On Any Given Sundae (7 page)

“Listen, Gretch, this was, without a doubt,
one of Rob’s least stellar ideas, but what could I do? His mother
is this warm, jovial Italian lady who hums Madonna’s ‘Lucky Star’
while she’s buttering her garlic bread. I just couldn’t make a
scene in her home tonight. Not after she’d been so welcoming to
me.”

Gretchen harrumphed on the line. “But you
can’t possibly continue with this charade for four weeks, can
you?”

Elizabeth sighed. “I doubt it. Actually, I
doubt Rob will want me to. I’m betting he’ll find someone to date
for real within the week, and then this whole agreement will be
history. Plus, I think his brother’s on to us. But, for now, I
might as well make the most of the extra writing time he’s giving
me.”

“You’re really okay?” her friend asked.

“Yeah. I’m okay,” she said, collapsing into a
chair and marveling at how quickly she’d grown accustomed to
lying.

***

The next day at eleven a.m., after four
straight hours of morning typing—preceded by six hours of restless
sleep spent dreaming about Rob and typing, and four hours of
late-night typing the day before—Elizabeth decided it was high time
she took a break and peeked in on the happenings at Tutti-Frutti.
Just long enough to make sure everything was running smoothly, she
told herself.

But, of course, with Rob in charge, nothing
was running according to
her
version of “smoothly.”

Loud music greeted her ears as she pulled
into a nearby parking space.

People jammed their bodies against the
windows, gawking at something inside the shop and pausing to
laugh.

A line snaked its way through the doorway,
passed the hedges, across the sidewalk and close to the street.

Elizabeth held her breath and plunged into
the mayhem. What she saw stopped her in her sneakers.

For the first time in the shop’s forty-year
history, there were jugglers—that’s right,
more than
one
—making spectacles of themselves by spinning, twirling,
throwing and catching colorful beanbag ice cream cones, all to the
amazement and delight of the gathering Wilmington Bay crowd. It was
all she could do to push her way passed the horde and begin hunting
for the Gabinarri responsible for this mess.

“Th-This is crazy. What are all these people
doing ins-s-side?” she hissed in Rob’s ear as he put a swirl of
whipped cream on a chocolate malt.

“Having fun is not crazy. It’s a good
promotional tool. Look.” He pointed with his elbow at a mom with
two preschool girls. All three were eating double-decker ice cream
cones and laughing at the jugglers’ antics. Then he nodded in the
direction of another grouping, this time six teens, each holding
either a strawberry sundae or a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich.

“B-But, Rob, this is a very small shop. I
don’t know what the exact c-c-code regulations are, but I know
we’re only allowed an indoor capacity of twenty-five customers.”
She glanced around and tried to count heads. “There are over
f-fifty people in here!”

“They’ll be out the door and on their way
home soon,” he said. “But, the thing is, they’ll all come back in
search of new surprises and more great-tasting ice cream. And it
won’t be en masse like this. They’ll return in little clusters.
They’ll talk amongst themselves and tell their friends. Slowly, our
daily visitor average will increase. By the end of the month, we
might even double profits. And won’t that just make your uncle and
mine do a happy jig in Europe?”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer.

“Sure it will! Before long they’ll be making
more money than they know what to do with. Maybe they’ll open up a
branch in another Wisconsin town…or even spread their franchise
into Illinois or Minnesota or Iowa. The possibilities, my little
naysayer, are limitless.”

“Who hired these jugglers?”

“Nobody,” Rob said, starting on an order for
a triple fudge ice cream sundae.

“They j-just came in here and started
juggling by themselves? Without warning?”

He shot her an irritated look. “No,
Elizabeth. The two of them dropped by for a cone and we all got to
talking—”

“God, I should’ve known,” she muttered.

“—and I found out they were professional
jugglers from Milwaukee, so I asked to see some of their best
stunts. And they were great.” He grinned at the two performers
appreciatively. “So, I sent Jacques out to buy the ice cream
beanbags from the Hobby Shoppe on Fourth and Main—”

“Where
is
Jacques?” She scanned the
room but didn’t see him. Rob just kept on chattering.

“—and I told these guys they’d get free ice
cream or a complimentary pastry anytime they came into the shop if
they did fifteen minutes of juggling for our customers.” He checked
his watch. “Although, I think they decided to use this as practice
time because they’ve been at it for over a half hour.”

A beanbag whizzed by her ear, narrowly
missing her head. She frowned at Rob.

“They might be getting ready for their grand
finale now,” he said.

Amidst a wild flurry of flying beanbags, she
gritted her teeth and ducked while searching the room. Her gaze
finally came to rest on Jacques who, in time to the hip-hop sounds
blaring from the jugglers’ portable stereo, was rolling his
shoulders and swiveling his hips as he delivered a tray full of
orders to a table of kids and their pleased-looking grandma.

Oh, brother.

“Th-This kind of blatant showmanship is going
to get us in trouble, Rob, if anyone complains or if the
authorities start checking up on us. We could get f-fined for
breaking capacity codes.”

He leaned toward her, his gorgeous brown eyes
widening with good humor and impertinence. He pressed his full lips
together and got so close she could see the tiny perpendicular
lines on their ruddy red surface. The lips twisted into a devious
grin, and one heavily lashed eye winked at her, which sent her
heart rate on a skyrocket mission to Venus.

“Lighten up, Lizzy,” he whispered in that
low, ultra-sexy voice of his.

She tightened her Plain-Jane lips and
narrowed her own lackluster eyes at him. “Elizabeth,” she
insisted.

He grinned bigger. Leaned closer.

“Oh, my gosh! Rob Gabinarri! Is that really
you?”

They both turned toward the counter where a
familiar woman stood beaming at Rob. Elizabeth hadn’t seen Rob’s
high-school flame in years, but the sight of the bottle blonde put
her right back into her chubby senior-year stretch pants and seized
her voice.

Rob, of course, didn’t miss a beat.

“Tara Welles? Hey, how are you?”

“Absolutely wonderful,” his old girlfriend
cooed. Her eyes swept over him. “And don’t
you
look
fabulous.”

“Thanks. Want an ice cream? An éclair? Some
chocolate-covered macadamia nuts?”

“Ooh, maybe just a
tiny
little
something,” Tara said, perusing the selections. “A double
chocolate-caramel sundae with peanuts and sprinkles on top.”

“You got it,” he said. “Can you help me with
that, Elizabeth?” He motioned for her to grab another ice cream
scoop.

She tried to whisper “Sure” but couldn’t
quite manage it.

Tara’s cool blue eyes surveyed her from head
to toe and back again, then the blonde let out a muffled laugh.
“Lizzy?
Lizzy Daniels? Oh, heavens. Imagine seeing you
again.”

Elizabeth succeeded in raising her hand for a
brief wave. She refused to be goaded into opening her mouth,
however.

“You look—” Tara paused as if searching for
just the right scathing adjective, “—the same but…smaller.”

Terrific. But what had she expected? A high
compliment?

She worked on Tara’s sundae, replacing the
requested caramel with butterscotch, skimping on the chocolate ice
cream and putting only half a teaspoon of nuts and one shake of
sprinkles on top. She handed it to Tara with her best imitation
smile and the single word she could form. “H-Here.”
Take it and
don’t come back.

“Mmm.” Tara dug her spoon in and lasciviously
licked it clean, her gaze fixed on Rob. She did this several times.
Now, to be fair, she may have merely been preparing for an Adults
Only performance at the Hasty Tasty Bar and Strip Club, but
Elizabeth doubted it. It seemed as though Tara had set her sights
on Rob again and, from the attentive look on his face, she was well
on her way to getting what she wanted.

“Holy Smokes, the rumors are true,” a male
voice boomed. “Gabinarri’s back.”

And the morning’s only getting better.
She sighed and tried to bring her vulnerable heart back into
protective custody.

“Burk. It’s been a long time,” Rob said, his
voice tightening.

Elizabeth stole a few glances between the two
men. Lance Burk had been about the dumbest-acting of the dumb jocks
at Wilmington Bay High and a football rival of Rob’s since sixth
grade—even when they were playing on the same team. A good-looking
guy, empirically speaking (except for that thick neck), he stood
about half a foot taller than Tara and placed his hand possessively
on her shoulder. She brushed it off, her lust-filled eyes never
leaving Rob’s face.

“Heard you opened a diner somewhere,” Lance
said with a bored expression.

“The Playbook is a restaurant on the top
story of one of Chicago’s tallest buildings, Burk. It’s not a
diner.”

Lance shrugged. “Whatever.” He hooked his
thumbs in the loops of his jeans and spread his legs apart in a
territorial stance. It reminded Elizabeth of a pit bull readying
his attack—only pit bulls could be warm and cuddly on occasion.
She’d never known Lance Burk to be either.

“Did you have an order?” Rob asked.

“Nope. Not today. Just wanted to see you in
your new digs.” Lance scoped the room and caught a beanbag as it
rocketed toward the counter. He tossed it in the air a few times
and chucked. “You’re really moving up in the world, Gabinarri.” He
flung the silly beanbag at Rob then tapped the blonde on her tanned
and toned upper arm. “Let’s go, Tara.”

Tara batted her eyelashes at Rob one final
time. “See you soon. Real soon.”

He waved her a quick farewell while Elizabeth
busied herself with filling orders. Once the Dynamic Duo walked out
the door, though, she had a chance to study Rob’s face. His
expression was completely unreadable, but she knew what his stony
façade must mean: Jealousy. Tara looked as stunning as ever (much
as Elizabeth hated to admit it), and she was with Lance, Rob’s
former opponent, on some kind of casual date. Rob must surely want
her back, even if he didn’t want to get married or have kids this
year. And, if Elizabeth read Tara’s signs and signals correctly,
Rob wouldn’t have much difficulty getting his wish.

But, on a high note, the jugglers finally
stopped juggling, the music got turned off and the customers went
back to their regularly scheduled lives.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

When the tile floor was clear of townspeople,
Jacques bounced in her direction. “Exciting day, no?” he said,
still gyrating his hips and snapping his fingers. “Rob’s
extraordinairement
ideas make me want to dance.”

“Everything makes you want to dance,” she
said.

He tried to engage her in a hip-hop boogie
next to him, but the customers and the noise had drained her of
every last ounce of sociability. Plus, she needed to save her
strength for another evening with the Gabinarris. She pulled away
and Jacques bopped off without her.

Rob was cleaning some of the utensils in the
backroom and had become uncharacteristically silent. Brooding, no
doubt. Or, maybe, plotting Tara’s easy seduction. Elizabeth was
preparing herself to return home and settle down to another four or
so hours of typing when her cell phone rang.

“Camden, how are you?” she said to her
photographer.

“Good, good, darling. Remarkably,
unbelievably good. I’m in love.”

“Oh, that’s…that’s terrific. Wow.” This was
saying something. A statement for the record books, in fact. Camden
was not one to easily fall. “I’m so happy for you. Who’s the lucky
lady?”

“My Annabelle. She’s the most gentle,
delicate creature I’ve ever seen, hiding inside the buffest, most
sculpted body imaginable.”

Elizabeth heard some loud splintering noises
on the line. It sounded like a ceiling beam had just crashed into
the floor. “Cam, my goodness! Are you okay? Where are you? Please
don’t tell me you’re on assignment in a war zone.”

“No, no. I’m at Annabelle’s karate studio in
Idaho. She’s amazing,” he said, his tone blanketed with an awe
she’d never heard from him before.

“Um, well, I’d love to meet her sometime.
Maybe when you come over to do the photos next week she can—”

“Oh, right,” he said. “That’s why I called.
There’s no way I can make it out to Wisconsin next week or, really,
anytime this month. Annabelle and I are going on a little jaunt out
to Yellowstone where I’m going to shoot her doing karate poses in
nature. Can you be a darling and let me reschedule for early or mid
July?”

“W-Well, sure, I guess. I’d hoped we could
have the shots taken and developed well before the publisher’s
deadline, though, just in case anything needs to be redone.”

“Not a problem. Not a problem. We’ll have
plenty of time to re-shoot if necessary. But you know I’m a
one-shot wonder.”

Elizabeth heard another booming crash over
the phone line.

“Ohhh,” he groaned. “Just watching her kick
those muscled legs so high…and break bricks with a slice of her
fragile hand…and flip unsuspecting opponents in the air the way I’d
toss my Nikon bag over my shoulder… Man, it’s like hottest foreplay
ever.”

“Thanks for sharing, Cam.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Okay, so we’ll talk in
a few weeks and set the date. Jacques here is especially excited to
get his éclairs immortalized on Kodak paper.”