Patrice Lyle - Health Nut 01 - Killer Kung Pao (3 page)

Give Me Chocolate, or Give Me Death

I ignored the sudden pounding of my heart from what Babette had just told me and sat on one of the two chairs in my booth. "Hey."

"Hi, Piper. How are things in Florida?" Despite our recent issues, he sounded happy to chat with me. 

"My morning beach walk was nice and sunny. The ocean was pretty." I walked everyday to keep my energy up. Floyd was a fellow walker too, which was one cool thing about him.

Because he was also a naturopathic doctor, we were in sync about most health stuff.

"Did Brownie and Aunt Alfa go?" he asked.

"No, Brownie doesn't like sand in his hooves, remember? So Aunt Alfa babysat while I went."

He laughed as if we were a normal couple talking about my trip. "I tried calling you a few times this morning."

"Really?" I didn't want to admit I was too busy battling with my hair to answer. He had never understood the despair a hair crisis could cause. "I must have put my phone on silent before we went to bed last night."

He didn't respond.

"You know how Brownie hates to be awakened by text messages." I laughed.

He cleared his throat. "How's the show going?"

"Not sure yet." I told him about the sign that said
Psychic Fair
, as well as Ming, Vesta and Babette.

"They're at the show?"

"Yes." I lowered my voice. "Isn't that weird?"

"As long as you're introducing people to holistic health, I'm sure you'll be fine."

As I glanced around the exhibit hall, I wasn't so sure. The hotel manager had let me in early last night to set up my booth because Aunt Alfa wanted to have dinner at a restaurant that offered an early-bird Szechuan chicken platter for five bucks if you were seated before four PM. I'd been the only one setting up at two o'clock (when other non-nonagenarians, such as myself, were at the beach), so I hadn't seen the other vendors.

But I did now.

Babette was next to me. The booth on the other side was still vacant so that was up for grabs. Garnett arranged voodoo dolls in her
Psychic Aura Cleansing
booth. A woman in a yellow turban and several strands of colorful beads was executing a tarot spread for a customer. And Charles sat in his scrubs in the corner booth (he must have won the rock-paper-scissor challenge) beneath a banner advertising,
Charles, Psychic Surgeon at Your Service
. Tiny scalpels speckled with blood garnished the edge of his banner.

Honestly, the knives were overkill.

"Holy chocolate babka, Floyd. I think the Internet information was wrong." Not that I objected to otherworldly stuff, but I'd thought this was a holistic health fair. "This is some New Age gathering. There are tarot readers and some guy claiming to be a psychic surgeon."

"A what?"

"Just what I said. A psychic surgeon." I pondered that one. "Maybe he cuts out bad auras? But how would he do that, and would there be blood involved?"

Floyd chuckled, followed by a squeaking sound.
Ah.
He must be in his recliner. The
pleather
chair he'd insisted on getting because he was afraid Brownie's hooves might shred real leather. I couldn't have cared less what furniture—not that I owned any non-Goodwill stuff—Brownie destroyed as long as he was having fun.

But Floyd had a long way to go in the piglet-parenting department.

"It'll be fine. I think you're overreacting." His response was seriously lacking any
supportive boyfriend
flair. Just like always.

Was Babette right?

"Since when have you ever approved of anything New Age? You always say that metaphysical stuff gives doctors like us a bad name." He'd flipped out about Aunt Alfa joining my practice because he thought essential oils were hokey. "Why can't you be on my side?"

He did this snorty thing he does whenever he gets annoyed. "You and your
be-on-my
-
side
-
for-once
campaign. You're getting all worked up over nothing. It's not going to kill you to be at a psychic show for one weekend."

With the looks of that psychic surgeon's sign, I wasn't sure.

But that
so
wasn't the point.

I leaned forward in my seat, thoroughly annoyed with him. "I paid good money to be here because I'm trying to market my
Health Nuts Rock
book, and a psychic fair isn't my target audience."

He stayed quiet, and I knew why. He thought my book was trite.

And he hated the title.

"Whatever, Floyd."

"Look on the bright side. If you're surrounded by a bunch of new age loopy loos, I bet one of them will have some carob snacks."

My stomach clenched while he launched into another anti-chocolate tirade. Why hadn't I let the phone go to voice mail? His hatred for my favorite food (dark chocolate was a food group in my book!) was another reason why, for the past week, I'd been avoiding him like gluten and dairy. Well, and the fact that he'd proposed.

Yes. Dr. Floyd Fowler, ND, had, unfortunately, proposed.

To
moi
.

An image of the one-carat, marquise solitaire he'd presented to me popped into my mind, and I flinched. Ever since a fitness magazine quiz revealed I was
pear shaped
, I'd hated pear-shaped diamonds. I mean, who needed a daily reminder?

A princess-cut diamond engagement ring was my dream, but how could I tell him without revealing my deep-seated reasons for being anti-marquise? No man would understand my pear-shaped drama. Or at least Floyd wouldn't.

The sequins on my shoes twinkled beneath the overhead lighting. So pretty. My mind wandered to a question that had plagued me for months. Why did Floyd want to marry me? Pure stye avoidance? 

"You still there, Piper?"

"Yep." I glanced at my ringless hand and wondered what he'd done with the pear-shaped diamond monstrosity when I'd said I had to sleep on it. But I didn't dare ask.

"Maybe you can create a line of organic carob snacks?"

I shut my eyes and counted the number of Sparkle O eyeliners I owned. When I got to twenty-three, I stopped. And took a big breath. I hated carob and was convinced a masochist had invented it. Carob was to chocolate what a fake Coach purse was to the real thing. Sometimes imitation wasn't the sincerest form of flattery.

It was just wrong.

"You could bake carob fudge. Carob lava cake. Everything you could make with chocolate, but without the caffeine." Floyd's voice rose past its normal, drab doctor tone. "Carob mousse, carob chip cookies. Oh, what about carob babka?"

What was next? A carob-tini?

"Floyd, carob doesn't boost serotonin levels, like chocolate. And the caffeine's minimal, unless you're talking raw cacao." I was so over this conversation.

But apparently he wasn't.

"We could call the line Piper's Carob Confections and sell the treats at my family's practice when you come on board." His tone brimmed with unbridled carob-enthusiasm. "Our patients would love it."

That was another thing to add to my
Top Ten Billion Reasons Not to Become Mrs. Floyd Fowler, ND
list. His snobbery over my
Health Nuts Rock
clinic.

Enough was enough. "You know I can't give up my practice. I've worked too hard, and I'll never give up dark chocolate either. It cemented my belief in natural health. That's huge."

"Cute story, but you're not a teenybopper at the mall anymore." Floyd's sarcasm sent a shiver up my spine. "You're a naturopathic doctor, and soon to be a leader in the natural health field." He cleared his throat, probably to avoid adding, and
soon to be my wife
. "Mainstream chocolate's full of sugar and caffeine and goes against everything we stand for."

"I don't eat mainstream chocolate, Floyd. I only eat organic dark chocolate."

"Still has sugar in it." He sounded like a kid who'd just tattled on me.

Irritation sizzled in my gut, or maybe it was the spicy turkey sausage I'd had for breakfast. But either way, how dare he dismiss a major turning point in my life? If it hadn't been for that darn stye, I would have ended things.

Whatever. "I'll never like carob. And you better not hide anymore of that fake chocolate stuff in my food either."

Last week, he claimed to have baked me a batch of double chocolate brownies. But there wasn't a drop of cocoa in them. I shut my eyes, remembering the funky carob taste.

"Look, it's time to embrace what naturopathy means." He blew out a blast of undoubtedly hummus-scented breath. "I'm sorry, honey, but chocolate's not healthy, and it causes body fat to increase."

A chill snaked up my neck. First Mystic Ming and now Floyd. Was this a sign from the universe?
No. That would make it a calorie consumed.

"Did you seriously just say the
F
word again?"

Silence simmered between us until he said, "Sorry. It just slipped out."

Yeah, right, you carob snob.
"Dark chocolate makes me happy. And you of all people should know how important happiness is in health maintenance."

"That's beside the point, Piper. We have a great future together." He paused, and I could sense the
but
coming. "But it's time to embrace carob."

Every blonde hair on my arms leapt up, and every pore in my body wanted to scream, "Give me dark chocolate, or give me death." But the middle of the expo hall wasn't the place for this pointless debate.

"Sorry, Floyd," I said. "But a conference attendee is approaching. Call you later."

I hung up and felt relieved I didn't have to lie to Floyd to end our conversation. Because someone was headed for my booth. My Auntie Alfa. She waved, and I returned the gesture.

My aunt was the most adorable health nut ever. Clad in her size-two teal velour pantsuit, matching foam rollers, and red, patent-leather Mary Jane pumps, she strutted across the beige carpet pulling a neon green duffel roller bag and munching on a gluten-free Cosmic Cupcake (her favorite). She hadn't changed at all—including her hennaed hair—in the last three decades. And I hoped she never would.

"Hey, Pipe." She planted a kiss on my cheek. "You'll never guess what happened on our walk. It was the craziest thing."

Even though it had only been a couple of hours since I'd last seen her, I gave her a quick hug. "I was wondering where you—"

And that was when I noticed the suspicious pink snout sticking out of the side zipper of Aunt Alfa's bag.
Oh, holy chocolate babka to the nth degree.

"You heard that yoga girl at registration," I said quietly. "Animals aren't allowed in here, and we have to follow the rules."

She pursed her lips as if she were sucking a lemon and pointed at a woman nearby who was accompanied by a guide dog. "Check out that dog. Studies have shown pigs are fourth on the intelligence roll, behind humans, primates, and dolphins."

I was familiar with the study because she talked about it all the time.

"It's rude to point." I gently lowered my auntie's arm before someone noticed her. "That woman is blind, Aunt Alfa. Guide dogs are always allowed."

"I know." Aunt Alfa crumpled up her Cosmic Cake wrapper and tossed it into a nearby trashcan, making the shot like a basketball star. "Our piglet should be allowed too because he's smart enough to be a guide pig. Besides, I'm ninety-one years old. I defy anyone to stop me."

A nonagenarian with a 'tude
was what her dead ex-boyfriend had called Aunt Alfa during the nightmare séance. I feared he might have been on to something.

"I don't like it either, Aunt Alfa, but you have to take Brownie to our room."

"You know how depressed he gets alone. He'll pig out." She jutted out her crepe-paper jaw. "I can't believe I forgot
Charlotte's Web.
That's the only movie he likes."

Finally, progress. "Actually, he loves
Babe
, and I brought the DVD with me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. We watched it last weekend, and he sniffled at all the sad parts." I'd been in major Floyd-avoid-mode, so I'd spent my Friday night curled up with a movie, a bag of dark chocolate chip cookies, and a piglet.

Aunt Alfa shot me her pity grin. "He was just being polite, Pipe."

That figured. Guys were all the same. Even the potbelly breeds.

Aunt Alfa rose on her toes and glanced around the room. "I'm going to find the manager and force him to see things my way."

Oh, no.
Had I made a mistake insisting she come? I'd worried about her starting a riot at my condo complex while I was gone, but I hadn't considered the consequences at the expo.

"You have to take Brownie to our hotel room," I said. "Seriously."