The Bride Wore Chocolate (Sweet and Savory Romances) Page 3

  As the cab rounded the corner of her street, a swell of anger rose in her throat as she thought about how she must have ended up in the pickle in the first place. How could her “friends” leave her with that Rudolph Valentino wannabe? What had they been thinking? Had this been some twisted bachelorette scheme?

  He'd claimed she'd asked him to take her for a ride on the wild side. Impossible. He was lying, taking advantage of her hungover state. She wouldn't have. She couldn't have.

  Well...yeah, but she kind of had with that kiss.

  No, that was a pod twin of herself. A temporary fugue state. Candace tossed the possibility that she'd had anything to do with her own predicament right through the smeared dirty window.

  The cab stopped. Candace paid and hopped out. She crept into the house, hoping to pass by Grandma's door undetected. It was, after all, only a little after seven in the morning. Maybe Grandma had slept in. But since Candace had all the sneakability of an African elephant and Grandma had the hearing of a Navy man in a brothel, that wasn't to be.

  “Candace? Is that you?” Grandma Woodrow opened her door and stepped out into the hall the duplexes shared. Dressed head to toe in purple-and-teal Spandex, punctuated with knee pads, elbow pads and a dark purple bicycle helmet, Grandma looked equipped for extreme knitting.

  Candace let out a laugh. “Don't tell me. I don't think I want to know.”

  “Pshaw.” Grandma waved a hand at her. “George is teaching me to Rollerblade. We're thinking of going to Venice Beach in January, and everyone who's anyone there Rollerblades.”

  George was Grandma's sixty-two-year-old boyfriend, though she called him her Latin lover. As far as Candace could tell, George didn't have an ounce of blood in him that had come from anywhere south of the border. Pale and fair-haired, he toted SPF 45 everywhere he went. He'd earned his nickname because of his penchant of having sex in public places. God forbid Grandma ever ended up on the front page of the Herald. She could see the headline now:

  SENILE SENIOR CAUGHT FORNICATING AT FENWAY.

  Grandma adjusted her helmet. “Got to keep up with life, you know, or life will catch up with you.”

  “Well, have fun,” Candace said, heading toward her apartment door.

  “Not so fast.”

  Damn.

  “You never came home last night.” Grandma leaned closer, her gaze searching Candace's face like a human lie detector. “Did you take a different stallion out of the corral? You can tell me.”

  “Grandma!” Candace put on a shocked face and blocked the images of riding Romeo/Loverboy that flashed through her mind like a late-night porno.

  But Grandma's sharp blue eyes missed nothing. “You did, didn't you?” She clapped her hands together. “Oh, Candace, I'm so proud of you!”

  “Proud of me?”

  “Why, for grabbing the bull by the horns, so to speak,” she laughed at her pun, “and not just settling for Barry.”

  “I'm not settling, Grandma. And nothing happened last night.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She'd said “last night,” not “this morning.” Technically, that wasn't lying. “Of course.”

  “Pity.”

  “Grandma, I'm getting married in three weeks. I'm not supposed to be fooling around with other men.”

  Grandma wagged a finger at her. “It doesn't hurt to taste the other cheeses in the deli before you plunk down good money for the Gouda.”

  “I've tasted all I want to taste,” she said, to herself more than to her grandma. “Barry is the man for me.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Candace parroted back. “What do you mean, why?”

  “Why is he, of all the men in the world, the one you can't live without?”

  “Well, I wouldn't say I couldn't live without him—”

  “Ah-ha!” Grandma exclaimed like she'd just hit Megabucks. “Then you aren't really sure!”

  “I am sure about Barry. I just don't think love and marriage have to be a do-or-die thing.”

  Her grandmother waved a disapproving hand. “You young people. What about love, passion? Romance?”

  “I have that with Barry.” Before her grandmother could say another word, Candace started down the hall. “I have to walk Trifecta and feed Bob before the two of them gang up on my couch cushions.” She turned back to Grandma. “Be careful on those Rollerblades. And take your calcium.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Candace thought Grandma was going to let it go at that. She should have known better.

  “Love means never having to settle for second best,” she called out before Candace could open her apartment door. “Especially in bed!”

  Candace pretended she hadn't heard that, then ducked inside, closed the door and slumped to the floor. Trifecta toddled over and started licking her face. Bob flicked a few cat whiskers in her direction in lieu of his missing tail, then hopped on the sofa and turned away, as if ashamed of his mistress's all-night absence.

  “What do you know?” she said to the neutered cat. “You don't even have testicles.”

  Three more weeks. Then she could forget that last night and this morning had ever happened. She'd get on with her life and the world could stop offering their opinions on her sex life.

  Three hours and a good dose of Tylenol later, Candace lay on her couch, having a damned fine pity party. The seven gnomes had returned to offer background music while her stomach hosted a rousing rebellion against all four food groups. The only plus—and Candace had to struggle to find anything positive about the day she'd had—was that it was Sunday and she could suffer in peace for a full twenty-four hours.

  The doorbell rang. She buried her head in the couch cushions in a good impression of a dead woman. The doorbell rang again. Then she heard Rebecca's concerned voice. “Candace? You in there?”

  With a groan, Candace got to her feet and staggered for the door. She flung it open, grunted a hello and stumbled back to the couch.

  Rebecca didn't take offense at the Neanderthal greeting. That was the good thing about best friends—they understood hangovers and PMS. “Hey, what happened to you last night?”

  Candace curled into a corner of the sofa, leaving room for Rebecca to sit. “What happened to me? What happened to you? You guys abandoned me and now I'm dying.”

  Rebecca laughed and handed her a cup of Starbucks. “Here, drink this. Everything will get a little clearer with some coffee.”

  “You're a goddess.” Candace took the cup and inhaled the aroma of a Vanilla Breve Latte before taking a long sip. The hot java hit her stomach and then, like a domino, her brain. The room came into sharper focus. “Ah ... I think I'll live.”

  “I take it you don't remember much about last night?”

  “I remember marching through half the bridal shops in Boston, then giving up and stopping off somewhere for dinner and drinks with you two. But everything else after that is pretty fuzzy.” Except for the model in boxer shorts she'd woken up to this morning. Candace left that part out for now. If she never mentioned it, maybe it would go away, like a bout of food poisoning.

  “We didn't abandon you, Candace. You told us to leave.”

  “But...” Even as she started to protest, a sliver of memory came back. She groaned. “I did, didn't I?”

  “It was getting late, Maria had a date, Jeremy had already called twice to find out when I'd be home.” A faint blush crept into Rebecca's face and Candace knew exactly why Jeremy had wanted his wife home. “You didn't want to leave. You were sober, though. We never would have left you there drunk. And it was a nice restaurant. You kept insisting you'd be fine, have some dessert and one more drink, then catch a cab home.”

  “Was there a...” Candace paused, bit her lip. Just spit it out. Like a Band-Aid—yank the words out, even if it stings like hell. “Was there a guy with me when you left?”

  “No. There were a few people in the bar, but the dining room was pretty much empty. When we left, you were sitting in our booth by yours
elf. Why?”

  “I... I... I need another coffee.” Candace got to her feet and stumbled for the kitchen. Her mind whirred like a blender, whipping disjointed memories into a froth of confusion. She lurched for the coffee canister on her counter, catching it just before the container spilled. When she spooned the beans into the grinder, her hand trembled. A few dozen escaped, skittering across the countertop like roaches in sudden light.

  “You okay?” Rebecca's voice behind her made her jump. The rest of the beans in the scoop flew up and landed with a soft clatter on the vinyl.

  “No.” Candace dropped the scoop and leaned against the counter. “Not at all.”

  Rebecca put an arm around her shoulders. “Aw, honey, come on. Tell me. What happened last night?”

  “I... I...” Admitting she had all the morals of a wild monkey wasn't easy. Saying the words made them feel and sound so much worse. “I went home with some guy.”

  “You did?”

  “Uh-huh.” Candace turned around and faced Rebecca. “And the worst part is, I don't even know his name.”

  Rebecca blinked twice. Then twice more. “That is so not you.”

  “I know.” Candace raised her hands in frustration. “I have no idea what happened or how I ended up there. I just woke up in his apartment and he was there—”

  “Was he cute?” Rebecca interrupted.

  “Oh, yeah.” She nodded.

  “Was he good?”

  “Rebecca!”

  “Well, was he worth it?”

  Candace turned back to the coffee and finished shoveling the beans into the grinder. “He said nothing happened, and considering I was still wearing my Wonderbra, I believed him.” Gratitude flooded Candace for that small blessing. She didn't mention the kiss. She’d bury that particular memory deep in her brain, never to be resurrected again.

  “So what are you worried about? It's over; it's in the past. Just think about Barry and it will all go away.”

  “I am thinking about Barry. And wondering...” her voice trailed off.

  “Wondering what?” Rebecca prodded.

  “How much I really love him if I can go home with a complete stranger less than a month before my wedding.” There, it was out. The one thought that had been nagging at her ever since she'd woken up in another man's bed.

  All her life she'd been a planner. Or tried to be, because she knew too damned well the consequences of chaos. Things worked out in an orderly manner, if enough forethought was given to each decision. But lately, her life had turned topsy-turvy. It wasn't just disconcerting—it was scary as hell.

  “Candace.” Rebecca clasped her hands around her friend's. “You wouldn't be human if you didn't have a few doubts. Everyone gets cold feet.”

  Candace sighed. That was it. Just the patter of cold feet. No reason to doubt her sanity or run to Excel and recalculate the reasons-to-marry-Barry spreadsheet. “I guess you're right.” She finished readying the coffeepot and turned it on. Within seconds, the blissful sound of percolating coffee began.

  “You know what you need, don't you?” Rebecca said.

  “A brain transplant? A hormonal reduction?”

  “A large dose of chocolate.” She crossed the kitchen and began opening Candace's cupboards, pulling out ingredients and mixing bowls. “Let's make some cookies. Everything looks better after you've had a heck of a lot of calories and carbohydrates.”

  Candace smiled and reached for the bowls. “Rebecca, you're a genius. Ever thought about joining Mensa?”

  She laughed. “I lost half my brains when I had Emily. Three years of conversations about what's on Nickelodeon and why Mickey Mouse only has four fingers has pretty much destroyed the few cells I had left.”

  “Cookies will help with that, too. In fact, I think cookies solve about any problem pretty damned well.” Candace put the butter in the microwave, pressed the button and watched the butter soften into a thick yellow river.

  “My thoughts exactly.” Rebecca began measuring and mixing the eggs, vanilla and sugar.

  Candace opened the bag of chocolate chips and inhaled. “Ahh ... I feel better already. Heaven, thy name is Hershey.”

  “Amen, sister.”

  “Hello?” A singsong too-happy voice ricocheted through the apartment. “Anybody home? Surprise!”

  Damn. Should have locked the door.

  The high-pitched, too joyous voice could only belong to one person. Her mother.

  Della had returned from honeymoon number six or seven or twenty. Candace had lost track after Davy, Arnold, Reggie and the hairy wolfman—whose name she could never remember—had each been discarded in quickie Reno divorces, then replaced with new-and-improved models.

  “Oh! Here you are. And with your friend, too. How sweet!” Her mother bustled into the kitchen, launching air kisses like cluster bombs all around Candace's face. Rebecca managed to busy herself with cookie dough and avoid the Chanel No. 5-scented attack.

  Della stood as a walking testament to Liz Claiborne Sport, her preferred traveling clothes. A teal shell and cardigan were completed by floral print pedal pushers and snazzy rhinestone-studded high-heeled sandals. She had a new, flawless red pedicure, impeccable French manicure, and salon-blond hair twisted high on her head, with two—not three or four, but two—strands loose on either side.

  “Hi, Mother,” Candace said. “Back so soon from your honeymoon?”

  Della's face took on a pained look. “Antonio and I...” she cleared her throat.”We had a parting of the ways.”

  “But you've only been married, what, eight days?”

  “Seven.” Della pursed her lips and shook her head. “We decided we're hitching rides to the moon on different stars.”

  Candace knew what that meant. “He turned out to be bankrupt?”

  Her mother nodded, shoulders sagging. “Worse. He's not even a Count. He's a” —for this, her mother withdrew a hankie from her Louis Vuitton handbag— “a hot dog vendor at Yankee Stadium.”

  “I guess when he said he had a lot of gold—”

  “He meant mustard.” She dabbed at her eyes.

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “Well,” at this, her mother's eyes got bright and perky, “that's the surprise.”

  From the other room came the sound of frantic yip-yip-yipping. Then Trifecta's bark joined in, her nails clacking against the wood floor as she dashed around the room. Bob let out an indignant howl, then streaked through the kitchen, heading straight for the pantry.

  Candace recognized the sound of the two-pound ball of fur that had disturbed the hangover peace in her apartment. Her mother had brought along the only male who could make her happy—Percival, the Pomeranian with the personality of an overindulged wolverine.

  “Oh, I'm so happy to hear Percy settling in and playing with his old friends,” Della said, clasping her hands. “He just loves it here.”

  Trifecta let out a yelp, then came barreling into the kitchen. She twined herself around Candace's legs with a whimper. Coward. “What do you mean, settling in?”

  “Didn't I tell you?”

  “Tell me what, Mother?”

  Her smile got wide and toothy. “I couldn't let you plan this wedding all by yourself. Especially when I have so much experience with creating the perfect setting for till-death-do-us-part.”

  Or until the husband no longer passes muster or the mustard. “Mother, I've got it all under—”

  “And you know your father, he won't arrive a minute earlier than necessary. He won't show up until the church bells start ringing. So I thought it would be wonderful if we could spend these last few weeks together, before you become an old married woman,” Della barreled on, ignoring Candace's protests. “Planning, shopping, decorating. Percy agreed, and so here we are!” She flung out her hands like Monty Hall.

  “What do you mean here?”

  “With you.” She smiled more. “It'll be one great big slumber party. Won't that be fun?”

  Candace lunged for the
Hershey's chips, tipped the bag into her mouth and waited until the chocolate had assimilated her palate before speaking. “Oh yeah. That's exactly what I was thinking.''

  2 cups sugar

  2/3 cup milk

  2 tablespoons corn syrup

  1/4 teaspoon salt

  2 squares Godiva-worthy unsweetened chocolate

  2 tablespoons butter

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  1/2 cup chopped peanuts

  1/2 cup mini marshmallows

  Smear butter all over a loaf pan and try not to cry in your grease, since we all know tears and butter don't mix. Over medium heat, cook the sugar, milk, corn syrup, salt and chocolate. As it melts, think of it as all your troubles cooking away (okay, that analogy would probably only work on a cheesy talk show).

  Once the chocolate is melted and your kitchen smells a hell of a lot better than your life, keep the heat on until your candy thermometer reaches 234 degrees. Add the butter. Remove from heat. Make a list of all the things you want to change about your life while the fudge cools to 120 degrees. Add the vanilla, beat the daylights out of the mixture. Then add the nuts and marshmallows—add extra, depending on how bad your day has been.

  Spread in pan and let cool as long as you can possibly stand to wait. Cut into squares just a tad smaller than the opening of your mouth.

  CHAPTER 4

  With a soup tureen-sized mug of coffee and the rest of the chocolate chip cookies, Candace snuck out of her own apartment, feeling like a teenager who'd missed curfew.

  She crept past her mother, prone and snoring on the fold-out couch, looking more like a mummy than a mommy. Under thick cotton tube socks, Candace knew Della had hand cream smeared over her hands and feet. An aqua blue gel eye mask “rejuvenated” her eyes. On her head she'd twisted a thick terry turban, part of some overnight hair mask treatment she'd bought off the Home Shopping Network, probably getting a few toots from Tootie for her purchase.

  As soon as Candace opened the back door, Trifecta and Bob zipped past her, down the stairs and into the yard. Percy took a tentative step forward on pedicured toes, whimpered, then stood in the doorway and whined.