by Shirley Jump
Candace let out a chuff of frustration and got to her feet. “There are no signs, Grandma! None at all. I'm marrying Barry in two and a half weeks, even if I have to wear a faux suede bell to do it.”
“I really think you could use a weenie.” She shook a sticked hotdog at Candace. “The nitrates can cloud your brain. Makes everything look better.”
Candace plopped back on the grass again. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to take that out on you. I'm just... frustrated and worried and scared.”
“And typical.” Grandma patted her arm again. “All brides feel that way at some point. Frankly, I'd be worried about you if you didn't.”
As always, Grandma was right. These feelings were normal. Part of the process of getting married. Hadn't she read that 82 percent of all brides have at least one panic attack before the wedding? Maybe it had been 72 percent. The number, for once, didn't matter. All she knew was that she was in good company.
Candace leaned forward and drew her grandmother into a tight hug. “I love you, Grandma.”
“Oh now, what was that for?”
“For always knowing what will make me feel better.” She pressed a kiss to Grandma's cheek, then got to her feet. “I'm off to bed. Be sure to douse that fire—”
“With some water. I know, honey. I'm old, not senile.”
“Sorry. I guess I tend to be a bit of a worrier.”
“You do it out of love, so I forgive you.” She wagged the wiener again. “This time.”
Candace laughed all the way back into the house. With a fire burning in her backyard and a crazy grandmother who always had a ready weenie and a hug, what more could she ask for?
1 teaspoon cinnamon
2/3 cup whipping cream
6 ounces semisweet chocolate (or more, if you want it really chocolaty)
1/4 cup Kahlua
Sliced bananas, strawberries, apples, etc., and cubes of pound cake or even better, cookies
If you simply must be with family, particularly your crazy in-laws, then making a fondue with a bit of a kick to it is the only way to survive the evening. Trust me, I have experience at in-law business. Bring the cream and cinnamon to a boil in a small saucepan (sort of like what happens when you combine dear Aunt Martha with belching Uncle Lester). Remove from heat, cover, let stand fifteen minutes.
Put the chocolate into a bowl. Bring the cream back up to a boil, then pour it over the chocolate. That's the way to get a mixer going. Now make it perfect by stirring in the Kahlua. Serve it warm, with extra Kahlua if the in-laws make you nuts. Remember to keep Uncle Lester away from the sharp implements.
Or better yet, find a rich, single guy who comes equipped with a family you can stand without the Kahlua.
CHAPTER 13
Michael stretched out on his couch, Sam at his side. On any other Thursday night, there'd be someplace to go. A networking meeting. A client event. A date with another of what seemed to have become an endless stream of identical women.
But not tonight. In the two days since his lunch and the trip to the bridal shop with Candace, he'd barely been able to work. When the clock struck three this afternoon, he'd admitted to himself that he'd left his concentration back with her.
He'd closed his appointment book, told his administrative assistant he was unavailable the rest of the day, stopped off to pick up Sam at the neighbor's apartment, and played hooky for the first time in seven years.
A banging started on his door—loud, insistent and mad. Sam jumped off the couch and dashed into the corner. “Some guard dog you are,” Michael said.
Sam whimpered in response, then lay down and feigned sleep.
“Open up, Michael, I know you're in there. You can't avoid me forever.”
Rachel. If he tried playing possum, he knew she'd probably pick the lock and let herself in anyway. As far as kid sisters went, Rachel took the cake for being innovative and stubborn.
He got to his feet and opened the door. “Hey, Rach. What brings you to this side of town?”
“You, you big dork. What's this 'Mr. Vogler is unavailable to everyone' crap your assistant pulled on me today? Is that some new way of avoiding the invitation to the family dinner next weekend?”
“Why hello, Michael. So nice to see you, big brother,” he mocked.
“Cut the shit, Michael.” Rachel brushed past him and into his apartment. She flopped onto his couch, kicked off her Keds and put her feet on his cherry coffee table. “I'm not in the mood to play nice.”
“Let me guess. Mother? Or Father this time?”
“Both.” She let out a sigh and tucked the ends of her pixie cut behind her ears. “How you lived with them for eighteen years I'll never know. I'm having trouble making it through seventeen.”
“What'd they do?”
“Signed me up for some all-girls finishing school. They think it will 'feminize' me.”
“Well, Rach, you are a little rough around the edges.”
“So are uncut diamonds, so shut up.”
“Is that why you were trying to find me today?”
“Yeah. I was hoping you could talk some sense into them.” Rachel popped forward and grabbed one of his hands. “If you have any love at all for your baby sister, you'll tell Mother and Father to get the hell out of my life.”
Michael laughed. “See, that's why they're sending you to a girls' school. So you stop saying things like 'shit' and 'hell.'”
She shrugged. “It gives me color.”
“Fall foliage has color. You, my dear sibling, are already pretty without the extra syllables.”
Rachel jabbed at his arm. “You're such a jerk.” But the words were softer than her punch.
“At least look into it, okay? It'll make them happy and who knows? Maybe you'll like it.”
“Being around a bunch of girls all day? I think not. Ugh. I'd rather join the circus.” She snagged a walnut out of the dish on his coffee table and cracked it with the silver nutcracker. “So where were you? You never, ever miss work. You're like Mr. Perfect.”
“I had a date. Sort of.”
“Sort of? What the hell kind of date is that?”
Michael arched a brow at her.
“Sorry.” She affected a haughty look, peering down her nose at him. “Whatever kind of date is that, darling?”
He laughed. “You are from a different gene pool, I swear.”
“You're avoiding my question.”
Ever since she'd hit her teen years, Rachel had gotten too smart for his old tricks. “You're right. Did you ever think it's because parts of my life are personal?”
“Nope, I'm your kid sister. Nothing's too personal for me.” She leaned forward, chin in her hands. “Give me the four-one-one.”
“Four-one-one?”
“Oh, God. You really are old, aren't you? Information? As in calling information.”
“Sorry if twenty-nine is ancient to you.”
“Just about.”
“Hey, don't insult me if you want me to tell you about my date.”
Rachel smiled at him and patted his arm. “Do go on, dear brother.”
“I met this woman in a restaurant a few days ago,” he began, deciding to censor out a few details about what happened after he'd met her, “and I really liked her. Turns out she's engaged to someone else.”
“Oooh.” She leaned forward, propped her elbows on her knees. “This is better than watching reality TV.”
He let out a frustrated sigh. “Why am I telling you this?”
“Because you're dying to tell someone. I can see it in your face. And I”—she patted her chest, right across the “Angel” emblazoned on her camouflage T-shirt—“just happen to be here. Right time, right place.”
True. And maybe if he talked about Candy, he’d be able to put her from his mind. “Well, it turns out she's part owner of the gift basket company that's putting together some baskets for one of my clients. So we ran into each other a couple more times. I ended up asking her to lunch today and then—” He st
opped.
“And then what?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh no, you're not stopping there.” She wagged a finger at him. “I told you my horrible girls' school story. The least you can do is share back. If you don't, I'll...” She paused a minute, thinking of a suitable torture. “Sing Metallica's greatest hits at the top of my lungs.”
“You wouldn't.”
She grinned. “You know I would.”
“You drive a hard bargain. Ever think of going into corporate raiding?”
“I don't think they offer that after embroidery and tea lessons.” She waved a floppy mock-socialite hand his way. “Now tell or I start singing.” She opened her mouth, one eye on him.
“Okay, okay. I went shopping with her for her wedding dress.”
Rachel's mouth shut with a soft plop. She blinked twice. “You did what?”
“You heard me.”
“Michael Vogler, son of Nigel and Rebecca Vogler, owner of the third largest advertising firm in the city of Boston, and the most confirmed bachelor I know, helped the woman he likes pick out her wedding gown? To marry another man?”
He shrugged. “It was something to do.”
“I could think of a hundred other ways to spend an afternoon. And you, having twelve more years of experience over me, could surely think of a thousand.”
“You need to be in a convent. I better call Mother.”
“Don't you dare.”
“Just behave yourself. Don't use drugs and never, ever get in the backseat of a car.”
“God, you sound like my P.E. teacher.” Rachel rolled her eyes. “So why'd you do it? For real.”
“I don't know.” He leaned against the leather sofa. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Rachel gave him a dubious look.
“I wanted to show her what it could be like if she thought outside the box a little. I get the feeling she's not so happy with the man she's marrying and I wanted to give her a taste of what it could be like if—”
“If she married you?”
“Hell, no!” He jerked to his feet.
“Oh, come on, it's not a terminal disease. It's romantic.”
“This from the girl who asked for combat boots for Christmas?”
“Hey, even I believe in happily ever after. You should, too.”
Michael crossed to the window and looked out at the twinkling Boston skylight. “Maybe.”
He heard Rachel go into the kitchen, grab a soda out of the fridge and pop the top. She joined him at the window a second later. “Are you going to go after her? Rescue her from Mr. Not So Charming?”
“I'd like to. But—”
“Then do it! Geesh, are you indecisive today! You're normally ...” She paused, waving a hand in the air, searching for the word. “Focused. To the point. You must really like this chick.”
“She's not a chick. She happens to be a smart, sassy and very nice woman.”
Rachel pointed at him. “See? You're defending her. I say it's love.”
“I don't fall in love.”
Rachel left him and flounced to the couch. “And why is that, big brother? Tell me what complex Mother and Father have given you. I've got a nice long list of my own, so I'm sure you have a few, too.”
“It's not them.” He turned to face her. “Not really.”
“Dish.” She waved a hand at him.
“None of your beeswax,” he said, using his favorite childhood tease.
She chuckled. “What are you, ten? Come on, no one says that anymore anyway. Tell me what's wrong with you so I can help get it straightened out.”
“You, my darling sister, are seventeen. You barely have enough life experience to drive on the Mass Pike, never mind figure out my problems.”
“Well, riddle me this, Batman. Do you think she should marry bachelor number one?”
“No. He's all wrong for her.”
“There. Now we're getting somewhere.” She drained her soda can and put it on the coffee table. “So, do you think she should marry you?”
“No.”
“And why not? Aren't you marriage material?”
“Aren't you out past your bedtime?”
“Since when have you known Mother and Father to care when I get home at night? As long as my picture doesn't make it into the gossip column of The Herald, they're happy.”
True enough. Michael and Rachel's childhoods had been pretty much free rein. Whatever the nanny didn't catch them doing was fair game, and whenever they came home was fine, as long as the family name was untarnished.
“Either way, I have work to do. I'm not going to discuss my love life with someone who still wonders why Lindsey Lohan hasn’t won an Oscar.”
“Oh, please. I am so over that.” Rachel got to her feet, her shoes making a soft plop against the carpet. “Suit yourself. I'm still the cheapest psychiatric help in Beantown.”
He ruffled her hair as they walked to the door. “Hey, I love you for caring.”
“See, you do love.”
“Yeah, people I'm related to.”
Rachel paused in the doorway. “If you like this girl, and you think she shouldn't marry Mr. Mistake, you owe it to womankind to do something about it.”
He laughed. “Womankind?”
“Hey, I may not want to go to a finishing school, but that doesn't mean I don't have ovaries.” She gave Michael a jab in the shoulder. “And, you might find out you're capable of loving more than a hypochondriac dog and a debutante-challenged sister.”
A few minutes later she was gone, humming Metallica under her breath and stomping as loud as she could down his quiet, almost middle-aged hallway.
2 ounces unsweetened chocolate
1/2 cup butter, softened
1 cup sugar
l egg
1 teaspoon vanilla
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup sour cream
Romeo and Juliet made it work, well, except for that death thing getting in the way. But you'll be smarter than those two flighty kids and take a few lessons from a lady who's seen a few more birthdays than you, won't you? Then you'll see that opposites can attract—in cookies and in life.
Start by melting the chocolate in a double boiler. Remove from heat and cool. Cream together the butter, melted chocolate, sugar, egg and vanilla until it's as light and airy as your heart when you're hiking in the hills with a guy who knows how to get your bushes shaking. Add the dry ingredients, then the sour cream. (See how we're making all these different flavors come together? You might think that sexy hunk of a man is wrong for you, but mix him up with a little midnight madness and see what you get.) Cover and let the dough sit in the fridge for a while. Cool your own jets, too, and open your mind to the possibilities.
Roll out the dough in batches to one-quarter-inch thickness, then cut out in playful shapes. Put on greased cookie sheets, remembering to leave some space between them for growth, and bake at 400 degrees for ten minutes. Cool them on a wire rack until ready to eat.
And then take some to your Romeo/Loverboy. Let him feed you, or you feed him. Just watch that the crumbs don't gum up the friction between you.
CHAPTER 14
Candace arrived first at the shop on Friday morning, a promptness she credited to her Cocoa Krispies and Ho Hos breakfast. Combined with a Starbucks White Chocolate Mocha, her pulse charged along faster than J. Lo from the paparazzi.
She headed out to her car, for her third trip for the baskets she’d bought last night. Maria and Rebecca would arrive in an hour or so, but for now, it was just Speedy Gonzalez Candace and her sugar high.
“Need some help?”
Her head jerked up, coming within inches of colliding with the trunk lid. “Michael! What are you doing here?”
Something in her gut turned into hot, melted fudge at the sight of him. Despite all that had happened, and despit
e her own better judgment, he'd been on her mind for days. She didn't need sugar for fuel—not when she saw Michael.
“I was looking for you.” He grinned. “I happened to be in this part of town, dropping off a file to one of our freelance graphic designers. Thought I'd stop by and see how the baskets were going. I wasn't sure if you'd even be in this early.”
He was here to check on the job. Not her. She shouldn't be disappointed. Not one bit.
She piled more wicker into her arms. “We'll be getting them out today. No problem.”
“Glad to hear it.” He gestured toward the remaining baskets. “You want a hand?”
“Sure.” She dumped her own load of baskets into his arms, then grabbed several more handfuls.
“That's the easiest sale I've ever made,” he said around the wicker.
“Hey, I'm no glutton for punishment. A good-looking guy offers me help, I take it.”
He smirked between the wheels of a baby carriage. “You think I'm good-looking?”
“Oh, come on, you know you are.”
“I only care what you think.” He put a hip against the door to hold it open for her.
“Well, I'm not telling you twice. You'll get a big ego and then you'll be too busy admiring yourself to help me.”
“Never.”
“Bullshit.”
He leaned back. “You don't know me as well as you think.”
No, she didn't. And a big part of her—scrambling to get a toehold as the majority—wanted to know him much better. Much, much better.
The instant she saw Michael, Trifecta scrambled to her feet and Velcroed herself to his leg all the way into the kitchen, before being shooed back out by Candace. Trifecta whined outside the glass, protesting her banishment from her new object of affection. Her dog had no reservations about overstroking Michael's ego.
Work. She'd think about work. Not about him or about their lunch and that moment in the dress store.
Candace put the bulk of the baskets on the side counter, leaving a few on the main workspace, then started laying out the contents assembly-line fashion. Tissue paper, cookies in little cardboard boxes, baby bottle-shaped chocolates, candy cigars and signs proclaiming “It's a Boy” or “It's a Girl,” along with the cans of formula and diaper packages.
