She sighed, turning onto Main Street.
Years ago, the town council had voted to hang flower baskets from the curved streetlights. Every year since then, Brenna’s mother had spearheaded the project. She’d solicit donations and volunteers, organize an entire community effort to get those baskets up. Usually there was a vote on the flowers’ colors and a few heated arguments about what they should choose and why. Blue and pink because Louise Rockingham had twins. Orange because it was different. Yellow because Lila Samson’s husband needed a little cheering up. Pink because Matilda Reed had breast cancer. The list of colors and reasons spanned the ten years Brenna had been away.
This year, though, Janelle had been silent.
No calls in the middle of the day to complain about the bickering council members. No early morning texts asking if fuchsia was too bright for a town like Benevolence. Not even a hint at what color had been chosen. Brenna had wondered if the tradition had stopped, but she hadn’t asked. She’d been too distracted by her circumstances, too busy worrying about how she was going to pay the next bill to worry much about flower baskets or, even, her mother’s silence.
Now that she was back, she could see that the baskets were hanging. It was too dark to see the colors, but they were glimmering in the streetlights. White maybe. Or pale pink.
She’d have to ask her mother how the process had gone, whether or not the vote had been unanimous, what pressing Benevolence issue had led to the color choice. That would make Janelle happy, and asking questions was a whole hell of a lot better than having to answer them.
She pulled up in front of Chocolate Haven, the bright glow of the exterior lights splashing across the sidewalk. The place looked like it always had: a pretty little brownstone butting up against what had once been May Reynolds’s fabric store. She’d closed the store after she’d found true love. Her wedding had been the beginning of the end of Brenna’s very short engagement to Dan. While Brenna had been sitting in a pew watching two seventy-something-year-olds exchange vows, Dan had been in New York cleaning out their bank accounts.
She shoved the thought aside.
The police were searching for Dan.
There was nothing more she could do but move forward.
And she would.
She had.
She turned into the narrow alley that led to the back parking lot. It was darker there, the exterior light off. She’d been here a thousand times before, though, and she knew which key opened the door, knew just how much pressure it took to get the old key into the lock.
The door creaked open and she stepped inside, the cool darkness filled with the scent of chocolate and a million memories. She’d spent hours in the shop kitchen, sweeping the floor and washing pots and pans. When she hadn’t been helping, she’d been sitting in her grandfather’s office, a plate of chocolate on her lap, a book in her hand. She’d listened to her grandparents chat about business and customers. She’d bickered with her sisters over the last piece of fudge. She’d heard her parents giggling in the kitchen after the shop closed.
Janelle giggling?
Brenna frowned. She’d forgotten about that, forgotten just how happy and content her mother had been before her father’s diagnosis.
Things had been different then, and she could remember just enough about how happy they’d all been to know how much things had changed after Brett Lamont was told he had brain cancer. It hadn’t been his death that had changed them. It had been that long decline, the year and a half of watching him fade. It had been the silence, the pretending, the constant fear all covered with a layer of cheer. They were the Lamonts, after all. They couldn’t do grief the way other people did.
At least, that’s the way Brenna had felt. She’d been young, though. She might have misread things.
She flicked on the light and walked into the pristine kitchen. Not a pot or pan out of place. Not a smudge of chocolate on the counter. If she walked into the pantry, she’d find milk chocolate, dark chocolate, white chocolate, and pecans, all of it in old mason jars. She’d see the old 1920s canister set, filled with sugar and coffee, cinnamon and salt. There’d be large bottles of vanilla on the shelves. Dried figs, raisins, apricots displayed in large glass jars. Local ingredients if possible, and always only the finest quality.
That was the way Granddad did things.
It was the way generations of Lamonts had done them before him, and it was the way Brenna would be expected to do them.
That was fine. She liked neat and tidy and orderly.
She just wasn’t sure how good she’d be at making chocolate. It was an art, and she didn’t think she had the talent for it. She could barely toast bread without burning it.
Cross the bridge when you come to it.
One of Grandma Alice’s favorite sayings. The problem was, Brenna wasn’t sure there was a bridge. She wasn’t even sure she was on a road. Right now, it felt like she was running on a treadmill and getting nowhere fast.
“Just look for the fudge and go to bed,” she muttered, hurrying through a narrow hall and into the shop’s service area. The display cases nudged up against one another, each one filled with chocolates. She opened the first one, lifting a layer of waxed paper and eyeing dozens of candies. Chocolate hazelnut. Chocolate bark. Caramel rolls with dustings of nuts over the top. Chocolate filled with raspberries and topped with tiny flecks of candied fruit. Mint bars. Praline bars. No fudge, but she pulled out a couple of caramel rolls, their paper wrappers crinkling as she set them on top of the display case. They were Belinda’s second favorite candy. She could remember Dillard Keech buying a half pound of fudge and a half dozen caramel rolls for her birthday and their anniversary every year. Granddad had always thrown in a few mint bars and a piece of dark chocolate bark for good measure.
She did the same, placing the candy in a pink box embossed with lighter pink flowers. That was new. Adeline’s idea maybe? Brenna couldn’t imagine Granddad choosing anything as fancy. He was more apt to use sturdy white boxes and plain gold ribbon.
She opened the second display case, lifting the waxed paper and eyeing row after row of glossy bonbons and squares of silky fudge. Chocolate. Chocolate peanut butter. Marshmallow. Rocky road. That was the newest addition to the family fudge recipes. Her father’s contribution. Since he’d died, there hadn’t been anything new added to the shop’s menu. At least nothing Brenna knew about
She took several pieces of chocolate fudge, a piece of peanut butter and one of marshmallow, added two cocoa-dusted bonbons, and closed the box. She’d have to replace the inventory before the morning rush, but she’d deal with that in the morning.
Five o’clock in the morning.
That’s when Granddad began his day. Apparently, it was also when Adeline started hers. Which meant it was when Brenna would have to be in the kitchen, re-creating all the gorgeous chocolates her family had spent generations perfecting.
Early mornings weren’t a problem.
She liked getting up before the sun.
It was the chocolate that was going to be an issue.
That and pretending.
She’d worn her façade of happiness just fine when she’d been talking on the phone. Texting was even easier.
How are you doing? Adeline or Willow would type.
Fantastic, Brenna would reply. Glad to be done with the jerk.
Janelle would always get a variation of the theme: I’m doing well, Mom. How about you?
Yeah. Texting a response was easy.
She wasn’t sure how she’d do face-to-face.
She didn’t know if she could look in Adeline’s eyes and tell her things were hunky-dory or if she could smile at Granddad and tell him how happy she was. As for Janelle . . .
Another bridge she’d have to cross when she got to it.
She carried the box across the room, unlocked the front door, and stepped outside.
A truck had pulled up in front of the shop and was idling near the curb, its engine humming happily. Sh
e’d figured River to be more the kind of guy who would have gotten out of the truck and banged on the shop door, but he was sitting in the cab as she approached, a phone pressed to his ear.
He unrolled the window, held up a finger, and mouthed, “One minute,” then nodded in acknowledgement to something the person he was speaking to must have said.
“Right. Call a repairman, clean up the mess, and wash the dishes by hand if you can’t get the damn thing working before the morning rush. You’ll all survive it. I can guarantee you that.” He listened for a moment, then chuckled. “Yeah. We’ll talk about overtime when I get back. Keep me posted.”
He ended the call, smoothed his hair, his gaze suddenly focused on Brenna. “Sorry about that. I had some business to deal with.”
“Dish-washing business?”
“Today it’s broken dishwasher business.” His gaze dropped to the box of chocolates, and he smiled. “That’s a pretty big box for one piece of fudge.”
“No one can eat just one piece of Lamont fudge,” she said, handing it to him. “I packed some of Belinda’s other favorites, too. And a few goodies for Huckleberry and the rest of your houseguests.”
“Now, why would you go and do a thing like that, Brenna?” he asked, setting the box on the passenger seat and climbing out of the truck. He was taller than her by a good three inches. Quite a feat considering that she was five-foot-eleven.
“Because it will make Belinda happy.”
“You’ve got a point. Otherwise, I’d eat every one of those chocolates myself before I let any of that group get their hands on them.” He fished a wallet out of his pocket, peeled a few bills out of the fold.
“There’s no need to pay. Take the chocolates as a gift. Granddad would want Belinda to have them.” Byron was like that—always giving away chocolates and candies to people he felt needed a little cheering up.
“Your grandfather runs a business. He won’t make a profit if he gives away his product.”
“My grandfather has never cared all that much about making a profit. If he did, he’d have moved the shop to some big city decades ago.”
“I’m going to tell you something, Brenna. I’m not much for taking charity. I hope that’s not what those chocolates are.” He smoothed the bills and eyed her as if she’d offered him a box of poison and told him to swallow it down with a bucketful of horse pee.
No smile. No friendly twinkle in his eye. Not a hint of the guy who’d laughed in the church parking lot.
This dude?
He looked like an older version of the demon kid who’d taken Benevolence by storm a decade ago—angry and belligerent.
It didn’t bother her.
He could be as pissy and ornery as he wanted, and she was still going to give him the damn chocolate. It was the one thing she could do for Belinda, the one thing she could offer, because—God help her—she couldn’t afford flowers or hair ribbons or body lotion or any of the other things she might want to give as a cheer-up gift.
“How about you tell me something else, River?” she responded, her hands settling on her hips. And, she knew, without even having a mirror in front of her, that she looked exactly like her mother did when she got on one of her rants.
God!
Not only was she back in Benevolence, she was turning into Janelle!
“What?” River asked.
“Is the chip on your shoulders as heavy as you’re making it seem?”
* * *
The question surprised a laugh out of River, and he shook his head, sliding the money back into his wallet. “Probably heavier. I spent a lot of years having to accept a lot of charity. I prefer not to do it now.”
“I bet you’re more than willing to give it, though. Aren’t you?”
“When I can.” Every Sunday when he was in Portland, as soon as the restaurants closed, River and his executive chefs would head to the local shelter and make meals for the homeless. They provided the ingredients. No leftovers. No overstocked product. Everything River brought was fresh and high-end, because he refused to offer anything less.
“Which is probably a lot.” Brenna had her hands on her hips, her shoulders back. She looked ready to do battle, but there were circles under her eyes and a gauntness to her face that made him wonder what she’d been doing with herself for the past decade. Last he’d heard, she’d gone off to be a fashion model. She had the look of it—the racehorse lean build, the long gangly body.
Somehow, though, the idea of her strutting down runways wearing killer heels and fancy clothes didn’t mesh with his memory of that little girl tugging a wagon full of books.
“Maybe,” he conceded. “When I was a kid, I promised myself that if I ever stopped needing to take other people’s old crap, if I ever had the money to give someone something better, I would. Dillard taught me to always keep my promises. So, I have.”
That seemed to mollify her. Her hands slipped from her hips, and she sighed. “Dillard was a great guy. Belinda is a great lady. They did a lot for my family after my father died. The chocolate is just a gesture that says I remember and that I appreciated it.”
“I’ll accept it as such,” he said, adding a formal edge to his voice that he knew she caught.
She smiled, a tired little lift of her mouth. “That’s very gallant of you.”
“And, that’s a very old fashioned word.”
“I know, and it’s a shame that it is. We need a little more gallantry in the world. Then, shi—crap like stolen fudge wouldn’t happen nearly as often.”
“You’re a funny lady, Brenna Lamont.”
“I’m a tired lady. I just finished a twenty-five-hundred-mile drive from New York City.”
“In that old Chrysler?”
“I sure as heck didn’t drive a brand new Jeep and then trade it in for a 1977 Chrysler New Yorker when I arrived.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She didn’t laugh, but her smile widened. “To be fair, the car might be old, but it only had ten-thousand miles on it when I left the city. Midge bought it with insurance money after her husband passed. She lived in the city and had never learned to drive, so it was only used when one of her kids or grandkids borrowed it.”
“Midge?”
“A former neighbor. She’s 94, but she acts like she’s nineteen. She liked to skinny dip in the community pool. When the police were called, she refused to get out of the water and made them come in after her. I bailed her out of jail twice last year.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not a bit. Midge is a hoot, but her family finally convinced her to move to a senior center. Apparently, skinny dipping is legal there.”
He laughed. Again. How many times was that now? Two? Three?
“You laugh, but Midge made that a criteria for the move. Once her family found a place, she sold me the car. Probably to spite her son who seems a lot more interested in what he can get from her than in what he can give.”
“Sounds like a nice guy.”
“He sure as heck isn’t a gallant one.” She smoothed her hair, glanced at the shop. “I’d better go lock things up. It’s been a long few days, and tomorrow I start working.”
“At Chocolate Haven?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’d heard you were working as a model.”
“I was. It got old. I had a shop in New York City for a while, but I decided to change directions. Now, I’m back in Benevolence until my grandfather doesn’t need me anymore.” She said it so blithely that he knew there was more to the story.
It wasn’t his business, and he didn’t ask. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
“The door,” she responded, “is a hundred feet away. I can walk myself.”
“I’m sure you can, but until tonight, I hadn’t laughed in a month. I figure I owe you one for that.”
“Things are tough at the ranch, huh?” she asked, not arguing as he walked beside her.
“That depends on who you ask.”
“They’re not great. I think Belinda must have been at loose ends after Dillard died. To fill the time, she’s taken to offering homes to adults who don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Adults? I thought Huckleberry was a kid.”
“He’s eighteen.” At least, that’s what he told Belinda. River had yet to see proof of that, and he suspected the kid was a couple of years younger, a runaway who’d found a nice comfortable place to live.
“And freeloading off Belinda?”
“He wouldn’t call it that. Neither would Belinda. He’s got a job working as a janitor at the church. He also does odd jobs for people in the community. Belinda says he’s bought groceries a few times and cooked dinner a lot. All I’ve seen him do is eat and make messes. If he were the only one staying there, it might not be so bad, but there are three other guests, and Belinda’s finances can’t support them all. She’s used up all her savings, and she didn’t pay property taxes last year. If something isn’t done, she’s going to lose the ranch.”
“Does she know how bad things are?” she asked, getting straight to the heart of the issue.
“She knows she’s behind. She doesn’t know how far. I don’t want her to. Not while she’s still recovering.”
“How about her guests? Do they know?” They’d reached the door, and she stopped, turning to face him. A breeze ruffled her hair, sending short strands of it across her cheeks. It was fiery red against her pale skin, and for about three seconds, he thought about brushing it away, seeing if it was as silky as it looked.
“The better question is: do they care?”
“You won’t know unless you ask.”
“I’m too busy dealing with dozens of maintenance issues and driving Belinda back and forth to therapy to take the time to ask anyone anything.” He sounded pissed. He felt pissed.
“They say that communication is the key to successful relationships.”
“I don’t want damn successful relationships with those people,” he growled. “I want them gone.”
She laughed. “Sorry, River. I can’t help you with that. I can tell you one thing, though,” She opened the shop door, and he got a whiff of something chocolatey and sweet. “Belinda is lucky to have you in her corner.”
Sweet Surprises Page 3
