The impressive specimen of man turned to watch Sharon parading determinedly toward the coffee room and Maisy seized the opportunity to inspect his backside. Mmm-hmm, that ass of his was definitely squeeze-worthy.
“Well,” he shrugged, “it appears Sharon is somewhat, uh…distraught. Understandably, of course.” He motioned toward the casket and shook his head in an isn’t-it-a-shame-about-the-dead-guy gesture.
“Oh yeah, of course,” Maisy huffed through a sneer. “The poor grieving widow and all that.” With a flick of her wrist she tossed off an acerbic laugh. When the handsome stranger slanted her a curious look Maisy realized her response may have smacked of a bit too much contempt.
Embarrassed, she cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I, uh, I guess we all handle grief in different ways.” She offered as contrite a smile as possible. “I’m not real good at these things,” she said, motioning toward John’s casket.
“Sure, I understand,” the hunk said softly, with a smile that was scintillatingly sexy and compassionate at the same time.
It was at that precise moment Maisy noticed he had the most beautiful brown eyes she’d ever seen. Like two big, glistening chocolate chips. And he smelled fabulous. Of fresh soap and spring mountain air. His thick shock of hair, the color of dark-roast Sumatra coffee, with its errant lock lingering just above his eye, begged to be ruffled. Good God, what an absolutely delicious-looking confection he was.
Maisy felt her shoulders slump as realization set in. Tall, gorgeous and great-smelling or not, there was absolutely no way she had any interest in getting to know any of Sharon Fitch Morganfield’s…friends. Even if the grieving widow’s paramours were impossibly handsome and forty steps up the evolutional ladder from John. Of course, there was always the slight possibility Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome was one of John’s acquaintances and not Sharon’s. Maisy decided she owed it to herself to find out.
“So, you and Sharon know each other?” she asked with a trickle of hope.
“That’s an understatement.” A chortle caught in his throat. “Oh yeah, we know each other all right. I guess it looks like we’ll have to take care of the introductions ourselves.” He extended his hand. “The name’s Keller. Sharon and I are—”
Former lovers? Current lovers? Phone sex buddies? Eeew, eeew, eeew. This was definitely not something Maisy wanted to hear.
Expelling a sigh of regret, she interrupted. “Look, I’m really sorry, Mr. Keller.” She pumped his large hand once before releasing it, surprised at the spark of current that seemed to arc between them. “I don’t mean to be rude but I really need to get some fresh air. Now.” Flashing a half smile as she brushed by him, she ignored the saucy little tingles teasing up and down her spine and lingering between her thighs. She hurried to retrieve her coat and scarf from the back of the viewing room.
Sprinting after Maisy as she entered the main room of the funeral parlor, the Adonis-like Mr. Keller asked, “Are you all right? Can I give you a lift or anything?”
“I’m fine. Just fine,” she said, turning to walk backward. I just need to get the smell of death and the odor of that nauseating bitch Sharon out of my nostrils, she wanted to say but thought better of it. “Thanks for the offer though.”
Probably an afternoon of tooling around in a car sitting next to a gorgeous hunk of man would do her a world of good but there was no way in hell Maisy wanted anything to do with any of Sharon’s leftovers, regardless of how meaty and appetizing they might be. Shuddering at the unsavory thought of sharing yet another man with Sharon, Maisy waved and turned forward, quickening her pace.
She couldn’t get out of that place fast enough. Being surrounded by people grieving for their loved ones laid out in the various visitation rooms at the funeral home made her feel uneasy and guilty. Really, really guilty. She tried, she honestly did try to remember the good times with John and treasure those memories. But those moments were few and far between, almost as if they’d happened to another woman. In essence, they had.
As Maisy bolted for the great double doors, one thought overruled all others… Good Lord, I’m in serious need of a mega-chocolate fix.
Exhaling the dead, stale air of the mortuary, Maisy filled her lungs with the sunlit, crackling-cold January air.
“Yeah, yeah, I know chocolate won’t heal the hurt,” she grumbled. Flicking her hand through the air as if to banish the intruding thoughts, Maisy audibly argued with the flourishing inner voice of her chastising conscience. “But it’ll be an unbeatable temporary Band-Aid.” She laughed and licked her lips as she sprinted to her car.
“Just when I thought I was becoming a real tough cookie, I let my egg-shell-plated ego get deflated by a few crass remarks from that detestable bitch. Well, I simply refuse to let that skinny, venomous crone succeed in shattering my ego.” With a broad smile she nodded with firm resolve. “Take a deep breath, Mazel Lynn…everything’s going to be okay.”
Once in the car, she dabbed at the nervous perspiration that had formed above her upper lip. The winter breeze was cool and brisk so it certainly wasn’t from the heat. She was immensely glad she’d switched days off at the travel agency so she could have the rest of the day to herself. She needed time to patch her jumbled thoughts together.
What in the hell would she use for motivation to lose those last sticky twenty pounds now that John was dead? She’d had it all planned. It would have been exceptionally perfect.
As soon as she got down to a sleek just-this-side-of-emaciated single-digit size, Maisy would have arranged an accidental meeting with John. She’d show up swathed in something dangerously provocative. Of course, John having been a breast-man, she’d have her already ample bosom flared up and out to its absolute maximum potential by wearing one of those amazingly engineered bras.
When John got a load of how sensationally sexy, ultra-sophisticated and knitting-needle-slender she was, that sucker would have been down on his knees, tripping over his tongue, begging, pleading, beseeching to have her back.
And then, as the smarmy bastard knelt at her skinny feet, simpering without an ounce of pride, Maisy would laugh in his face. Laugh! Tell him she found him pitifully revolting. Rest her five-inch stiletto heel on his face, push him to the ground and stroll off to link arms and lock lips with the incredibly gorgeous muscle-bound hunk hungrily panting for her just a few steps away from John.
The only glitch was that Maisy didn’t have any gorgeous hunks panting in the wings—hungrily or otherwise. Her only viable options were to contact some rent-a-stud agency and pay through the nose, or talk her boss, Norman, into setting her up with one of his splendidly put together body-builder friends from the gym.
The fact all of Norman’s buff-buddies were gay was simply a minor technicality as far as Maisy was concerned. As long as the guy looked like a Greek god and put on a good enough show to convince John that Maisy was his sex goddess, that would do the trick.
It would have been her ultimate triumph. Her magnificent grand finale. And then the rat bastard had to go and shoot her neat little plan all to hell by dying and cheating Maisy out of her well-deserved, long-awaited moment of blissful revenge.
Selfish, thoughtless sonuvabitch.
About a mile from her townhouse, she discovered her car had somehow shifted into automatic pilot, magically transporting her to a favorite bastion of chocoholic bliss, Butterball Bakery. Her amazing wonder car had spontaneously delivered her to similarly calorific spots over the years.
Even with the car’s windows closed, the glorious aroma of chocolate infused the air, causing Maisy to salivate. Putting her magic transporter in park, she swallowed hard and went inside for the first time in eighteen months.
Blissfully enveloped in the luscious, sensuous bouquet of chocolate, Maisy’s educated gaze darted from one groaning bakery case to the next. The familiar aroma was like a comfortable old afghan, begging to blanket Maisy’s wounds and offer a magical, albeit temporary, respite.
Artistically embellished creations s
eemed to frolic behind the glass bakery cases imploring Maisy, Pick me! Please take me home with you! It was the same gut-gnawing feeling she got when visiting the dog pound. She wanted to take all of them home.
Inhaling long and slow, as if to permanently imprint her olfactory nerves with the heady scent, Maisy closed her eyes for a moment. Exhaling, she felt her features relax into a serene smile.
“I’ll have one of those nut-studded, caramel-topped fudge brownies,” she said, feeling downright virtuous and proud of herself for resisting the urge to buy out the place.
“Anything else?” The skinny, dour-faced middle-aged, bakery clerk asked. How anyone working in such glorious, intimate proximity to chocolate could possibly remain so thin, not to mention sport such a downright pruney expression, was beyond Maisy’s comprehension.
Nope, that’ll do it. All I need is this one satisfying little morsel of chocolate to fully quench my emotional hunger.
“Yes. I’ll take a chocolate éclair and one of those mousse-filled cupcakes with the chocolate shavings and whipped cream.” Flabbergasted, Maisy whipped her head around, wondering who the hell had just spoken. More than a little dismayed to discover she was the only customer in the bakery, she muttered, “Oh my God, that was me!” Slapping her hand over her mouth, she peered up at the clerk, who eyed her warily as she assembled a small bakery box. All Maisy could do was offer a sheepish smile.
“Huh? I didn’t get that last part,” the cheerless clerk said. Shifting her weight to one side, she faced Maisy with a balled fist planted at her hip. “Was there something else you wanted to add to your order?”
No. Absolutely not. No way. Not on your life. Just wrap up my shameful chocolate indiscretion in a plain brown paper bag and let me get the hell out of here.
“Yes, give me half a pound of those chocolate-filled butter cookies and a couple of those pecan-encrusted chocolate rum truffle balls.” Breathing in an audible gasp, Maisy’s heart raced as her brain tried to tell her something she most definitely did not want to hear at the moment.
Mopping the perspiration from her forehead and upper lip, she said, “Uh, I think that should be enough…for my guests. You see, I’m having a luncheon for several lady friends and I want to be sure I have enough goodies for them.” She glanced at the woman behind the counter, who had discarded the small box in favor of a more substantial one befitting an out-of-control chocoholic’s purchase, and wondered if the woman knew there would be no guests.
Old habits die hard. Maisy suspected that, when she weighed three hundred pounds, food clerks knew damn well the guest list included no one but Maisy. But maybe now that she blended in with people of more normal weight, they might buy it because she didn’t look like a binge eater.
“Of course,” Maisy babbled through nervous laughter, “I can’t touch this stuff myself. Diet, you know. Yup, it’s just going to be raw veggies with fat-free dip for me.” She couldn’t stop her giddy laughter. “But I know all my guests will enjoy these treats.”
Offering an indifferent glance, the clerk shrugged and continued to pack the gargantuan bakery box.
Oh for God’s sake shut up, Maisy, and quit your incessant babbling! After all, it wasn’t as if old prune face behind the counter gave a damn if Maisy had a hundred people coming over or if she planned to stuff every last morsel into her own greedy little face.
Maisy sucked in a deep breath. “Just add one of those chocolate croissants and a small slice of the flourless chocolate cake and that’ll do it.”
Once at home, Maisy lowered the garage door before exiting her car. There was certainly no reason the neighbors had to glimpse the remnants of the bakery box she’d savagely torn open in the car. The news would travel the neighborhood grapevine at breakneck speed. Yup, knew all along that bubble-butted Morganfield woman would bulk up again—just like two pounds of sausage in a one-pound casing.
She cringed at the all-too-real likelihood. “Mazel Lynn Morganfield, will you puhleeze get a grip! Nobody gives a damn if you decide to feed your face non-stop from now until doomsday. Stop feeling so goddamn fucking guilty about one lousy little chocolate binge for chrissakes.”
Her beautiful black wool suit was powdered with confectioner’s sugar from the half pound of butter cookies she’d already scarfed down on the short ride home from the bakery. Rolling her eyes skyward, she brushed at her lapels. “Nice going, greedo,” she chastised herself. “At least you could have waited until you got inside the house.”
But then bakery cookies always tasted better when eaten in a moving vehicle. There had always been something wantonly sinful about gobbling down food in the car. Maisy had somehow reasoned the calories were negated if the items were eaten while in motion…
Heaving a tuneful sigh as she entered her townhouse, she struggled to hold the torn bakery box together. In an instant, a gleeful little brown dog scrambled around the corner to greet his mistress and to investigate the wonderfully odoriferous cardboard container. Depositing her dilapidated chocolate treasure box on the kitchen counter, Maisy bent down to gather the frisky pup in her arms.
“Hey there, Hershey, how’s my best buddy today?” The sprightly mutt sniffed the air and licked his chops. Slanting Maisy his most charming expression, he gave a little whimper.
She wagged her finger. “Nope, sorry, Hershey. Chocolate’s very unhealthy for dogs.” She went to the cupboard and withdrew a plastic container filled with her own homemade dog biscuits. Hershey went wild, temporarily forgetting about the bakery box.
Giving Hershey the command to stay, Maisy held a biscuit under his nose. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my freely giving in to this well-deserved little chocolate binge and enjoying every last sugar-laden, fat-drenched crumb, is there, Hershey?” As she waved the dog biscuit from left to right his head instinctively followed, resulting in what looked like an agreement on the dog’s part.
“Good boy,” she said, tossing him the biscuit. “You’re one of the only males I can count on to give me a sensible, unbiased opinion.” She smiled and scratched Hershey behind the ears. He immediately rolled onto his back, presenting his belly for attention.
Wrinkling her nose, Maisy sniffed the air. “Good grief. What is that foul stench?” As if he understood, Hershey stopped pumping his legs and slanted his mistress a wide-eyed, muzzle-licking expression of dread. Patting his belly, Maisy chuckled. “Don’t worry, little buddy. It’s not you. You’re a good boy, Hershey.” Bounding to his feet, the little dog raced to the sliding glass patio door, fixing a deliberate expression toward Maisy. “Gotcha. You want to make sure you stay a good boy, huh, Hershey?”
Once Hershey was in the yard tending to his business, Maisy resumed sniffing, recoiling when she got a whiff of her sleeve where Sharon had grabbed her. “Ugh! That’s Sharon’s putrid perfume!” Hastily shrugging off her powdered sugar and now dog-hair-covered jacket, Maisy held it at arm’s length. “Can’t have that offensive odor intruding on my chocolate indulgence, now can I?” Curling her lip, she whipped the jacket into the utility room and closed the door.
When Hershey returned, Maisy gifted him with a new rawhide bone to distract him. Giddy with anticipation, she turned on the television, flipping through channels until she came upon one of her favorite old movies, Rock Hudson and Doris Day cavorting in Pillow Talk. Nearly crazed with chocolate anticipation, she plopped onto the cushy family room sofa and proceeded to ply herself with her precious cache of bakery goodies.
She could always depend on chocolate to provide a satisfying, all-encompassing rush, probably like the high cocaine addicts got, she imagined. Except that snorting cocaine didn’t put fat on your hips. Of course, she could always try snorting cocoa powder. Snickering, she knew damn well that, if desperate enough, a raging chocoholic could very well entertain such manic thoughts.
In what seemed like only a few minutes, she was done bingeing and facing Hershey’s eager prancing as he sniffed the leftover tidbits. Glancing at the clock, Maisy saw just over thir
ty minutes had passed since she’d attacked the chocolate goodies with a vengeance. Maisy patted the sofa cushion, inviting Hershey to join her, enticing him with one of the dog biscuits she had pocketed earlier.
Watching the tall, dark, handsome Rock trip over himself to win back Doris’ affections in the latter part of the movie, Maisy heaved a sigh. “Why isn’t real life like that, huh, Hershey? What’s a girl gotta do to find herself a drop-dead gorgeous hunk of man who will cherish her forever, hmmm?”
Drawing the furry little mutt against her aching, bulging stomach, Maisy bellowed a mighty yawn, sank against the paisley pillows on her couch and fell asleep.
Monet-like impressions floated across her mind, creating improbably wild dreamscapes. Decked out like a fluffy ballerina from Swan Lake, Maisy’s frolicking feet tiptoed across meadows of chocolate daffodils carrying her to John’s grave, which was littered with used condoms and an array of women’s panties.
There she stripped off her garments, revealing the flawless, worship-worthy body of a goddess. Cavorting breezily in the nude, she nibbled on the daffodil petals, while kicking the panties and condoms aside. She lifted her voice to the heavens, singing ding-dong, the bastard’s gone, with gleeful abandon.
Her conscious mind intruding, Maisy shifted in her sleep, becoming vaguely aware of the offensiveness of her act. Soon the naked Maisy-ballerina pirouetted away from the gravesite and into the waiting arms of Rock Hudson, who immediately morphed into the almost unbearably handsome Mr. Keller instead. He wore nothing but a loincloth. While she didn’t remember any fierce Tarzan types in Swan Lake, the brief scrap of suede suited dream boy to perfection.
Clad only in pink satin toe shoes, Maisy offered the ultimate token of friendship a chocoholic can bestow—to share her chocolate daffodil. Scooping Maisy into his powerful arms, the muscled, chocolate-drop-eyed hunk nibbled on Maisy’s ear, which had somehow turned into chocolate.
Absolutely Not Page 2
