by Dana Mentink
Quarter Moon Oven S’mores
3 cups graham cracker crumbs
1 cup plus 3 T. sugar, divided
¼ cup melted butter
5 egg whites, divided
1 whole egg
12 ounces bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, chopped
¾ tsp. vanilla
¼ tsp. cream of tartar
⅓ cup water
Mix graham cracker crumbs with 3 T. sugar, melted butter, 1 egg white, and 1 whole egg. Combine well. Press into greased 9 × 9-inch pan. Bake at 350° for 8 minutes. Sprinkle chopped chocolate on top and spread evenly while it melts. Set aside to cool completely.
Place remaining 4 egg whites into a bowl. Add vanilla and cream of tartar, and beat until soft peaks form.
In a saucepan, combine the remaining 1 cup sugar and ⅓ cup water. Bring to a boil. Cook without stirring until the sugar mixture reaches 250°. Slowly pour the hot syrup into the beaten egg whites while beating at medium speed. Increase speed to high and beat until stiff peaks form. Spread over cooled chocolate graham cracker crust, making little peaks with the back of a spoon. Place pan in middle rack of oven. Broil for 1 to 1½ minutes until meringue topping is browned. (Watch carefully because it can burn quickly.) Cool for 5 minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature.
Excerpt from Dana Mentink’s Paws for Love
One
Misty Agnelli crouched behind the Sherman tank, ignoring the detonations and nervously chewing a stick of Juicy Fruit that had lost its flavor hours earlier. Through puffs of smoke, Dirk staggered into view, face bloody, rifle at the ready, and a pack slung over his shoulder.
He coughed, swiped at the wound on his face, sank to one knee, lowered the rifle, and yanked the pack off his shoulder. She was close enough to make out the beads of sweat on his grimy forehead. Digging through the backpack, he found the precious violin and yanked it free. The action set her teeth on edge.
Easy, she silently commanded. He should be gentler with the delicate neck of the instrument. But what did she know about battle behavior? Maybe the bombs were getting to him.
Dirk plucked once, very softly. A perfect pizzicato, she thought with satisfaction. The action loosed one note into the war-torn air. A lump formed in her throat at the sound of that note, which vibrated with heartache and the horror of battle, a longing for home, a loss of innocence, an affirmation of humanity. It was lovely, if slightly flat, that one tragic note. Before the sound died away, Dirk sank to the ground with one last bark.
Bark?
The spell broken, Misty blinked in surprise from her hiding place. A dog streaked by, yowling furiously. The little creature zinged in three excited circles so fast it was no more than a blur of pointy ears and whirling tail. From somewhere behind Misty, a notepad was hurled to the ground, followed by a stream of language. Yelling—the antithesis of music.
“Cut!” Mr. Wilson hollered in a voice so loud that Misty ducked reflexively, fearing something might be thrown in her direction. “Did that really just happen?” he thundered, ripping off his baseball cap and slapping it against his thigh. “Tell me that did not just happen during our last run-through before we roll film. Can somebody enlighten me? Was I lost in la-la land for a minute?”
Misty was not sure if he was speaking to her or his director’s assistant. Best to remain silent.
Dirk, known to his legion of adoring fans as Lawrence Tucker, rose to his feet. They’d done an amazing job on his makeup, and somehow he appeared much younger than his sixty-three years, every inch the exhausted American GI. He shoved the violin back in the pack and held it out, as if waiting for someone to relieve him of it.
No one appeared to be stepping forward. He looked as though he might toss it aside. The violin was not a Stradivarius, to be sure, but she could not stand the thought of it hitting the ground, so in spite of her jumping nerves, she hastened closer and took it. Might as well retune while she had the chance. No one would notice her, she hoped.
As she grabbed for the violin, Lawrence gave her a distracted nod. He cleared his throat. “You can’t blame this small creature. We’re soldiers. To quote Charles Spurgeon, ‘The Lord gets his best soldiers out of the highlands of affliction.’ ”
Was he giving a speech or making casual conversation? She couldn’t tell. Even in their initial lessons, he’d baffled her. Then again, people’s behavior often baffled Misty.
“What soldier wouldn’t exhibit such behavior?” Another question that fortunately did not seem to require an answer. Lawrence began to call for the dog with no result.
Misty could practically hear Mr. Wilson’s teeth grinding.
“It’s a dog, not a soldier,” he snapped. “This is a film. We make believe here. There is no war, remember?” Misty heard him mutter something about actors under his breath.
Lawrence blinked and offered a wan smile. “It’s all so real to me. Sometimes I forget.”
“I don’t,” Mr. Wilson snapped, “not when we pay through the nose for each delay. Your dog is a menace. It snapped at the makeup artist, chewed the gaffer’s plans, and I’m pretty sure he peed on my boots while I was napping.” He pointed to the expensive leather footwear. “There’s an aroma.”
“In wartime…” Lawrence began a mournful diatribe. Then he caught the director’s exasperated expression and gave himself a shake. “Sorry. Movie set. I got it. Jellybean will settle into his role, I’m sure.”
“He doesn’t have a role. He’s a dog.” Wilson sighed. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to send it off the set. Hire a sitter, put him in a kennel, something.”
Lawrence looked as though he had just been bayoneted. Misty’s grandmother would be reeling. Nana Bett adored the actor, watching all of his movies often enough to have the lines memorized. She’d thrown her cane aside and literally danced a jig when the movie people had contacted Misty to tutor him in basic violin. Then she’d set about using all her considerable powers of persuasion to convince Misty to take the gig. It had not been an easy task. Nana Bett would be horrified to hear the star was about to have his dog evicted from the set.
“You will be working with the greatest actor ever to grace the silver screen,” Nana had breathed.
The greatest actor ever to grace the silver screen straightened and beamed a look at the director as if he were a vile German commandant. “Jellybean must stay.”
Mr. Wilson straightened to his full five feet three. It didn’t help, as Lawrence was a good six inches taller. “No animals on set. He can’t stay, Lawrence.”
“Then,” Lawrence said after a slow exhale, “we are at an impasse, Director Wilson. I cannot continue. I must depart.”
Wilson gaped. “Are you saying you’ll walk off the set if your mutt isn’t allowed to stay?”
Lawrence glared. “I would communicate it much more eloquently, but yes.”
Wilson’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “You’re under contract, Mr. Tucker.”
He lifted a lazy shoulder. “So sue me.”
Mr. Wilson threw his baseball cap on the floor. The dog zipped in and snatched it up.
“Gimme that,” Wilson snapped, but he had no hope of catching Jellybean as he darted around the director’s boots. “You see? This is intolerable. That’s my lucky hat, and now it has tooth holes in it.”
“Well, it’s a disgraceful excuse for a hat,” Lawrence said. “Who wears a hat advertising mayonnaise anyway?”
The tension between the two men built to a crescendo, so Misty did what she always did when her stomach clenched and the world closed in. She stepped away, took out the violin, shrank back into herself, and played pianissimo, soft enough not to attract attention. She stroked the bow gently over the strings, a sonata, quiet as a whisper. Her pulse slowed to keep time. Eyes closed, she mentally calculated the degree to which the A string needed to be tuned.
Pressure on her shoes caused her eyes to fly open. The little set crasher known as Jellybean sat on her feet, staring up, small blackish-brownish body quivering
, little pointy terrier ears alert. He resembled Toto from the Wizard of Oz, she thought, though she could not imagine this specimen getting stuffed into a bicycle basket.
Lawrence looked awestruck. “Please play a little more, Ms. Agnelli. Jellybean is enthralled.”
Misty looked at all the faces staring at her—Mr. Wilson, Lawrence Tucker, the script manager, and the man just walking in with a tray of coffee—and her cheeks went hot. Then cold. Prickles teased her skin. “I don’t, er…”
She lowered the violin, and the dog leapt upward. She barely caught him with one arm as she clutched the violin in the other. Jellybean swiped a pink tongue under her chin, panting hot breath onto her neck.
“It likes you,” the director said in wonderment. “I didn’t think it liked anyone.”
“I…uh…” Misty held the dog as if it were a live grenade. She wanted desperately to put the thing down and let it run away along with all the attention that was focused on her at that very moment. A sick feeling flashed through her, the one that meant, Run, Misty, escape at all costs!
Wilson and Lawrence exchanged a loaded glance. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Wilson said.
“I am indeed.” Lawrence beamed. “Ms. Agnelli can both tutor me on the violin and be a companion to Jellybean.”
Her jaw dropped. “Me?”
“Great.” Wilson retrieved the hat Jellybean had discarded before he’d leapt into Misty’s arms. “You’re Tucker’s new assistant until this film wraps,” the director said, turning toward his camera guy.
“But I’m the music tutor—”
“Yeah, you’ll do that too.”
Her mind reeled. “I’m not a movie person.”
“Uh-huh.” Wilson checked something off on a clipboard.
“I’m not actually a people person either.” Never had been. Never would be.
He did not look up. “You’re not here for people. Just Tucker and the dog.” He considered his words. “No offense, Mr. Tucker.”
Misty’s mind could not grasp it. The dog wriggled, nosing at the violin strings. “But I can’t.”
Wilson finally looked at her through his reading glasses. “Why not?”
Why not? Because all these people are staring at me. Because I want to go back to my apartment and play my violin. Because I am a thirty-four-year-old woman with a disastrous case of social anxiety who would rather crawl over barbed wire than interact with this gaggle of people. Thank goodness that last bit hadn’t slipped past her terrified lips.
“I’ve got to go home,” she managed.
“Don’t sweat it. We’ll pay you extra for your added duties. You teach lessons via Skype, right? So you can still carry on with your music job from here. We’ll set you up in a trailer. Brenda, work that out, huh?” he called to an assistant who could not be much older than some of Misty’s high school violin pupils.
“But…”
The director walked away, leaving Misty, the dog, and a violin with an out-of-tune A string.
Lawrence patted her on the shoulder, ignoring the menacing growl from Jellybean. “You know what they say about those ‘highlands of affliction.’ ”
With the wriggling dog and the violin in her grasp, and a dozen movie people circling around her, Misty was beginning to feel very afflicted indeed. The feeling intensified when Jellybean gave her a final slurp, catapulted from her arms, and beelined toward town.
Bill Woodson managed to get his six-foot frame sprawled next to Fiona and the little dollhouse he’d built her in the front of his Chocolate Heaven Candy Shop. She solemnly handed him the boy doll. His heart skipped a beat as he looked into the soon-to-be four-year-old’s clear azure eyes, so blue, so innocent.
He considered the tiny wooden doll in his big fingers. “Should I, er, put him upstairs in the playroom?”
She nodded.
He put the doll in the specified place. Now what? What was the proper doll scenario to act out with a little girl? Sweat broke out on his forehead. “Maybe he could, you know, do some sit-ups or push-ups. How about that?”
He saw from the crimp in her lip that he’d disappointed her. Again. “No? What about cooking? He could go make some chocolates in the kitchen or fix the car.” He held up the toy car. “I think it’s due for an oil change.”
She shook her head, sending the blond curls bouncing.
He scrunched down lower so he could look her in the eyes. “Fee, I’m sorry I don’t know how to play dolls. If you could tell me what to do, I’d try. Okay?”
Instead, she sat down in the child-sized chair he’d set there for a makeshift play corner and picked up the same tattered storybook. Sticking her two middle fingers in her mouth, she sent him another one of those looks as she held out the book.
What was it about that ragged old thing that made her return to it practically every day in the last three months since he’d taken custody of her? “Fee,” he started, his gaze fastening on a children’s CD player, “how about we have a sing-along again?” He clicked on the music, prepared to do a full-on solo rendition of “The Farmer in the Dell.” The music started up, and he was pleased to see that Fiona had begun to clap her hands. Yes, Uncle Bill for the win!
An unexpected noise made them both jump. He thought at first that a bird had struck the window, so he opened the door to see. A dog shot through his legs and raced around the shop in dizzying circles. It was the color of dark chocolate in some places and caramel in others, about the size of a loaf of bread. Fiona clutched the book to her chest.
“It’s okay,” he called. “I’ll get it. It won’t hurt you.”
The nutty terrier-type critter darted around, sniffing the air and avoiding Bill’s grasping hands. He lunged and regrouped, but the thing was fast. “Come here, dog,” he commanded.
Finally, it trotted over to Fiona and sat quite suddenly at her feet, staring at her with unblinking black eyes.
Bill froze.
Fiona stared and crouched to get a better look.
The dog wagged his curl of a tail and rasped a tongue across her cheek.
She clapped her small hand to the wet spot, and he was afraid she was going to cry. He took a step in her direction, stunned when she dropped down on the floor by the dog, who promptly rolled over, stubby legs bicycling in the air.
Fiona looked to him.
“Dogs do that when they want you to scratch their tummies. Let me do it. We don’t know if he’s friendly or not.”
Bill eased closer, ready to snatch for the dog’s collar, when a woman jogged through the door. She stepped on the discarded boy doll and slipped, landing on her bottom on the laminate wood floor he’d recently installed.
“Are you hurt?” he said, springing to offer assistance.
“No.” Reluctantly, she took his hand and climbed to her feet.
She was tall for a woman, with long, straight, golden-brown hair and brown eyes. She had a strong nose, full lips, and a slight dimple in her chin. Her complexion was hard to figure as she now blushed a fiery pink.
She picked up the boy doll, whose head had snapped off. “Sorry. I, uh, decapitated him.”
“No problem. I’ll make another.”
She handed it over. Her fingers were calloused but long and delicate, the nails square and blunt. He wondered what she did for a living.
“Is this your dog?” he said, pointing to the animal, who was now enjoying a tentative belly scratch from Fiona. The dog wriggled helpfully to put his belly in better alignment with the little fingers.
“No.”
He considered. “So you were just running in here at this moment…to buy chocolate?”
She toyed with the zipper on her windbreaker. “Uh, no, I was actually after the dog, but he’s not mine. I mean, I’m the tutor.” She shook her head. “Not the dog’s tutor. I Tucker Mr. Tutor. I mean, I tutor Mr. Tucker.”
He grasped the straw. “Ah. Wait a minute. You’re with the film crew, aren’t you? I think I saw you when I delivered the chocolate fondue ye
sterday. I’m Bill Woodson.”
Her face took on a dreamy look. “Luscious.” She started. “Oh, um, I meant the fondue. It was great. Everyone loved it.”
He laughed. “Thank you. My special recipe. So you’re not an actor? Do you work for the director, then?”
Her brows puckered. “I’m not completely sure.” There was something in her face, a painful confusion that made him want to help. With what? He didn’t even know what they were talking about, and even now she was shifting on her feet as if she wanted to grab the dog and run for the exit.
His cell phone rang. After looking at the screen, he said, “Sorry, I have to take this. I’ll just be a minute, and then maybe I can get you a cup of coffee.”
She began to protest, but he held up his hand and stepped away to take the call, which turned out to be an order from Vivian Buckley for three dozen chocolate cream balls and assorted caramels for the Lady Bird Hotel. He mentally high-fived himself. Orders were slowly picking up, thanks to the film crew rolling into the tiny town of Albatross, California. Maybe he’d have enough extra this month to get Fiona a bike, at least an old one that he could fix up.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m…” But he turned to find that both the dog and the blushing woman were gone.
Fiona’s head was quirked a bit to one side, as if she was realizing the same thing he was.
He hadn’t even gotten the woman’s name.
Discover more of Jellybean’s adventures with Misty, Bill, Fiona, and the rest of Albatross in Paws for Love.
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