Love, Chocolate, and Beer

by Violet Duke

  After scrawling her signature on the last check, she stuffed each into their recipients’ inboxes and rushed downstairs to fire up the kitchen grills for the lunch rush. Within a half hour, Dani was churning out food orders with nothing more than hope and a recurrent yawn keeping her awake, a sad fact she was trying desperately to keep from showing in her food. Even if it killed her—and today, there was a strong possibility it would—Dani never allowed herself to put anything less than her heart and soul into both her brewing and her cooking. She worked the way some people prayed, and reaped the same kind of fulfillment for her commitment.

  By the time noon rolled around, however, she was plum fulfilled out.

  As far as exhausted delusions go, the one of Xoey stomping in and taking the tongs out of her hands was up there with fairy mermaids on unicorns. Entertaining, but all too unbelievable.

  With a groan, Dani tried pinching herself to wake up from what was clearly an extravagant daydream resulting from her falling asleep at the grill. She blinked. No cigar. After another hard pinch, she realized Xoey really was standing there, not only hours early for her shift, but in a cooking apron. Dani’s mouth gaped open in disbelief. Make that shock. The full apron was not a look Xoey ever rocked, nor was the kitchen an area she ever entered except to flirt with the cooks.

  Craig, the kitchen part-timer who was carrying a pan of meat from the walk-in fridge came to a skidding stop with a quiet, “What the—” He almost dropped the food he was carrying.

  Oh good, he saw it too. So this wasn’t a hallucination.

  They both stood there and watched Xoey efficiently check the order monitor to see what dishes she needed to get started on, and then hustle to grab the ingredients for a portabella salad.

  “It’s not that weird,” snapped Xoey. “Craig, get over here.” She slapped a spatula into his hand. “I called Javier and he’ll be coming in soon to cover so until then, you’re gonna show me how much you’ve learned to cook so far. Don’t screw it up.” The wide-eyed college kid who’d been limited to prep and appetizers until now just bobbled his head and got to work.

  Turning back to Dani, she scowled. “You have to learn to ask for help, lady. The brew boys shouldn’t have to call me to tell me you’re like the walking dead in here.”

  Awww, her workers had called Xoey.

  “Go up to your office and get some sleep. And don’t even think about coming back until tonight, missy.” With that, Xoey got to work throwing a flank steak on the grill, blending up some basil for their pesto dressing, and scooping hummus onto a platter. Dani didn’t even get to utter a word before her server staff promptly herded her out of the kitchen.

  Up in her office, she saw waiting for her, a glass of icy strawberry milk and a warm cookie, her all-time favorite comfort food combo thanks to Elle, the veteran waitress who’d been the first to spoil Dani with this afterschool snack decades ago. A faint mist gathered in Dani’s eyes. Crazy wonderful workers. Smiling sleepily as she sipped her milk, Dani shuffled to the couch at the back of her office and plopped down.

  Halfway through her milk and cookies, a flash of color on the far table caught her eye and had her quickly heading over to investigate the source.

  It was a beautiful Christmas cactus, with loads of volcanic, chlorophyll-green leaf strands and waxy, bright flowers in full bloom.

  Touching one of the pinkish-red petals, unique to this variety, she smiled, curious as to who’d have brought it in. For all she knew, it could’ve been here for days. And since none of her workers saw the untamed beauty in all the local desert cacti flowers she chose to decorate her brewpub with—often asking why she didn’t go with orchids or other ‘normal’ restaurant flowers instead—Dani knew this had to be a gift for her...but from whom?

  Oh, mystery solved—there was a card. She felt her lips curve up in a smile as she read it.

  To: Dani (err, fill in the blank because I’m an idiot)

  I’ve discovered that calling you to schedule our first date is just slightly more challenging without your phone number, or a way to look you up without your last name. (That one, I’m really sorry for). I apologize for my utter lack of game. My number’s on the back of this card. Hope to hear from you soon.

  She laughed in delight at the ‘This is Luke, by the way’ signature.

  So it hadn’t been a onetime thing for him. Blushing over that news and admiring the cactus with a touch of wonder, she marveled at Luke’s choice of this prickly plant over the more obvious rose bouquet most guys would have opted for.

  The unbidden appraisal of how un-cliché he was made her lace her fingers together to restrain herself from calling him right then and there. As she’d discovered more times than she cared to admit, making a call when she was this tired was about as bad as drunk-dialing.

  Cat-yawning again, she dropped down onto the sofa. Nope, definitely a nap first.

  Burrowing against the cushions, relaxation swiftly draped over her. Soon, she was drifting in and out as she peeked at the cactus one last time.

  So sweet, she thought hazily before dragging her phone out of her pocket. The ‘no sleep dialing’ rule didn’t apply to texting, she reasoned with drowsy clarity. Oh, or sexting. Even better. Blinking slowly, she sexted Luke the first wayward thought floating in her head and hit send.

  A devilish grin tugged at her lips. She’d close her eyes for just a sec until he...

  Dani was asleep before she even completed her thought.

  * * * * *

  IT WAS past noon when Quinn headed back to Desert Confections after finishing the corporate deliveries along with the drop-offs for their growing local distributor base around the county they’d managed to keep even throughout the move from Mesa to Cactus Creek.

  All morning, she’d deliberately detoured through every main bar district in the neighboring areas as her vision for the Valentine’s Day marketing plan took firmer shape. Sadly, none of the establishments she saw fit the video vibe she had in mind for their ad launch.

  Only one business would do, really.

  Driving past Ocotillos, she decided then and there to go with her first instincts. The brewpub had the exact look and patronage she was going for. With that decision out of the way, she quickly got the ball rolling by first calling in a favor to a friend who worked freelance as a video graphics designer. Evan was the perfect guy to handle the footage she wanted to squeeze in today.

  By the time she finished coming up with the interview questions she wanted to ask during the video, Evan was ready and waiting with his equipment set up on the busy walkway as she’d requested. Twenty- and thirty- something year-olds were steadily filing in and out of Ocotillos for lunch. Perfect.

  Luckily, she’d worn one of her less severe skirt suits today—one that made her look less like a tired single-mom and more like one of those reporters who did field-side NFL interviews. Taking a breath, she spotted what looked like older grad students—cool, attractive guys in their mid- to late- twenties. The ideal interviewees. Encouraged, she flashed them a radiant smile and waved them over with the kind of charm she’d forgotten she possessed.

  “Hey guys,” she grinned conspiratorially. “I just have a few questions about Valentine’s Day. My shop partner and I are thinking about doing a little V-Day overhaul. Wanna help us out?”

  And the answers began rolling in.

  Almost an hour later, after finishing her tenth slam-dunk interview, Quinn decided to wrap it up. All the young business professionals and college students she’d videotaped had been fantastic, both with their candid answers and their genuine enthusiasm when she explained the concept of Valentine’s Day and White Chocolate Day. The responses she’d gathered were priceless.

  The pleased high she was on faded fast, however, when she glanced up and saw a woman in a black Ocotillos t-shirt stalking toward them in what could only be described as barely contained fury. With the angry scowl she was wearing, the cute pixie-looking woman somehow managed to look like an enraged mama bear jolte
d out of hibernation. The paradoxical contrast should’ve been funny.

  It wasn’t.

  “Why the hell are you videotaping out here without our consent?” demanded the woman.

  Quinn went into damage control mode real quick. “We were just interviewing people for a short video ad for our new chocolate shop next door.” She pointed over at their cheerful storefront window the next building over while her eyes told Evan to start packing up the camera equipment like his life depended on it.

  She kept her all-business mask on, hoping the cool smile and no-nonsense reply would mollify the woman with murder in her glare and send her on her away.

  No such luck.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed on the Desert Confections sign and then zoomed back on her. “So why are you harassing people coming into our brewpub instead of filming outside your own shop?” she asked finally, her voice now a little calmer.

  But still basically terrifying.

  “Well, we uh had very specific questions to ask...for a very specific interviewee group— young business folk and older college students mostly,” replied Quinn, surprised to hear the tiny stutter in her own voice. Her inner wicked witch was actually intimidated by the woman from Ocotillos. An impressive feat. If she hadn’t been so busy watching the woman’s fist to make sure it didn’t come barreling her way, she would’ve complimented her and asked if they could be twitter friends, their kind needing to stick together and all.

  “Give it a rest. The cooks and I overheard your interview,” seethed the woman. Hostility filled her voice, holding nothing back. “Insulting the way some folks like to spend a night out in our brewpub doesn’t make your only-in-the-movies lame excuse for romance look any better than what our business has to offer couples. All it does is make you look like an ass. An ass trying to sell a load of fairytale bull.”

  Quinn backed up another step.

  “Oh, and those very specific interviewees?” continued the woman. “They’re called ‘our customers.’ You’re specifically targeting them to use what they say against us. Frankly, you’re lucky I’m not already kicking your ass. So why don’t you take advantage of this unnecessary restraint I’m exhibiting and get your Reporter Barbie ass out of here before I really get pissed.”

  Quinn was stunned. She felt so terrible she could barely talk. “I – I didn’t mean for it to come off like that, I swear. We were just trying to show a contrast. We didn’t mean to insult you.”

  The woman scrutinized her for a second and took a slow, steadying breath. “Okay, let’s suspend reality for a moment and say I believe you didn’t really mean any harm; you're kidding yourself if you think this was all so innocent. You used our customers, plain and simple. What’s worse, you used them to try and make the nightlife that we provide them look unromantic in comparison to the cheesy night at home eating chocolate and drinking champagne in red lacy lingerie. That’s your fairytale portrait of romance, right?” She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, feel free. Just don’t drag our customers or our business into it. If I catch you harassing our customers or making us look bad out here again, you’ll be sorry.”

  With that, the woman spun on her heel and stomped back into Ocotillos.

  Quinn quickly helped a mildly traumatized Evan put away his camera gear. She felt awful. Never had it been her intent to put down another business to promote Desert Confections. That wasn’t what she’d been trying to do at all. She detested commercials that used such petty marketing techniques. It was cheap and unseemly, and completely insulting to the standards she held to as manager of Luke’s shop.

  Completely flummoxed, she had no idea how to proceed. Desert Confections had clearly just made their first enemy in town. An irate, pissed-with-a-sawed-off-shotgun one. Alerting Luke of that fact was priority number one.

  She went back in the shop to sound the Defcon 3 alarm.

  YIKES. Raise the siren to Defcon 1.

  Quinn jumped when the door of Desert Confections opened with a bell-jangling shove nearly a half hour later, courtesy of the same angry worker from Ocotillos.

  Hell, even the big, buff granite counter guys steered a wide berth around her. As the woman charged through the store, right into the back, Quinn automatically began fumbling for her cellphone. Who she was planning on calling, she had no idea. The Coast Guard was the fastest, but the Marines could probably take this five-and-a-half-foot walking powder keg.

  Maybe.

  It was fair to say Quinn didn’t scare easy, or at all usually, but good lord, this woman was like a dainty little vial of dangerous chemical you just weren’t sure about messing with.

  Quinn just barely resisted the urge to hit the deck when the woman came up and slammed a piece of paper next to the register. With a deathly silent, spittin’ mean glare and not a single word, the woman stormed back out the same way she came. Somehow, Quinn managed to maintain her composure. Until the bell above the door stopped quavering, that is. Then and only then did she allow herself to expel the breath she’d been unknowingly holding the entire time.

  Hooooly shit.

  Feeling a migraine building, Quinn picked up at the furiously delivered letter and opened it slowly, cringing as if it had a ticking red clock on it.

  Not quite. But close.

  The letter, written on Ocotillos stationary, had a single, waspish paragraph, addressed to the owner of Desert Confections. It demanded that he or she attend to: 1) the unauthorized videotaping and resulting abuse of Ocotillos’ patrons via underhanded advertisement goals that weren’t fully disclosed to participants, 2) the insulting and offensive display of unprofessional business ethics, inclusive of but not limited to slander, and 3) the overall questionable treatment of a fellow business in the neighborhood that would be considered actionable with the town commission.

  The sentences following went on to describe, in detail, just how hellish life could quickly become for them in Cactus Creek if they didn’t take this official grievance seriously.

  Quinn squeezed her eyes shut and unloaded a string of words she never got to use around her four-year-old son.

  “Luke is going to kill me.”

  * * * * *

  DANI PLUNKED down into her office chair and stared at the Phoenix address business card in her hand. Rewinding the last hour in her head, she tried to wrap her brain around all that had happened since she’d stomped out of Desert Confections.

  Did that really just happen?

  In one impromptu meeting, did she really just find the missing key that would unlock a way to make her brother’s dreams of a winery a reality? Her eyes widened in continued disbelief as she replayed the blur that had been the last hour with Harold Jameson, the devoted town business council member and longtime family friend who—together with his citified, intensely stoic son Noah—owned most of the commercial property in Cactus Creek.

  Including the space currently being leased out by Desert Confections.

  When she’d first barged into Harold’s office in the town center, she hadn’t even noticed the tall, dark, and foreboding Noah sitting off to the side throughout her entire just-to-be-heard tirade. But by the end of her rant, the small-town-boy turned big-shot Phoenix tycoon she’d known since grade school definitely made his presence known.

  Mostly because the latter half of her complaints to Harold had ended up morphing into a heatedly pieced-together suggestion for booting out the building’s not-right-for-this-town chocolate shop owner.

  “Do you have a replacement business in mind? Or should the town just take a retail hit because the owner insulted you?” Noah’s voice had boomed from the corner, startling the wits right out of her. Surprised at the sight of him, and thrown off-balance by this valid question regarding much-needed town revenue, she spoke the first words that had come to mind.

  “We could open a new country-chic winery there.”

  That her brother Derek could run.

  Since the tasty products of Derek’s winemaking hobby had made its way to a number of town funct
ions and local celebrations over the years, the winery idea hadn’t exactly come as a surprise to Harold or Noah; both knew Derek’s dream had always been to open a winery. But Harold clearly wasn’t pleased with the turn the conversation had taken.

  Noah, meanwhile, looked very interested.

  “And would you partner in on this project with your brother?” he had asked curiously.

  After acknowledging she would, Noah practically hijacked the meeting from there, explaining his hunch that a craft winery sister business next door to a craft brewery would be a solid investment idea. He went on to shower more praise at Dani’s next spontaneously-rambling idea of adding a few wine-based dishes made with the proposed house-vinted wines to Ocotillos’ unique food menu, already well known for its entirely beer-based rustic fusion cuisine made with their own brewed beers.

  Culinary gold, Noah called her idea. A newly expanded menu to match the newly expanded business—the potential for success, he said, was vastly exciting. She’d practically preened at the assessment. Coming from Noah, that was high praise indeed.

  Why had she never thought of this before? Honestly, before today, a brewpub-winery partnership had never occurred to her, let alone a mutually beneficial real estate merger bridging her commercial property with the one next door. It truly was the perfect idea.

  For everyone but Desert Confections, that is.

  Desert Confections. Strange how hearing the name of her neighbor’s business was now filling her with guilt instead of the blinding anger she’d felt an hour ago.