in Kickboxer—which she knew from freeze-framing the scene many times.

  Barry's butt was more... round. Sort of... well, soft. Boyish.

  Michael’s was...

  All man. And a bag of Oreos.

  Maria made an imaginary A in the air, then punched her fist forward as if she'd just stamped him. Approved by the USDA and Maria Pagliano. Candace shot Maria a look of irritation, which her best friend ignored, a “who-me” smile on her face.

  Trifecta lay inside the office door, snoozing in the AC. When they entered, she lurched up on three feet, tail wagging with a wild frenzy that said she figured everyone arrived to cater to her every whim and throw tennis balls until the fuzz wore off.

  Candace gestured to the spaniel-terrier mix to lie back down. Trifecta dropped her head and let out a whine of protest.

  “Nice dog,” Michael said.

  Two words and Trifecta betrayed her mistress like a prostitute tempted by a fifty. She crossed to Michael, brown eyes filled with undying devotion. He laughed and stroked her head. The dog groaned with pleasure. Her eyes lolled back and she flattened her head against his thigh in wanton disregard for her dignity.