by Shirley Jump
He should. But was he prepared to deal with the consequences if he did?
By the time Candace got home, Saturday afternoon was over and evening had begun. She'd taken a cab back to Gift Baskets, picked up her car without going into the shop, then drove around Dorchester for the better part of an hour, searching for answers.
Unfortunately, there weren't any to be found in the narrow side streets, white-painted colonials or weather-worn Cape Cods. She did find one shopping cart without its wheels, a street preacher screaming about the evils of something or other, and one old woman watering her lawn in her underwear.
She pulled into the driveway of the duplex and parked her Civic. All she wanted was a hot shower, a stiff drink and enough trash TV to shut her brain off. For the past hour, she'd thought way too much. About Michael. About Barry. About Michael and Barry—that last thought, in particular, had told her she needed to get out of the sun.
Then about how stupid she was. And about how damn good those few hours in his bed—and his bathtub—had been.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. To throw away a marriage—a lifelong commitment—for a bit of afternoon delight. Choosing Michael over Barry was like eating marshmallow fluff instead of kielbasa.
She needed substance. Not sex.
No. She needed chocolate and alcohol. And a lot of time alone to beat herself up.
She opened the Civic's door and started up the walkway. Before she could reach her door, Della came bounding out. “Oh, you're home! Finally!”
And then Candace remembered. Her bridal shower. Oh, damn. She was not in the mood to put on a happy face among a bunch of blenders and distant cousins.
But Della was already prancing ahead, leading the way into Grandma's house with more glee than she'd ever expressed about being near her former mother-in-law. “Let's stop in for a quick hello to your grandmother.”
“Mother, give it up. I told you. I already know this is my shower.”
“Oh, stop. You'll spoil everything.” Della flung open the door. Four dozen female voices shouted “Surprise!” with Della providing backup harmony. Maria came over, took Candace's tote bag from her shoulder and hung it on one of the coat hooks.
Candace opened her mourn into an appropriate little “O” of shock. “I had no idea.”
''Bullshit,” Maria whispered in her ear. “But thanks for playing along.”
Candace was dragged over to a chair decorated with pink and blue streamers and balloons, an upside-down paper umbrella suspended over it As soon as she was seated, Della pulled the rip cord, dumping two pounds of pastel-colored confetti on Candace's head and lap. “It's shower time!” Della cried.
Clearly, her mother was in her element.
Bernadine sat in the large orange La-Z-Boy on the other side of the living room, arms crossed over her chest, looking about as merry as an underpaid mall Santa in a roomful of kids on a sugar high. She eyed Candace with a look that bordered on suspicion.
Did she know? Did it show on her face? A little sign that blared: I JUST HAD SEX WITH A MAN WHO ISN'T YOUR SON?
Another thought occurred to her. If Bernadine was back, that meant Barry had returned earlier than she expected. Was he here? Oh God, she hoped not. She wasn't ready to face him yet.
“Hi Bernadine,” Candace said, leaning forward. “How's Aunt Miriam?”
“Not going to die today.” Her future mother-in-law pursed her lips. “But she's sure making it sound like she could go at anytime. The woman has complaining down to an art.”
Gee, wonder who inherited that trait? “Where’s Barry?” Candace forced a polite smile to her face.
“Since you haven't called him back after he left two messages, you probably don't know.”
Her face started to hurt from keeping that goofy grin pasted on it. “That's why I'm asking you.” Mommy dearest.
Bernadine gave her a return smile of smug satisfaction. “Tonight was his bachelor party. His friend Jim has taken him and a few other friends to the movies.”
“The movies?” Candace chuckled. “Barry at that kind of movie would be something I'd pay to see.”
Bernadine cast her a look of horror and disgust. “My son would never go to one of those films. He's not Pee Wee Herman, you know. He has standards.”
“Oh yes, you're absolutely right.” Candace caught herself before she choked on the words.
“Maybe you would have remembered tonight was his special night out with his friends if you weren't so busy lolly-gagging in cars with your cust—” Bernadine's mutterings were cut off by a series of hacking coughs.
“Gee, nasty cough you have there,” Candace said, innocent as a lamb in a lion's den.
Bernadine scowled. “Touch of bronchitis. That's all.”
“Be careful Barry doesn't catch that. It would be awful if he got sick right before the wedding.” Candace exchanged a glare battle with her future mother-in-law. When Bernadine looked away, she knew she'd won the war. “So what movie did they see?”
“The newest Clint Eastwood film. My Barry, he loves the Wild West. If we lived in another day and age, he would have made a great cowboy.”
Candace nodded. “If only he wasn't allergic to leather.”
“Ah, yes.” Bernadine sighed. “Poor Barry.”
Grandma Woodrow came up and, thank God, interrupted the conversation with her Dustbuster. She vacuumed up most of the confetti, inserting her spandex-clad self between Candace and Bernadine's view.
Boy, did Candace love her grandmother.
Della got to her feet and started tossing out lacy things in neon colors, trying to launch a rousing game of “guess the lingerie.” Undoubtedly her new boyfriend had helped her find some of the more unique items in the store because it wasn't long before the crowd, made up mainly of great aunts and maiden cousins, was stumped.
“We tried to stop your mother,” Grandma said, “but you know how she is when it comes to these things.”
“That's okay. It makes her happy.”
Grandma winked. “Think of all the free garter belts you're going to get.”
“I'd get more use out of a Crock-Pot.” Candace sighed and sagged back into the chair. The movement tipped the umbrella, showering her anew with a few stowaway pieces of confetti, like a party that wouldn't quit.
Grandma shook her head, brushing the pieces to the floor. “Honey, are you sure—”
Candace put a hand over her grandmother's. “Don't ask me that. Not today.”
“You're right.” She smiled. “Probably not the best timing.”
“No, not at all.”
Grandma's soft palm felt like a balm against her cheek. “You okay, sweetie? You look a little green.”
“Nothing... really. Just pre-wedding jitters.”
“I’ll get you some chocolate cake. That'll help.”
“Bring me a big slice.” Candace grabbed Grandma's arm before she walked away. “On second thought, bring the whole damn thing. Leave the guests the crumbs.”
Grandma laughed. Like she thought Candace was kidding.
Three pieces of cake, two toasters, three negligees, five china place settings and untold towels later, Candace sat back and thanked her friends, relatives and mother for the shower. Della beamed with pride, gathered up the note cards she'd distributed for her homemade “Tips to Candace for Avoiding Housework” booklet, then handed out parting gifts to everyone—thigh-high fishnet stockings and little hot-pink garters that played “Here Comes the Bride.”
Note to self: Never ever let Della plan my baby shower.
“You okay?” Rebecca came up and picked up Candace's empty plate.
Candace had to resist the urge to dab up the crumbs with a finger. Surely there were leftovers in the kitchen she could sneak in and grab. As soon as no one was looking. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because you look like you're about to hyperventilate again. And because I remember how panicked I felt when it started getting close to my wedding date. Like the world was ab
out to close in.”
She sighed. “Yeah, it's like that.”
Rebecca patted her arm. “Don't worry. It'll work out. In a couple weeks, everything will all be over and you'll wonder why you worried so much.”
“It's not that, it's ...” She suddenly realized she needed to talk to someone, to tell someone who would understand. “Come on in the kitchen. I have to talk to you. And I need more cake.”
They found a quiet corner in Grandma's bright yellow kitchen. Candace poured herself a glass of milk, then took a seat on the counter and dove into another piece of cake. “I did it,” she said with a sigh.
“Did what?” Rebecca scooped up some veggie dip and celery. “I wish I could have that cake, but I swear, once you have a kid, you gain weight by just looking at a Twinkie. It's not the kids that drive you crazy—it's the years of being forced to eat salad and—”
“I slept with him,” Candace interrupted.
“And carrots and ...” Rebecca blinked. “Wait a minute. Did you just say what I thought you said?”
“Uh-huh.”
Rebecca lowered her voice and leaned closer. “You slept with Michael?”
“Twice. In one day. So technically, maybe, that's once.”
“When?”
“After lunch.”
“Today?! Before you came to—”
Candace nodded.
“Oh. Oh... oh my God.” The celery in her hand tumbled onto the counter. “Screw the veggies. I'm having cake with you. Does Grandma have anything to drink?”
“There's some Kahlua in the cabinet over the stove.”
“Good. I think I need a shot or two.” Rebecca paused, then looked at Candace. “Oh, yeah, and you, too.” She pivoted, reached above the Kenmore and got the brown bottle out of the cabinet, giving Candace a liberal amount mixed in with her milk. Rebecca took a big gulp of her plain milk, then exhaled. “Okay, start at the beginning.”
Candace did, relating the details of the trip to the shelter, the shopping, and the crazy couple of hours she'd spent in his apartment
Just after she finished, Della popped her head into the kitchen. “What are you doing in here? You should be out there, saying good-bye to everyone.”
“I will. Just give me a minute.”
“Did you enjoy your shower, sweetie?”
“It was perfect. You did a great job.”
Della beamed. “Thanks.” She wagged a finger of admonishment at her. “Now, don't be a hermit!”
When the kitchen door had swung shut again, Rebecca turned to Candace and topped off her Kahlua. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. It was a mistake.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yeah.” She nodded, telling herself that as much as Rebecca. “Yeah, I'm sure.”
Rebecca bit her lip, swirling the drink in her hand. “Did it clear up your doubts?”
“Oh. Absolutely.” Candace threw all the conviction she had into her voice. “It was like putting chlorine into a cloudy pool.”
Rebecca slipped off the counter and drew Candace into a hug. “Okay, but watch out you don't drown in the deep end.”
8 ounces semisweet chocolate
2/3 cup corn syrup
4 eggs
l/4 cup milk
3 ounces cream cheese, softened
First thing—breathe. When you're feeling calm enough to cook, melt the chocolate and corn syrup in a saucepan. Cool slightly, pacing while you wait to expend that nervous energy.
Whip up the eggs and milk in a blender until smooth, then add the cream cheese a little at a time. Keep breathing (make sure you have a paper bag handy in case your nerves get out of hand). Add the chocolate, blend until well mixed. Pour into an ungreased one-and-a-half-quart soufflé or baking dish. Bake at 400 degrees for fifty-five minutes. Don't make any sudden moves or loud noises, or your soufflé will fall apart, just like you.
Eat with a large spoon. The faster you can get that chocolate into your system, the sooner it can start its calming effect. Don't forget—breathe between bites. It'll all work out.
And if it doesn't, there's always another chocolate recipe to be tried.
CHAPTER 21
By Sunday morning, the paper bag and the remains of the chocolate cake had become Candace’s new best friends. She'd lugged all the gifts back to her apartment, then left them in the corner of the living room, too tired to do anything with the piles of dishes and small kitchen appliances.
Barry showed up at her apartment that morning, as early as a robin looking for a worm. The minute she saw him, she felt an odd mixture of relief and remorse.
She wanted to undo yesterday, but couldn't. If she didn't think about it—ever—maybe she could move on, get back to where she'd been with Barry before Michael Vogler had come into her life.
And thrown it into a wood chipper.
“Hey,” Barry said. “I brought you something.” He pulled his hand out from behind his back and handed her a Starbucks Vanilla Breve Latte.
“You read my mind.” She sighed, slumped into a kitchen chair and inhaled the fragrance of the drink, then took a sip. From the living room, she could hear the snores of Della on her couch. Percy ran circles around the kitchen table, playing tag with Bob. And losing, considering Bob didn't have a tail to catch. “You did that thing again, didn't you?”
“What?”
“Took the top off for exactly seven minutes so it gets just cool enough to drink.”
He shrugged. “I know that's how you like it.”
She took a long gulp, then gave him a big smile. “You know me so well.” This was why she was marrying Barry. Because he could read her mind. “So, how was your movie?”
“Okay. Sure made me want to buy a horse, though.” He knelt down beside her chair and caught her gaze with his own. “Listen, I'm sorry about the dress. I could see you weren't pleased. It's your wedding, too, and it's your dress. I should have thought of you. I told Mother it was wrong for us to buy it for you. We'll take it back.” He took her hand in his. “Your happiness is the most important thing to me.”
Guilt ricocheted through her faster than Keanu Reeves in The Matrix Reloaded. How could she have ever done what she did with Michael? Barry was the one who was here, coffee and apology in hand.
She thought of returning the dress, then realized the only other one she could imagine wearing was that one at Reverie Bridal. And that was not only out of her price range; it was out of the question. Especially when she'd modeled it for another man. “No, it's okay. The dress is fine. I was just... surprised.”
“I shouldn't have done it. I thought it was a good idea. Save you some time. Money. You know.”
Candace got to her feet and gave him a one-arm hug, careful not to spill the Starbucks on his neatly pressed golf shirt and khakis. He had been thinking of her, and that meant a lot. He'd seen the stress on her face, and in his own Barry-esque way, thought he was doing the right thing. “It was a wonderful thought. The dress may not have been exactly what I would have picked out on my own, but it's okay. Really.”
“If you don't like it, we'll take it back. I mean it.” Barry grasped her hand in his. “We can shop for something you like. Together.”
Taking the dress back and starting the whole nightmare shopping process all over again seemed too big of a job. Too stressful. Barry's choice wasn't that bad. “It's only a dress, right? What's important is the wedding. And what happens afterward.”
He smiled. “See? That's why I love you. You're always so sensible. You don't care about the stupid details like what you're wearing. You think about the practical stuff.” He grinned and chucked her under the chin. “That's my girl.”
“Yeah, that's me.” Candace tipped the coffee into her mouth and wondered if there were any cookies left in the jar on her counter.
“Hey, I stopped by for another reason, too. I have some bad news about the honeymoon.”
“What bad news?” What more could possibly go wrong with this wed
ding?
“A bad storm hit the island down in the Keys where we had reservations. The hotel's pretty badly damaged. “But I was able to exchange our tickets for a trip to”—he did a little drum roll on the edge of the kitchen table with his fingers— “Phoenix.”
“Arizona? In June?”
Barry scoffed. “It's sunny. Just like the Keys. And the hotel has a pool. What more do you need?”
“You should have asked me first. We might have thought of other options besides Phoenix.”
“There weren't a lot of choices this close to the wedding, not on our budget and not during the biggest wedding and graduation month of the season. Most places are already booked up. Besides, Mother said it would be the perfect environment for my allergies.”
Candace forced a smile to her face. Leave it to her future mother-in-law to recommend the top retirement community as a hot honeymoon location. Either way, it was only a week. An escape from all of this with Barry. “Then Phoenix it is.”
What was important was the marriage, not the honeymoon. Or the dress. Just marrying Barry and beginning their life.
“Great. I need to call the caterer, too, and confirm a few things. Do you have her number in your planner?”
“Sure. Let me grab it.” Candace crossed the kitchen, picked up her tote bag and reached inside. And came up empty. There was plenty of other stuff in there—a tube of lipstick, a bunch of pens, a pad of paper, a calculator—but no planner.
Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.
“I, ah, don't have it with me.”
Barry laughed. “That's impossible. You never go anywhere without your planner.”