The Diva Steals a Chocolate Kiss (3 page)

Dear Natasha,

My son-in-law gave me chocolate nibs as a present. They’re funny little things and very bitter. What are they, and what am I supposed to do with them?

—Sweet Tooth Irishwoman in Sweets Corner, Massachusetts

Dear Sweet Tooth,

The nib is the center of the cocoa bean, the part from which chocolate is made. It’s chocolate in its purest form, before sugar is added, which is why it tastes bitter. Some people consider it health food because it’s pure dark chocolate and full of antioxidants. You might find them more palatable if you mix them with some dried cherries or apricots like a trail mix to sweeten them up.

—Natasha

I was appalled. Natasha might not be my favorite person, but she wasn’t
all
bad, and I would never agree to destroying her or anyone else for that matter. I could feel my face heating up. Even the tops of my ears burned.

“No.” Joe swung around to face us. “We are not in the business of ruining people. Amore Chocolates does not lash out and stoop to the lowest, basest behavior. Sophie, did you have any luck finding another venue?”

“I’m afraid not. But I did come up with one idea.” I was afraid to pitch it to them. It wasn’t nearly as aggressive as the ideas of the experts.

“Let’s hear it, then,” said Joe.

Mitch watched me with eager eyes and leaned forward.

“We invite Natasha to the tasting as a special guest. We give her some kind of made-up title like ‘Local Chocolate Expert’ and act as though she’s someone special in the community. She’ll have to change her own tune if she’s part of the celebration.”

“What if she doesn’t go along with it?” asked Mitch.

Natasha could never turn down an honor. If they pretended she was an expert, she would think she
was
an expert. “I can’t make promises, but I would bet that she’ll jump at any opportunity to be an honored guest. Maybe make some kind of plaque to give her?”

Joe smiled. “A simple and elegant solution, my dear. The best kind. Mitch, get on that within the hour. The sooner Natasha feels included, the sooner she’ll stop this bad-mouthing nonsense. Maybe call her Amore’s finest taster. Give her roses, champagne, and of course, Amore chocolates. Dan can create a small chocolate sculpture of some kind to give to her.”

Joe shook my hand and strode out of the room, thus ending the meeting and leaving me with Mitch.

He smiled at me. “I’m kind of relieved. Those other recommendations sounded below the belt to me.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’ve never even heard of this Natasha woman
before. How big a star can she be? It’s not like she’s Martha Stewart or anything. I’ll see you at the dinner tonight, Sophie.”

He waved and returned to his own office, while I took the stairs. I released a sigh of relief, shifted gears, and headed for the hotel where Amore was putting up the people who had submitted winning recipes. They would be checking in soon.

The hotel was on the small side but very gracious and personal with exquisite service. Colonial from top to bottom, it featured elegant rooms and a piano for singing along in the foyer. A favorite for weddings because of the romantic atmosphere, I knew it would be booked solid, and I didn’t want any problems.

Happily, the hotel was on top of things. They had the registration packets with maps and schedules that I had prepared according to Coco’s instructions. The welcome baskets, chock-full of Amore chocolates and copies of the new cookbook, were already in the guest rooms, and the private dining room was being set up for their welcome dinner.

The hotel had arranged a wine and appetizer bar at my request so the winners could mingle after checking in, and it wasn’t long before the first of the sixty winners began arriving. Some were excited, some exhausted. They had come from all over the United States, by car, plane, and train. They fit every imaginable description, male and female, young and old. As they mingled with glasses of wine, talk soon turned to the one thing they all shared—a love of chocolate.

At ten o’clock that night, the recipe winners had been wined and dined by the Amore family—Joe, Nonni, Coco, Mitch, and Dan. Nonni looked like her usual self in a summery lavender dress, but Coco appeared tired and drawn. Not that it dampened her enthusiasm for a moment. She flitted between the guests like a social butterfly, clearly in her
element. Mitch glad-handed their guests, slapping men on the back and air-kissing women. It was Dan who seemed the least comfortable in the social milieu, often standing by himself, nursing a glass of wine.

By eleven, the Amore family had gone home and most of their guests had retired for the night. A handful remained in the lobby, singing show tunes.

A portly gentleman, wearing a suit with his tie untied and hanging loosely on his shirt, approached me. He was about fifty, I guessed, with shoulders that rolled forward a bit. His thin, dark hair had become disheveled. “
Ma chérie
,” he murmured, picking up my hand and kissing it. “No wedding ring?”

The accent was French. I didn’t recall that he was one of the winners but I probably hadn’t met all of them. Not daring to be rude, I withdrew my hand and asked, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Now I am. How can such a beautiful woman be without a husband?”

I recoiled from the gin on his breath. His blue eyes stood out in a round face the color and, oddly enough, the shape of a ripe red tomato. He teetered uncertainly and regained his balance.

“Do you like
chocolat
?” he asked, pronouncing the word as the French do. A narrow strand of hair fell into his fleshy face. “I’m sick of
chocolat
. I would”—he tucked his chin in and struggled to continue speaking—“be happiest if I never saw another
chocolat
in my life.”

I strained to maintain a smile. Hoping he would take the hint, I said, “Well, it’s been a lovely evening. It looks like most people are going to bed.”

He swayed sideways. I reached out to steady him.

“Will you come with me?” he asked.

Ugh!
Ugh, ugh, ugh. Shivers crawled up my arms. I tried not to squirm in disgust. What a slimy creep. It wasn’t the first time I had encountered a lecherous drunk, though. It
came with the territory of being an event planner. I used my standard line. “Not tonight. My boyfriend is waiting for me.”

Those who weren’t too intoxicated to think straight usually laughed or apologized and left me alone. Those who were so loaded they wouldn’t remember anything in the morning often suggested I ditch the boyfriend.

“Get rid of him. Room 210.” He pushed a room card at me.

I winked at him and lied in an exaggerated whisper. “You go ahead so my boyfriend won’t see us leaving together.”

He nodded with his entire upper body, nearly falling over. His hand twisting, he lifted a finger to his lips in a sign that he wouldn’t say a word, and he weaved toward the elevators.

I strode over to the handful of winners who were relaxing in the cushy sofas, chatting. “If no one needs anything, then I’ll say good night and see you in the morning.”

“Good night,” they chorused, and I took my leave.

I stepped out of the hotel into a warm summer night—the kind of night meant for sitting on porches or at outdoor cafes. The sidewalks of Old Town still teemed with people. Lights glowed inside the historic houses and on front stoops. I strolled along the brick sidewalks, enjoying the casual summertime ambiance.

The moon garden at the Honeysuckle Bed-and-Breakfast across the street caught my eye. I slowed to take it in. White roses climbed up trellises that marked the garden entrance to the B and B. At their feet, Shasta daisies and snow-in-summer seemed to glow in the light of the moon. It was a charming and clever idea to plant white flowers there. They were very welcoming for guests coming back to the B and B in the dark.

At that moment, Coco Ross hurried along the sidewalk and took a sharp right into the B and B property. I had seen her just over an hour ago. She had changed into pedal pushers and a top in the interim.

It was none of my business what she was doing there, but that didn’t stop me from dashing across the street for a better view. I arrived just in time to see Coco step inside the house.

That was odd. After the day she’d had, I would have expected her to go home to bed. Maybe she was a night owl and the owner was a friend.

I went on my way, too dog-tired to contemplate Coco’s behavior.

A large basket awaited me at the front door. Wrapped in cellophane and tied with a red bow, it was huge. I unlocked the door and carried it inside.

As though he had a mysterious cat radar and knew I was on my way home, Mochie waited for me in the foyer. He wound around my ankles until I picked him up. “Did you miss me or is your food bowl empty?” He purred a response, which I took to mean he was lonely—until I walked into the kitchen with him on my shoulder and realized that his cute little bowl was indeed empty.

He waited patiently next to it while I opened a can of minced turkey and spooned it into the bowl. He sniffed the food first, as though he wasn’t sure I had correctly interpreted his menu request. But it must have passed muster, because he settled in to eat.

I carried the giant basket into the kitchen and opened the wrapping. Inside, five boxes of Amore chocolates in graduating sizes formed a pyramid. The enclosed card read
For my sweet, safe to eat, love from Pete (because Alex doesn’t rhyme with anything)
.

It made me laugh. I checked the clock. Too late to call to thank him.

I made sure the doors were locked, poured myself a glass of sparkling water, and headed upstairs to bed. The next few days would be hectic. After changing clothes, I opened the curtains and the windows in the bedroom to let the gentle night air waft into the house. I crawled under a light blanket,
and the last thing I saw before closing my eyes was Mochie’s silhouette in the window.

Before I started working in the morning, I phoned Alex to thank him for his lovely gift. I had no time to get together with him, but he promised to come to the chocolate tasting.

Between wrangling the winners and preparing for the tasting, Friday flew by. I’d had the good sense to hire a tour company to take the winners on a daylong tour of the Smithsonian, the White House, the Capitol, and the monuments.

The bad news was that another box of chocolates showed up at my front door. I hid it in a desk drawer, safely away from anyone who might be tempted to taste one.

On Saturday morning, I was mixing batter for blueberry muffins when Nina burst into my kitchen, still wearing a lavender bathrobe, which added a little bulk to her figure. I had never understood how she could eat constantly but not find her clothes were too tight like I did. I had an ongoing battle with my weight.

Nina’s hair usually varied between a short cut and shoulder length. At the moment, it was short for summer. She needed only to run her fingers through her thick hair, and it fell into place.

“Are you watching Natasha’s show?” She turned the small TV in the kitchen to
Natasha Live!
on a local channel.

We watched as Natasha received two dozen red roses on air from Amore Chocolates and bragged about being their special guest of honor because of her refined taste and superior palate.

Nina and I high-fived in my kitchen, and she switched it off.

“You’ve been so busy. I feel like I’ve hardly seen you for the past couple of days,” Nina complained.

“I’m making blueberry muffins and ham and cheese omelets for breakfast. Want some?”

She nodded and poured coffee for both of us.

“The busiest part will be over tonight. The winners have a free day tomorrow. I’m on call in case they run into problems, but I don’t anticipate any. How about brunch in my garden tomorrow morning? I can whip up a quiche.”

“Sounds wonderful. I know it’s a lot of work for you, but I’m looking forward to the tasting tonight. Word around town is that there will be five different chocolate cakes.”

“For once the gossip is correct. You wouldn’t believe how many variations there can be on something as basic as chocolate cake.” For just a second, I thought Nina might start drooling.