by Shirley Jump
Candace sat. Above the chair, a three-foot crucified Jesus looked down at her, almost as if in sympathy. A Madonna on the opposite wall stared back in painted smugness. She, after all, had chosen the right man and had been glorified for it for centuries. Had Mary ever wondered about Joseph? Had she pondered her fate with a different man? One who had more than a donkey to offer?
Candace swallowed. Now that she was here, she wasn't quite sure how to phrase the question... or if asking it was even wise.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The wall clock broadcast her hesitation.
“Candace? Was there some reason you came to see me?”
She rose halfway out of the chair. “This is a crazy idea. I'll come back another time.”
“You look as if something is troubling you, my child. Why don't you tell me about it?” He pushed a silver-plated bowl of Hershey kisses her way.
Well, now that he'd added chocolate into the mix, refusing to stay would be rude. Not to mention the mutiny her taste buds would launch if she left without gobbling a few pieces.
She plopped back into the seat, picked a kiss out of the bowl, removed the foil wrapper and popped it into her mouth. The sweet chocolate melted against her tongue with the grace of a ballet. She swallowed. “I think the church should nominate Milton Hershey for sainthood.”
Father Pete gave her a beatific smile, but didn't answer. Clearly, he didn't think chocolatiers ranked as high as St. Patrick and St. Francis.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Candace grabbed a second kiss for fortification. “This is going to sound crazy.”
“Nothing sounds crazy when you're in the house of the Lord, Candace.”
She ate the second candy and grabbed up a third. “Well, my grandmother, you know how she is...”
Father Pete nodded and gave his noncommittal smile again.
“Well, she has this insane idea that I should marry my soul mate. Somehow, she's got it in her head that Barry isn't it.” A small, almost hysterical laugh escaped her. She ate the third kiss quick, to silence herself.
“Do you think Barry is your soul mate?”
Ah, the twenty-million dollar question. “Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, we like the same movies, the same foods. We even own the same car, a gray Honda Civic. What are the chances of meeting a guy who drives the same car as you do?” Candace devoured a fourth Hershey kiss. She reached forward and scooped up numbers five, six and seven for good measure. “We aced that compatibility test in the pre-cana classes. We had the highest score out of everyone. That's good, right?”
“Candace, those compatibility profiles are not graded. They're meant as a guideline, not a competition.”
“But it goes to show Barry and I are meant for each other. Don't you agree?”
Father Pete gave a tiny nod. “Perhaps. Romans twelve says 'Be of the same mind toward one another.'”
Ah ha. Even God backed up her choice.
“But,” Father Pete added, putting up a finger. Candace winced. There was a but? “First John says 'There is no fear in love.' Are you experiencing fears about marrying Barry?”
Candace toyed with the little Hershey flag. “I'm just wondering if there's such a thing as a perfect person for each of us.”
“Sort of a match made in heaven?”
“Well, I wouldn't go that far. I don't really believe God is up there with his own version of a dating service.” And if He was, He'd screwed up royally by introducing Michael Vogler into the mix.
Father Pete laughed. “No, not quite. But He does steer us in the direction of what's best. You just have to listen to His wisdom.” Father Pete pressed his hands together and rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. “As far as I know, the Bible doesn't say anything directly about soul mates, but it does say a lot about trusting in the Lord. He will provide, if you let Him.”
“What He's provided me is a big huge mess.” She thought of the soup, the night in Michael's bed, the way her hormones kept attacking her and driving her toward him like some self-induced attempt at premarital suicide. How half of her wanted validation for her choice of Barry and the other half wanted—
She wasn't going to think about that half. Not with the Madonna and Christ watching her.
She reached for more kisses. Father Pete leaned forward and with one quick movement, yanked the candy bowl out of her reach. Apparently she'd indulged enough. “Maybe you should read the fourth chapter of Song of Solomon.”
Candace paused in unwrapping the silver foil on the kisses she already had in her hand. “What's that?”
“Ah, that's the song of true love.” He closed his eyes and began to recite. “'Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold...'”
Father Pete continued, but not in the monotone he reserved for Mass. Instead, he became Mel Gibson in Hamlet, delivering the words with a gusto she'd never seen before. His hands waved, his voice boomed, his chest heaved with passion.
When he reached the end, he opened his eyes. He blinked several times, then cleared his throat. “Well. That's what the Bible says.”
“So basically, it doesn't say soul mates exist.”
“Well, no, not really. Only that true love is a wonderful thing that should be celebrated and glorified.”
“Just what I thought.” Barry was her true love. Soul mates weren't even a real thing. She got to her feet. Now she could shop for her wedding dress in peace.
“Wait a minute,” Father Pete said. Candace paused. “Think long and hard about the choice you are making. 'Better is a dinner of herbs where love is than a fatted ox and hatred with it.' Proverbs fifteen,” he explained. “The wrong choice can put your heart... and your soul in jeopardy.”
“Gee, nothing like a little pressure.”
Father Pete got to his feet too, and came around the desk, laying a hand on her shoulder. “It will all be fine. Listen to your heart. And if you need to talk again, I'm here.”
She thanked Father Pete, resisting the urge to grab the bowl of chocolate, stuff it under her shirt and run like hell for the door. Instead, she left, feeling as if she had fewer answers than when she walked in there. “Lot of help he was,” she muttered to herself.
When she got back in her car, she studied her to-do list. Focus on the plan, she reminded herself. Plans made her feel calm. In control.
Number four reminded her to stop off at Doctor Card's to pick up some heartworm pills for Trifecta. And while there, beg for some more donated services for Paws a Minute. The vet's office sat two blocks away from the church, so she decided to make a detour for shameless pleading.
A few minutes later, she was walking across the parking lot to Doctor Card's office. A Springer spaniel came bounding through the door, leashless and on the lam. Candace stepped to the right and caught the little brown-and-white dog in her arms.
“Sam!” a male voice hollered from inside the vet's.
The dog's ears perked up and he pressed himself to her. Candace closed her eyes and prayed the Sam in her arms was not the Sam she thought of when she’d heard the name. And that the voice she'd heard belonged to Hugh Jackman or George Clooney or even Macaulay Culkin. Anyone but—
Michael Vogler came running out of the office, waving a dog biscuit in one hand and a broken leash in the other. “Sam? Come here, boy.” He skidded to a stop when he saw Candace holding his dog. “It's you.” Surprise pitched his voice up a few levels. “And Sam.”
“I caught him trying to make a break for it.”
“Thanks.” Michael smiled and gestured with the biscuit. “He hates going to the vet. Especially when he's up for a flea dip.”
Candace got to her feet, still holding the little dog. She stroked Sam's head and his stumpy tail began wagging like a crazed thumb. “I'm not too fond of those myself.”
He laughed and handed the biscuit to Sam. “What are you doing here?”
“Heartworm pills. For your new best friend.” She tried to keep her gaze on the dog, but found that his master eclipsed her attention. Today he wore a button-down shirt
with stripes that matched the blue of his eyes. The cuffs were rolled up, exposing lean, defined wrists. Strong hands. Fingers long enough to—
Candace cleared her throat. She'd just left a church, for Pete's sake. Maybe she needed a return visit for a few Hail Marys. Or a bit of cane-induced penance from the nuns who'd taught elementary school. She gave Sam a final pat, then deposited the dog in Michael's arms. “Well. I should get in there and get the ... ah ... the ...”
“Heartworm pills,” he reminded her with a grin that said he knew her thoughts hadn't been on four-legged creatures.
“Yeah. Those.” She started to walk past him, trying to ignore the tantalizing smell of his cologne. Geez, if Bloomingdale's sold that scent, it was no wonder they made so much money.
“Do you like Italian?”
“Huh?”
“Want to get some manicotti with me?”
Her stomach began to rumble with the anxious pleading of a four-year-old outside a toy store. Italian food ranked a close second to chocolate in Candace's life. “I really shouldn't—” she began.
“I know this great place down the street. Run by fourth-generation Italians. Food so authentic, you'd think you were on the set of The Sopranos.”
“Really?” Her stomach started chanting, “Go, go, go.”
“Would I lie to you?” His voice was low and dark, implying more than lunch recommendations.
She shook her head. “I need to go buy a wedding dress. I don't have time for lunch.” She didn't add that this morning, she'd vowed never to see him again. Having lunch with Michael didn’t fit the plan.
“Come on, stop living your life by a clock. Do something spontaneous.” He tied the broken leash onto Sam's collar and lowered the spaniel to the ground.
“I'm spontaneous.”
“Tell me the last thing you did for the hell of it.”
“I...” she scrambled for an answer. “I bought a pair of shoes I didn't need.”
“Whoo, that's living on the edge.” He grinned. “Eating lunch with me isn't dangerous.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” He stepped closer, standing inches from her. His cologne tugged at her senses, like a spider web drawing her into a sticky situation. Everything about this man was wrong. He was so clearly a man who thought with everything but the left side of his brain. But still, she didn't leave. “If you kissed me, now that would be very, very risky, Candy.”
His use of the nickname sent her memory careening back to the car, to the closeness of him then, to the way she'd leaned forward, betraying her own better judgment. Her breath began to come in short gasps. “How so?”
“Because you might enjoy it.” He inched closer still.
She knew she would, from experience. And damn her plan to hell, she wanted him to kiss her anyway. Around her, the city buzzed and hummed. But Candace barely heard it. Every molecule in her body pinged on Michael like a sonar system run amok. “I think you're right,” she admitted.
He reached up a hand and for a second, she thought—no, hoped—he was going to put actions behind his words. Her eyes opened wider and her lips parted, all of their own volition. The anticipation of his lips on hers raced through her like a hungry greyhound after a rabbit.
“Then I won't kiss you.”
“You ... you won't?” Had she heard him right? And why did she feel so disappointed?
“No.” He pulled back and a draft of air brushed against her. “Besides, you're engaged to Barney.”
“Barry,” she corrected. But her fiancé had never seemed so far away as he did right now. So dependable. So predictable. So...
Boring.
“Yeah. Him.” Michael reached into his pocket, pulled out a biscuit and handed it to Sam. “Let me drop Sam off for his dip and then we can get some manicotti.”
“I should go—”
“Are you afraid of me?”
“Certainly not.” But she knew she was. And he knew it, too.
“Don't you like Italian?”
“I love it.”
“Then what's the problem?”
She gestured at him, then herself. “You're a guy. I'm a woman.”
“I noticed that. More than once.”
“Having lunch with you—”
“Is not automatically a date,” he finished. “It's a meal. Sustenance. People do it every day.” He leaned down and mocked whispering in her ear. “I hear some people even do it three times a day.”
“Some do it more.” The words squeaked.
“Help me convince Sam that a flea dip is in his best interests and I'll repay you with a lunch you'll never forget.”
She did need to eat. Shopping on an empty stomach resulted in bad impulse purchases. Like the purple suede skirt hanging in her closet. Oh, and that awful orange faux linen shirt. Both were purchases made on lunch hours when she'd chosen Macy's over McDonald's. Clearly, it made both smart financial and dress-shopping sense to have lunch with him.
Right. That's exactly why she said, “Okay.”
As she followed Michael Vogler and Sam into Doctor Card's office, she wondered whether Father Pete would approve of her choice. Then again, the priest was celibate. When was the last time he'd felt passion for anything other than a tuna melt?
Maybe there was an opening at the convent. She could ask the nuns to lock her up, throw away the key, and keep her from the masochistic act of destroying her life, weeks before the plan she’d waited all her life to put in place.
Because right now, she had all the self-control of a sugar junkie about to enter Willy Wonka's chocolate factory.
1 box devil's food cake mix
1 jar caramel topping (or if you're feeling especially sinful, use chocolate topping)
1 8-oz. container of whipped topping
4 candy bars (chopped into small pieces), any kind, as long as they're high in calories and chocolate
a few maraschino cherries, for extra sex appeal
Girls, this is one of those recipes that has less muss and fuss than real sex, and satisfies your craving for a man almost as well. Bake the cake according to the directions on the package, then let it cool for ten minutes. Blow on it to speed up the process.
Using the end of a wooden spoon, make small holes all over the surface of the cake. Draw erotic dot-to-dot pictures if you want, or just make a handsome smiley face (it's going to be hidden, so it's one of those secrets only you will know). Heat the caramel topping, then pour it into the holes. After it's nice and cool, top the cake with whipped topping, then sprinkle the candy and cherries on top. It tastes better cold, so if you can stand the wait, put it in the fridge for a couple of hours.
This is a dessert best served with friends, so send out the invitations, rent a Keanu Reeves movie, and then dish up the gossip and the chocolate.
CHAPTER 9
The minute Michael opened the door to Casa D'Antonio, he knew he'd made a bad choice. The food was excellent, but the service—
“Mr. Vogler! How nice to see you again, and with another lovely lady, too.” Johnny, the maitre d’, came forward, clasping both his hands around one of Michael's. Short and round, Johnny had a way with a tailored suit that hid his penchant for pasta. As Antonio's son he got away with a lot—and kept his job.
Michael cocked his head toward Candace, hoping Johnny would get the hint.
He did. Too well. “Ooh, I shouldn't have said that, should I?” he whispered. “Ah, no harm done, I'm sure. A little jealousy can turn a lady into a real wildcat.” He winked. “And we both know how fun a wildcat is to tame.”
The food was so damned good, though, Michael could usually forgive Johnny's loose lips.
Michael squeezed Johnny's hands. Hard. “We'd like just a table, please.”
“Oh, oh. Yes. I understand you.” He squeezed off a wink that the crew of the space shuttle could have seen. “Sorry, Mr. Vogler. Right this way.” He led them toward the rear of the room, waving them into a secluded booth tucked away in the back corner. “Your favo
rite table for a meal with a special lady, I presume?”
Candace quirked an eyebrow at Michael. “Come here often? And rarely alone?”
Johnny had the presence of mind to blush and back away fast, leaving a couple of leather-bound menus onto the table.
“I'm sorry about him,” Michael said after they were seated. “He gets carried away sometimes.”
“He seems to know you quite well.”
“I, ah, eat here sometimes.”
“Really?” Candace trailed a finger down the menu. “So, what do you recommend for wildcats?”
Michael swallowed. “You heard that?”
“Johnny's about as quiet as Gilbert Gottfried in a monastery.”
Michael chuckled, then laid his menu on the table and caught her gaze. “For the record, I don't take that many—”
She flipped her menu up, blocking his sentence and his eyes. “For the record, I don't care. I'm engaged to someone else, remember?”
“You've only reminded me five times.”
She peeked over the top of the brown leather. “You're the kind of man who needs reminding.”
“What, you think I can't behave myself?”
“I doubt it. Very much.” She put her menu down on the table again and crossed her arms over it. “I think you're interested in me for one reason, Casanova.”
“And what would that be?”
She flashed her diamond at him. “Because you can't have me.”
“Who says I can't?”
“This does.” She tapped the ring. “It's a promise. To another man. A man I love. A man I'm promising to love, cherish and honor forever.”
A tremor ran through her, as if the words terrified her. He doubted even she was aware she'd just let out a reaction worthy of the Richter scale. But it was enough to open the door and let him in.
“Before you walk off into a romance novel with Barry”—he drew the name out into a yawn—''why not live a little? Go parachuting. Learn to fly a plane. Climb a mountain.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Share a plate of manicotti with a man who tempts you.”