Behind Chocolate Bars (2 page)

She spread out the very complicated schedule of festival volunteer assignments. “I'd like to get more adults to participate.”

The outside festival, with booths and games for smaller children, would run every night from five to eight, but the haunted house would be open for the teenagers and adults until ten on Friday and Saturday nights.

I noticed that a line of customers had grown and excused myself to help my assistant. Someone asked for Balsamic Dreams, truffles with dark chocolate ganache that perfectly balanced the rush of balsamic vinegar, and I went to the cooler in the kitchen.

Dylan stuck his head in the doorway, his backpack on his shoulder. “Had an idea for tomorrow's recipes,” he said. “What about crushed pumpkin seeds?”

Dylan had somehow wormed his way into my Monday early-morning routine, the one day I banned everyone from
my kitchen and went into creative mode, trying new recipes and finalizing the week's offerings. He'd quickly learned to stay quiet and not interrupt my thought process, just observing unless I asked him to help. Lately, he'd been making suggestions for ingredients. I was both amused and impressed that he was so interested.

I pulled out a tray of chilled truffles. “With or without shells?”

He looked uncertain. “Without?”

“Bring some by tomorrow,” I said, “and we'll give it a shot.”

He flashed me a delighted grin and then the phone in his hand pinged. He looked at the screen and his face turned red with anger.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Just fine,” he said, his teeth clenched. “I gotta go.”

“Are you sure you're okay?”

He clicked off his phone and shoved it in his pocket. “Just peachy.”

By the sound of bitterness in his voice, he was anything but peachy.

D
ylan's dad, Oscar, arrived right before closing. Erica had kicked out Tommy and Quinn right after Dylan left, with the admonition that they finish their social studies papers due the next day.

Oscar had a much larger build than Dylan, with a big head to match his big body. It looked even more square with his John Deere hat. He was a talented carpenter, and his big hands were scarred by his work.

“Hi, Oscar,” I said. “Are you looking for Dylan? His shift ended hours ago.” I debated mentioning that he'd seemed upset, and decided to keep my nose out of it.

“Uh, no,” he said, as if embarrassed. “Dylan was supposed to bring home a box of your chocolates but he . . .”

“Forgot?” I said. Oscar wasn't a big chocolate fan,
something I couldn't begin to fathom. The only time he came to Chocolates and Chapters was to buy books.

“Yes,” he said, anger flashing across his face.

It reminded me a lot of Dylan's expression when he left. Uh-oh. Could Dylan have been mad that his dad asked him to bring home chocolate? But why?

“Well, you know kids,” I said. “They'd forget their heads if they weren't screwed on.” Which made no sense but I'd heard it often enough to use it to defend Dylan.

At his nod, I asked, “What can I get you? A box of nine, sixteen, twenty-five or thirty-six?”

Oscar hesitated, and then said, “Twenty-five.”

We discussed some options and then I probed, using my special chocolate insight. “The Spicy Passion Darks are filled with a zesty passion fruit ganache and chili flakes, with a dash of sea salt on top. Very romantic.”

Maybe that last part wasn't very subtle. I rushed on. “Our Cherry Ambrosia truffles have tangy kirsch and dried cherries in the ganache.” I remembered that they were in the shape of a heart. “And our Champagne Milks are deliciously light and perfect for any celebration.”

He raised his eyebrows and didn't answer.

I backed off, pointing to the ghost and mummy shapes. “We also have a selection of Halloween-themed truffles.” I pulled out a sample of my annual protest against the indignity of candy corn that was all over the place during Halloween. I'd spray-painted candy-corn-shaped molds with white, orange and yellow cocoa butter, poured delicious chocolate inside and filled them with vibrant vanilla ganache that I hoped would ruin children's taste buds for that fake stuff forever.

He shook his head. “Four of the Spicy . . . Passion ones.”

Ah-ha! It was a date!

He made the rest of his selections, none potentially romantic, to my disappointment. Maybe it was too soon to think he'd begun dating. When I was wrapping up his order, he surprised me by asking, “Dylan doing a good job?”

I paused, sensing there was a lot more to the question. “Yes,” I said. “He works hard and seems happy to be here.” I swiped his credit card through the machine.

He paused. “I wanted to thank you two for helping him out during our . . . difficult time.”

“No problem at all,” I said.

He seemed to struggle with his words. “The thing is, we don't have any family close by. You've made him feel at home, and I'm grateful.”

My throat closed up. “We love having him here too,” I managed.

“Oscar!” Erica called from the hallway. She was using the mop to push our bucket on wheels. “How nice to see you.”

He nodded. “You too.”

“Did you get that last Jack Reacher book?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No time right now. Maybe during the holidays, when things slow down.”

We both said, “Good night,” and I closed the door behind him. It was already dusk and the air outside had chilled, sending in an icy breeze to swirl around me.

“Everything okay with Oscar?” Erica asked.

“Yes. He just said the sweetest thing.” I took the mop from her, ran it through the wringer and started mopping while I told Erica about our conversation. “At first, I thought he and Dylan were fighting, but then he thanked us.”

“Dylan was rather preoccupied today,” Erica said. “Maybe you can ask him during your Monday madness tomorrow and see if he's ready to talk about it.”

I shook my head. “We only talk about chocolate. Sensitive stuff is your thing.”

Bean opened the door, sending the bells on the knob jingling. “Ready?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said. I couldn't help the smile on my face. We closed up the shop early on Sunday nights, so it had become our designated date night, often our only date night, given our crazy schedules.

Erica grabbed the mop from me. “You guys get out of here. I'll finish up.”

“Are you going out with Bobby?” I asked.

“No, he had to cover for someone tonight,” she said, slapping the mop around the stools at the counter.

“Do you need to stop at the Boys and Girls Club?” I asked, feeling a little guilty that she'd still be working and I'd be having fun.

“Harold said they've cleaned up for the night, but I may check it out for a few minutes,” she said.

“Did they get the ghost catapult done?” I asked.

“Yes, they did. I'll let you know how it looks.” She made a shooing motion with one hand for us to leave.

“Where are we going?” I asked Bean as we went out the front door. The comforting scent of wood burning in someone's fireplace drifted down Main Street.

He seemed a little nervous as he opened the car door for me. “It's a surprise.”

“The diner?” I joked.

He didn't even smile. “We'll get some food after.”

We got in the car and he headed toward the highway. “Frederick?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“Wait,” I asked. “Is Leo okay?”

He took a breath. “He tried to have a good time fishing today, but he's not . . . in a good place.”

I bit my lip. “Is it because of the accident?”

He kept his eyes focused on the road. “I got the impression that it brought up some old stuff. From Afghanistan.”

“I knew it,” I said. “Do you think he's getting better or worse?”

He shrugged. “Hard to tell. He's not sleeping much. Waking up pretty early to ride his motorcycle for hours.”

“Is he eating?” I asked even as I worried that I shouldn't be invading Leo's privacy by asking his roommate, my boyfriend, questions I should be asking Leo himself.

Bean stopped in front of a small one-story house. The porch light was on and a real estate agent's sign marked
Sold!
hung from a pole by the street.

I pushed aside my worry. “Who lives here?”

Bean pulled a key out of his jacket pocket and grinned. “Me.”

“You bought a house?” I knew Bean couldn't stay forever with Leo, but he hadn't said anything to me about getting his own place.

“Yep,” he said, as he got out and led the way up the walk toward the tiny porch. “It's been on the market a while. It was the Yerricks' house.”

I took in the large oak trees and trim flower beds. “It's so cute.”

The Yerricks had moved to South Carolina to be closer to their grandchildren months ago. Bean opened the front door and flicked the light switch. A small chandelier hung in the entranceway, and a short hallway led to other rooms.

“Pretty.” My voice reverberated in the empty house.

Bean opened the door on the left. “My office will be here.” We walked in and I looked out the front window. Lights twinkled from homes across the street. “It's small but it'll do the trick,” he said, his voice excited.

He walked out into the hall and stuck his head in the next room. “Workout room.”

I peeked in the small square room with mirrored sliding doors on the closet.

He took a few more steps. “And bedroom.”

A delicious shiver crept up my spine. It was an L-shaped room that had windows on two sides. One window faced tall hedges and the other looked out toward a stand of trees that made it seem all too secluded. With Bean staying at Leo's and me living in the same house as his sister, we hadn't been alone much.

I coughed. “Nice.”

“You'll like this,” he said, and then led the way to the kitchen.

I stopped in the doorway, immediately falling in love.

The Yerricks had built a long, high-tech, deluxe kitchen. It was tricked out with an endless stainless steel counter, an industrial range hood that would whisk away the fishiest of smells, and a deep farmer's sink. Even the pendant lights hanging over the island were gorgeous, made of rainbow-colored glass.

“Check it out.” Bean pushed a button and I heard a machine sound. The whole counter moved sideways, revealing an electric stove top.

“Are you kidding me?” I said. “This must have cost a fortune,” I said. “How did she ever move away from all this?”

“Grandchildren,” he said simply.

I ran my hand over the counter. “It's beautiful.” I imagined making chocolate, spreading out my ingredients on that wide expanse, and then pulled my brain up short. Was Bean thinking of me cooking here?

“I knew you'd like it,” he said.

“So you cook?” I asked, hoping I didn't sound like I was fishing for information.

“Of course I cook,” he said. “Not like you, but I can handle a real meal now and then.”

Then he opened the door to the basement. “Wait until you see what they did down here.” We walked down the wooden stairs to a deep carpet that was black with orange circles, which looked like the Baltimore Orioles logo. “Is that . . . ?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Mr. Yerrick was a huge Orioles fan.”

A small counter lined one of the walls, with a sink and small refrigerator. I imagined it was normally filled with beer cans. And then we came to the pièce de résistance. “Four TVs?” I asked. They took up a whole wall. Four movie-style La-Z-Boy chairs were centered in front of them.

“Are you keeping them up there?” I asked.

“For now,” he said.

“You'll probably have all the cable news shows playing.”

He laughed. “Probably.” He looked at me. “So you like it?”

“It's great,” I said.

He walked toward me and ran his hands down my arms. “Now we can be alone.”

I smiled, suddenly nervous. Was I ready for
alone
alone? “Especially when you get some furniture.” I pulled away and he watched me. “I can see why it was on the market for so long. They made it perfect for just them.”

“You okay?” Bean asked.

“Fine,” I insisted and then changed the subject. “Is Erica going to help you decorate?” I wanted to make sure he wasn't counting on me for that. My decorating skills were limited to painting truffles. At home, I barely replaced chipped coffee mugs.

“Nah. I can handle it,” he said. “I talked the real estate agent into letting me rent until escrow closes. I thought it was a good idea to get out of Leo's hair. I won't do any major work until it's all official, but I think I can handle painting a few rooms, just to start.”

“Do you think Leo will be okay living alone?” I asked without thinking.

Bean's smile faded and I felt bad for changing his happy mood. He took a moment to answer. “One of the reasons I'm moving out is because he was getting more concerned about our relationship.”

“Really?” I was astounded. “Yours and mine?”

He nodded, watching for my reaction. “I'm hoping that getting a break from me as a houseguest and getting his privacy back may help him.”

“That makes no sense. He loves you like a brother,” I said. My heart thudded. “Okay, how bad is he?”

“I'm not sure,” he said. “But I think the accident caused some kind of . . . resetting, for lack of a better word.”

“Resetting?”

“Figuring out what his life should be,” he said. “And if Star fits into it. He feels responsible for Star getting hurt, which really shook him up.”

“He's thinking of breaking up with Star?” I asked, stunned.

He held up his hands. “I really don't know. I'm just speculating,” he said. “You need to ask Leo yourself.”

“I will,” I said.

“You know what?” he said, drawing me into his arms. “Leo's not here now.”

My nerves evaporated. “No, he's not.” I pulled him closer.

*   *   *

W
e ended up eating dinner at the West Riverdale Diner, looking a little disheveled, I was sure. Who knew what would've happened if Bean owned furniture?

“Look what the cat drug in,” Iris, my favorite waitress in the world, yelled when we arrived. She picked up two plates of the dinner special—a slab of meat loaf and mountain of mashed potatoes—from the serving window to the kitchen. “Sit right 'ere.” She pointed with her chin to an empty table in the back, and delivered the specials to another table.

“Thanks, Iris,” I said. I slid over to avoid the duct-taped cracks in the leather, while Bean sat across from me.

“I'm heading over to Frederick to check out couches tomorrow,” he said. “If you can get away in the afternoon, maybe you want to come too?”

I nodded. “Sure. If it's not busy. Kona opens on Mondays.”

Iris interrupted by slapping two menus down on the table. “I recommend the special,” she said. “But stay 'way from the seafood tonight, if you know what's good for ya.”

“Thanks,” I said. “How are you, Iris?”

Iris had been a waitress at the diner for as long as I could remember. She must have been at least eighty years old and still smoked like a chimney and tanned herself to a deep bronze year-round. “Jus' same as I was last time you ate here,” she said. “Except I'm missin' my
60 Minutes
tonight to cover Janie Lee's shift. Dat twit gone and eloped wit' dat idiot Jensen boy.”

“Sorry,” I said, “but it's nice to see you.”