Table of Contents
Title Page
copyright
Praise for Vonnie Davis and…
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Other Books You Might Like
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
A Taste of Chocolate
by
Vonnie Davis
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
A Taste of Chocolate
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Vonnie Davis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2013
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-907-0
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Vonnie Davis and…
THOSE VIOLET EYES, Finalist in the National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award:
“Definitely one of my favorite books… short but packed with such a great story and characters...Vonnie Davis has a BIG fan in me after reading this story. I’m looking forward to reading more from her.”
~Marion, Belles Book Bag (5 Stars)
“Davis sure knows how to write a novel with romance in all the right places, emotions of fear and doubt on both leading characters and have us readers laugh out loud at the funny parts... a story that’s engaging, charming, romantic, sexy and all kinds of addictive!”
~For the Love of Reading (5 Stars)
STORM’S INTERLUDE, Finalist for the HOLT Medallion in two categories:
“This book has easily found its place on my keeper shelf…. If I could pull these characters from the pages and make them real I would.” ~Long and Short Reviews
Nominated as Book of the Year, 2011
“Readers, prepare yourselves for a breathtaking emotional journey.… The characters are well crafted and...[the] writing is tender, witty and beautiful. I devoured each page, but didn’t want the story to end because it’s so powerful.”
~Siren Book Reviews
MONA LISA’S ROOM:
“In the same terrific voice as her romantic comedies…it’s everything her other books are and perhaps more: murdering terrorists, international intrigue, and handsome French heroes.”
~Romancing the Book
Dedication
To the makers of chocolate
and all the lives you’ve saved.
Chapter One
Her lungs stopped working. This couldn’t be happening. Hope Morningstar read the words on her cell’s screen once more. Black spots danced across her vision field, and she finally breathed again. “He broke up with me!” Her gaze jumped from the screen to her sister’s questioning face, her finely waxed eyebrows scrunched and her brown eyes narrowed. “Barclay broke up with me…in a text!”
Gracie snatched the cell from Hope. “Let me see.”
Hope rested her elbows on the table and dropped her face into her hands. This couldn’t be happening—not again.
Gracie, her older sister, ever the protective one, muttered several choice words about Barclay’s paternity and physical attributes. Then she read the text out loud, as if it wasn’t already seared into Hope’s psyche. “Dumpin u. Been fun, but m bored. Good luck finding someone who can handle ur bossiness. B.”
Hope didn’t bother to hide the tears slipping down her cheeks, not here on her sister’s deck, surrounded by swaying palms and ferns. Her sister’s backyard had always been an oasis of peace with its gurgle of a waterfall into the koi pond. “What’s wrong with me?” Hope swiped at tears with the back of her hand. “This makes the second sudden breakup. First Jason and now Barclay.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Gracie gathered a fussy Olivia from her infant seat and settled her to her breast. “If you’re doing anything wrong, it’s the kind of men you pick.”
Hope tugged a package of tissues from her shoulder bag and pulled one out. “Yeah, I am a jerk-magnet. I mean, how many women get a ‘Dear John’ letter from a serviceman while he’s deployed? Usually it’s the other way around, but not for me. Then I meet Barclay and things go well for six months. And now this.” She glanced at her phone and chewed on the corner of her lower lip. “Should I text him back or call him?”
“And what? Beg him to reconsider? Certainly not!” Gracie ran a hand over her daughter’s blonde fluff. “Look, you have to stop being so desperate. You run after these guys, and then they break your heart. Let one chase you for a change. Let him prove to you he’s worthy.”
“You make me sound like…like…” She blew her nose, not wanting to voice her thoughts.
“Like a woman with low self-esteem.” Leave it to her sister to zing in with the obvious.
“Men always walk away.” Her own father had started this mass male exodus from her life, followed by every guy she’d ever cared for.
“Daddy left us because something was wrong with him. If he couldn’t handle the responsibilities of family, he shouldn’t have gotten Mom pregnant twice in two years. And if he couldn’t be a faithful husband, he shouldn’t have gotten married—three times. He was the one with the problem, not us.” Gracie stared at her. “Honey, you are as deserving of love as anyone else.”
“Then why am I always left behind?” Her vision blurred with tears.
“Because the men you choose are players, just like Daddy. Time for you to look for someone who’s deep, not superficial. Quit worrying about their looks or what type of car they drive and focus on the depth of their character. And quit trying to run their lives. I’ve watched you push or pull them to do whatever you want. It’s as if you think by controlling them you’ll have them forever.”
“I don’t do that...do I?” Her sister gave her a self-satisfied smirk. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve got a man who adores you. And a baby. And, yes, I’m jealous.”
“Is your biological clock ticking?” Gracie patted Olivia’s back to burp her. “Don’t give me that narrow-eyed glare, little sister. You don’t scare me.” Her lips twitched into a smile. “Look, you’ve got your career. You seem happy with your teaching.”
Hope smiled, her stomach unknotting from Barclay’s text. “You know how much I love my students. Two more weeks and school will be over for the year. What will I do with myself then?” Olivia’s gentle snoring further relaxed her.
“Well, you can spoil your niece some more, if that’s possible. More importantly, you can learn to love yourself. Start demanding respect from others. If a man puts you down, ditch him.”
She shook her head, recalling Barclay’s snide remarks. “At that rate, I’ll never have anyone.”
“A man will treat you the way you demand to be treated. Set the ground rules. Let him know you won’t put up with his crap. You deserve someone who will cherish you. There’s a man out there just wondering where you are. Just waiting for you.”
****
The next morning, Hope stumbled into her bathroom and nearly shrieked at her reflection. A severe case of bed-head, swollen eyes from crying,
and a zit blooming like an oriental poppy on her nose greeted her. Thank God this was the start of Memorial Day weekend. No second graders making demands today.
An hour later, she stepped into A Touch of Grace, her sister’s salon. An elderly customer walked around with baby Olivia. Hope went over to her. “Would you hand me my niece, please. I need some sugar slobbers.” Olivia, drooling a smile, leaned toward Hope, her chubby arms outstretched.
Gracie glanced at them over a blonde whose hair she was cutting. “Wasn’t expecting to see you today, sis. How’re you feeling?”
Hope shrugged, kissed Olivia’s forehead, and inhaled baby powder and lotion. “Rotten.”
Her sister turned to the older woman who’d been holding the baby a few seconds earlier. “The guy she was dating broke up with her yesterday. In a text. Can you believe it?”
“No!” Both the blonde in the chair and the elderly woman chimed in unison. A prime session of male bashing began, and for once Hope was more than happy to join in.
A few minutes later Gracie tugged the rubber band from Hope’s ponytail, asking her customers what they thought she should do with her sister’s hair. Gracie insisted a new hairdo would lift Hope’s spirits. The women offered ideas. They debated. They collaborated. For just an instant, Hope wanted to dash out the door. Instead, she stayed, enjoying the impromptu sisterhood that warmed her battered spirit. The collective power of any group of women had the ability to heal and support…and to persuade.
Perhaps they persuaded too well.
Hope sat in her car staring in the sun visor’s mirror. How had she allowed her sister and two strangers to talk her into such a radical change? She’d walked into Gracie’s beauty shop with her long mousy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and walked out with short, spiky red hair. She picked at the gelled strands sticking up every which way. Turning her head from side to side, she tried to assess the change. She’d gone from harried school teacher to wide-eyed perky in the span of a few scissor snips. Oh, this is so not me.
The exit to the Mall of Louisiana was closed, so Hope took the next one, planning to circle back toward the shopping center. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t had lunch, and she promised herself something decadent at one of the mall’s eateries. Now that she didn’t have to watch her diet to impress a man, she could indulge.
A few turns later, she was lost. Somehow she’d gotten confused in this Baton Rouge neighborhood. Her stomach rumbled louder and she wished she were home, lying under the ceiling fan, reading That Dating Thing, which she’d started BBB—Before Barclay’s Breakup.
She braked for the light. There was a laundromat with dingy windows on her side of the street, and across the corner was a coffee shop, a great place to ask for directions. When the light changed, she eased her compact car into a parking space along the street. She hopped out and dashed through the break in traffic.
Freya’s Coffee Shop looked out of place among the four-storied red-brick buildings that hugged the sidewalk. This yellow stone structure sat beyond a small garden of flowers. Butterflies flitted from blossom to blossom. Bees added their own music. A curved gray-stone walkway led to the red door. With its gray thatched-style roof, it reminded her of the Irish pubs she’d visited with Gracie on their trip to Ireland two years ago. A magical place Ireland was, and it had seduced her fanciful nature.
An overhead bell jangled when Hope opened the door. Air conditioning kissed her heated skin. Celtic music played softly. Irish emblems and pictures, similar to what she’d seen in Ireland, decorated the walls. Wooden booths lined one side of the cafe. Small tables were adorned with red-striped linens and vases of red flowers. The aromas of fresh baked bread and something chocolaty wafted through the air.
“Hi, darlin’, have a seat. I’ll be right with you.” A redhead whizzed by carrying a tray of coffee cups and sandwiches.
“Okay.” Hope settled in a booth and reached for a menu.
“No need for a menu, darlin’. I know what you need.” The woman spared her a wink before turning her attention back to the family at another table.
Yeah, a new life.
Clearly she needed to make some changes and better choices. While her career was on track, her personal life lacked promise. Why? Could Gracie be right? Was she desperate where men were concerned? Had she become one of those clingy, needy women guys harped about? She propped her elbows on the table and pressed her face into her upturned hands. I am such a weenie where guys are concerned. I try so hard, I scare them away.
She sat back and squared her shoulders. Determination steeled her spirit. Maybe it would do her good to take a vacation from men, to work on her self-esteem issues, and to decide what kind of man she wanted in her life. Andy, Gracie’s husband, was strong, yet gentle. There was no doubt he was devoted to her sister and their child. Andy was pretty quiet, though. She preferred a more talkative man, someone who could discuss literature and music and the meaning of life. She set her chin on her fist. Does such a man even exist?
She cast her gaze on the woman waiting on customers and smiled at the waitress’s choice of footwear, pink Converse high-tops with red-and-pink-striped knee stockings. Black spandex biking shorts and a red T-shirt with the word “Magical” in gold glitter blazing across the front completed her attire.
In her black shorts and white blouse, Hope felt colorless. Your hair’s not colorless, though, is it? Her hand fluttered to her new short tresses, and she wondered again how she’d been talked into such a radical change.
“Ah, here we are.” The redhead set a silver tray on Hope’s table. On it were two cups and saucers with a matching coffee service of the same rose-patterned china. “We’ll talk for a spell before I bring you your chicken salad sandwich and a slice of my chocolate decadent cake.”
Hope hadn’t ordered yet, so how did this woman know she loved chicken salad?
The woman extended a wrinkled hand with hot-pink fingernail polish and a large sapphire ring sparkling in the sunlight from the windows. “Hello, I’m Freya and this is my coffee shop.”
“Hello, Freya. I’m Hope. Hope Morningstar.”
“Oh, ’tis a magical name you’ve got.” Freya winked and poured coffee into cups, ancient and delicate-looking. “I save my grandmother’s china for my special guests. Those who need a bit of pampering and direction.”
“Direction?”
Freya nodded. “You’re lost, aren’t you?” Her voice had a lilting quality to it. One that soothed.
“Well, yes, I had to take a different exit for the mall and somehow I ended up on this street. I don’t know where I am.”
Hot-pink fingertips waved in front of Hope’s face. “Oh, we’ll talk of mundane things like the mall later. ’Tis a different kind of lost I speak of. Cream or sugar?”
“Both.” What did Freya mean, a different kind of lost? She was one strange lady. Nice, but strange.
She handed Hope her cup and saucer. “Tell me, how was Ireland when you visited?”
“Ire… How? Fine, it was fine. How did you know I was there?” The woman was weirding her out.
“Ireland touched your soul, my dear, and left her mark as only she can.”
Freya slid a square plate of cookies in front of Hope. Odd she hadn’t noticed them on the tray a moment earlier. Hope blinked a couple times as she stared at the round cookies. She must be more upset over Barclay than she thought. “Those are Irish Lace cookies. I had some in Ireland and fell in love with them.” She picked one up and inhaled the buttery honey aroma. “Brought home five extra pounds from that trip.”
“Tell me what troubles you. I can help, you know.”
Over coffee and cookies and Irish sayings, Hope told her tale of heartache. The customers at the other table left. No one else came in. For a brief span of time, the world seemingly revolved around the wooden booth occupied by Hope and her attentive hostess.
Hope sat back and exhaled an audible sigh. “Up until now, I’ve been pretty pathetic in my choices of men. Maybe I should
just cross marriage and children off my bucket list. No doubt I’ll die an old maid in a little apartment, sharing a can of cat food with forty cats.” A crying jag was coming on, and she blinked back tears.
Two cats, one orange and one black, leaped onto the table and rubbed against their owner, their purrs lending a calming serenade. “Worse things could happen, my dear.” Freya ran a hand over the heads of each feline. “Meet Marmalade and Midnight.” She kissed each. “Now, off with you.” Marmalade and Midnight jumped to the floor and sauntered toward a pile of red and pink pillows in the corner. Weren’t there health regulations about having pets in restaurants?
Freya leaned toward her, coffee cup in hand. “Do you really feel you’re not attractive to men? Because if you do, I can’t help you. Men,”—she waved the delicate cup in Hope’s direction—“The good ones, are rarely attracted to insecure women. They enjoy a bit of sass and a lot of confidence.” She took a sip of coffee. “Only weak men seek out insecure women.” Her cup clinked into the saucer while her narrowed eyes regarded Hope.
“What do you mean ‘help me’?” Although she was enjoying her afternoon in this coffee shop, Hope also had shivers of sorcery rippling across her skin. Was she truly here or merely having a dream?
“I often match my special men with suitable ladies. Yes, I serve coffee and sweets, but I also deal in the magic of romance.” Freya’s wrinkled hand covered Hope’s. “To be suitable, a woman must be self-assured, honest, and pure of heart. You must feel you’re worthy of any man I match you with.”
“You’re a matchmaker? Like in the old world?” She’d read about them in some romance novels. Historicals, mostly. Rarely contemporary stories. But this wasn’t a romance novel, was it? No, it was her life.
“How do you know who makes a good pair? Do you go by looks? Age? Education? What?”
“There is magic in the coming together of souls. Sometimes it’s a serene magic.” She lifted a shoulder. “Sometimes it’s a magic fraught with lightning and thunder. Either way, it’s a magic I understand and love.”
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