Authors: Unknown
blocks. Propped on an easel behind it, a jigsaw puzzle of a village scene, dark chocolate painted on white. Beside it, an amazing copy of the Mona Lisa, on a white chocolate “canvas,” done with paint that, she knew, was made from cocoa powder mixed with coffee extract. Its elaborately carved frame was also made of chocolate, and decorated with bits of gold leaf.
There was a miniature log cabin, rough-hewn logs dusted with cocoa powder, a tiny stone well in front fashioned from chunks of broken chocolate. An eagle carved from a huge block of dark chocolate, delicately scored, its face and leg feathers painted with white chocolate, so lifelike that it appeared on the verge of taking flight.
In the center of the big table, she saw something that made her clap her hands and laugh out loud-a dollhousesized fairy castle made out of chocolate puff pastry, crenellated walls, towers, turrets and all, surrounded by a moat of whipped cream. A man holding a camera stood nearby, and she watched a white-jacketed chef carefully lift the roof off the castle keep so the photographer could snap the inside-a silken cloud of coffee-colored cream studded with fresh raspberries and toasted hazelnuts. Dolly’s mouth watered.
Then she saw the tree.
It was the centerpiece of Tout de Suite’s display, set atop a low pedestal on one of the long tables, ringed by exquisite-looking cakes on rustic wooden plates, and truffles spilling from baskets made of chocolate twigs. A “picnic”-how clever of Annie! Walking over for a closer look, she saw that the trunk and branches of the tree were molded from the darkest bittersweet, studded with crushed nuts and feathered with a sharp knife to give it the look of rough bark. The leaves were so delicate they almost seemed to rustle in the drafts from the air-conditioner vents. And, suspended from its branches on slender gold threads, dozens of small, exquisite marzipan pears.
A triumph-and Annie, her own Annie, had made it. Dolly felt pride welling up in her. She remembered her niece calling her the other day, and telling her about the tree, how complicated it was to make. But this … why,
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it was beyond anything Dolly had imagined. And sure to knock the socks off the judges.
First prize. Annie had said she had to win, and Dolly now felt sure she’d get it. That girl had her mother’s fire, all right, but none of Evie’s fragility. If only she could see her way to marrying that darling man of hers. Emmett was pure gold, and Annie just couldn’t see it. Dolly itched to grab her and tell her, Get him, tie him down, before it’s too late, before he gets away.
But who am I to be handing out advice about men?
Her mind turning back to Henri, she inspected Girod’s display, an array of small tortes, bonbons and truffles, set at varying heights like a garden in bloom. Would Henri approve? It certainly wasn’t the most eye-catching display, but then Girod’s could afford the quiet confidence that came with being at the top. Still, Dolly fretted. Had the chocolate marquise risen enough? And could Pompeau have possibly missed that tiny crack in the boule de neige’s bittersweet glaze? Oh, but the St. Honor้ au chocolat, how perfect! A ring of caramel-glazed puffs filled with chocolate pastry cream, floating on a cloud of mocha whipped cream set in a crisp pโt้ bris้e shell. Henri will be pleased… .
Then she saw that in the middle of their display an area the size of a serving platter had been cleared-as if at the last minute Pompeau had decided to make room for an addition. But what? She’d gone over and over each item with him, down to the last sliver of candied ginger, and if he’d wanted to include something else, wouldn’t he have said so? Unless… .
Dolly buttonholed a judge she knew, Clark Nevelson, who was busy jotting notes on a steno pad. “Do you know Monsieur Baptiste from Girod’s? Have you seen him?”
Nevelson, tall, thin, but with a sagging paunch that gave him the shape of a kangaroo, was editor-in-chief of Gourmand and probably knew everyone here. “Henri? Sure, saw him just a few minutes ago. He’s in the kitchen working on something or other.”
He’s here. Dolly’s heart was thumping, and all of a
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sudden the room turned warm. What could he be up to?
Nevelson, she could see, was staring at her cleavage, almost like someone poised on the edge of a pool contemplating diving in.
Dolly, secretly pleased that The Knockers That Ate Cleveland still had what it took, pretended she didn’t notice.
“Thanks,” she told him, hurrying off toward the kitchen.
But at that moment, the doors to the reception area were thrown open, and the crowd began pouring in. Dolly found her path blocked by three tuxedoed men and a fat woman in a brocade gown. Swearing under her breath, she circled around them. But now it was getting to be like rush hour in the Times Square subway station.
Edging past a man who’d clearly drunk more than his share (why was it, she wondered, that a man in a tuxedo could get stinko and still seem as elegant as Gary Grant, while a boozer in blue jeans and a John Deere cap just wound up looking disgusting?), she spotted Annie by one of the red marble pillars.
Her niece was deep in conversation with an older man, stocky, florid-faced, gray crewcut. Hyman FelderDolly recognized him from either BusinessWeek or Forbes. Annie was wearing a full-length velvet dress the color of hammered copper, and cut like something Marlene Dietrich might have worn in Blue Angel. Each time she gestured, or leaned forward to make a point, the dress subtly shifted in hue, shimmering like something on fire. Her olive skin glowed, and her smooth wedge of brown hair gave off winking highlights. Long dagger-shaped earrings, made of gold, swung from her ears.
Yet Dolly could see the tension knotting Annie’s shoulders, the sharp tilt of her head as she listened to something Felder was saying. Winning first prize-and getting that contract from Felder-meant so much to her. Please, let her win… .
For Girod’s, coming in second, or even fifth, wouldn’t be the end of the world. Their reputation was firmly established, and nothing would be lost if they didn’t
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win first prize. But Tout de Suite, Dolly knew, needed it merely to stay afloat.
// only there was some way I could convince Felder myself. She was angling her way over, fixing to give old Felder a dose of charm, and maybe a good look at her cleavage, when a tuxedoed man up on stage spoke into the microphone, “Please … everyone find your seats. Dinner is being served.”
Dolly felt a rush of dismay. Now she’d have to wait, and just hope that Henri was going to be at her table… .
Then it struck her that she hadn’t seen Laurel, either. Her niece had said she might be a little late, but here it was, after eight, and still no sign of her. Had she changed her mind about coming? Could the prospect of seeing Joe here have scared her off? If so, it’d be ironic, since as far as Dolly knew, Joe hadn’t showed up either.
Dolly felt an arm slip about her waist, and she whirled about, her heart bumping up into her throat. Henri? But, no, it was only her old friend, Seth Hathaway, president of the Confectioners’ Association.
“Dolly!” he cried, his Staffordshire-mug face with its network of ruddy veins swimming into focus. “Where have you been hiding yourself?”
“Right in front of your nose,” she parried.
He peered at the seating card she was holding. “Just my luck, we’re at the same tabie.” With courtly solemnity and a twinkle in his eye, he offered her his arm. “May I have the honor of escorting the prettiest lady in this room to her seat?”
Dolly allowed him to lead her over to their table, smiling broadly to keep from gritting her teeth in frustration, her heart hammering like a steam-driven piston.
Henri… where the devil are you?
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“V
JLou’ve got guts,” Felder said. “Taking a chance on something so risky, a chocolate tree, who would have thought?” He shook his head admiringly.
“Taking chances is what it’s all about, right?” She
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sipped her champagne, sneaking glances at Felder while trying to look relaxed. Inside, she felt as nervous as a caged cat. What if he thinks I’m too showy, that I’m pushing too hard?
But her display was more than just show-her stuff, she knew, tasted heavenly, especially the aveline torte, her favorite. She could see it out of the corner of her eye, incongruously elegant against the backdrop of checked picnic blanket-layers of rum-soaked chocolate g้noise and chocolate-hazelnut cream, covered in a bittersweet glaze thin as ice on a windowpane, flecked with gold leaf and tied with a crimson “satin” ribbon made of candied raspberry syrup. One bite, and any normal person was hooked.
But what if the five judges-among them Nan Weatherby from Metropolitan and that new dessert columnist for Gourmand-didn’t like rum or hazelnut cream? Where did she get off thinking she could win over Manon, or Teuscher, or Neuchatel? Just coming in second or third would be a triumph of sorts, except that would leave her exactly where she was at this minute with Felder: nowhere.
I have to make this work, she thought. Somehow, I have to convince him that even if I don’t win, he should make this deal with me. Maybe if I turn on the charm over dinner, before the prizes are announced.
Then if she did take first, he’d think he was a genius for sewing her up before anyone else did.
Suddenly Annie felt she didn’t want to smile any more, talk any more, be here in this crowd. She hadn’t slept at all last night, and felt as if she were running on empty. Part of her was listening to what Felder was saying, another part of her was drifting.
Images of last night with Joe flitted through her head like grainy frames from a worn-out movie print. Joe’s face poised over hers in the milky early morning light; their bodies a fretwork of tangled arms, legs, sheets. As if it had happened years and years ago. Not the beginning of a love affair, she realized. More like something remote, from another era.
Was that what it had been … a good-bye?
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She felt a sweet sorrow rinse through her.
They probably had both known it was the end, which had to be why they’d felt no need even to say the words. Now, no matter what happened with Laurel, she and Joe would never be to each other more than what they’d always been-friends who had loved one another; lovers who loved others better.
She felt sad, but somehow complete … as if she’d come to the end of a long journey, and had found, if not what she was looking for, then at least a place where she could rest.
Across the crowded esplanade, she caught sight of Emmett-he was standing near the mirrored doors, talking to a group of Belgians. She felt a wobbling sensation inside her chest, like a top running down. She ought to be with Emmett right now, working things out with him, not Felder. She remembered arriving home from Joe’s early this morning, and finding that strange note Emmett had left on her kitchen table: “Hope you found what you’re looking for.”
What did that mean? Had he guessed, or found out somehow, that she was with Joe last night? She’d been frantically busy all day, and had gotten here early tonight-more than an hour ahead of Emmett-to check on her display, so she hadn’t yet had a chance to talk to him. Now, she felt a sudden intense need to be with him, to find out what he’d meant.
He hadn’t approached her in the reception area. But now, catching her eye, he began working his way over to her. And he wasn’t smiling.
With great effort, Annie pulled her attention back to Felder.
“… California, that’ll be a first for me,” he was saying. “Upscale malls, one in Pasadena, and one in Century City, each one built around a Felder’s, real classyou know the kind, with indoor waterfalls and a lot of ferns and music piped in. And none of that Muzak crap, I’m talking Mose-art …”
Annie, straining to appear interested, started to ask what kind of financing he’d assembled for these malls. But
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all of a sudden she felt Emmett’s solid presence at her back.
“Promise you’ll sit next to me during dinner so I can hear every detail,” she said, touching his arm lightly and giving him her brightest smile. “Would you excuse me a moment? I see someone I must talk to.”
Felder bobbed his head, dismissing her with a genial wave of his blunt hand, which sported a diamond pinkie ring. “Sure, sure. You go ahead.”
Annie turned, and was treated to a close-up view of Emmett in a dark blue tuxedo with a shirred-silk shirt, and a bolo tie fastened with a polished agate. His blue eyes fastened on her with an odd intensity.
“Annie,” he said, still not smiling. “May I talk to you? Alone?”
She nodded, her heart plunging with a sharp, downward twist. Something is wrong. Very wrong.
Now Emmett was guiding her swiftly through the mirrored double doors into the reception area, where only a few stragglers lingered. He moved with long, loping strides, hardly limping at all. Just beyond the coatroom, where the corridor branched off into a small waiting area outside the restrooms, he stopped.
As he turned to face her, his blue eyes fixed on her, as cool and flat as two stones at the bottom of a creekbed. Why was he looking at her that way? And why was it suddenly so cold in here?
Annie felt seared. She longed desperately for Emmett to put his arms around her, hug her, love her, tease her, even scold her. Anything but that hard, determined look on his face-the look of a man whose mind is made up.
He knows, she thought. Somehow he knows where I was last night … and how can I tell him it’s all over between Joe and me without telling him everything that happened?
There was so much she wanted to tell him … things that should have been said years ago … but, oh God, that look …
Em … I’ve been so stupid not to see what I had in
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front of me all this time. I took you for granted. I thought you’d always be there. I didn’t know how much you meant to me any more than I thought about breathing or eating or sleeping… .