Blame It on Chocolate. Jennifer Greene
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I adore her, Lucy. I don’t know what I did that was so wrong.”
“All right, all right. We’ll have burgers.”
“She said…she didn’t love me anymore.”
“Oh, Dad—”
“She said I couldn’t find my own shoes. That I needed a keeper, but she wanted to be a wife, not a keeper. She said I couldn’t find my own shoes, my own wallet. She said I couldn’t find my own life. Lucy?”
“What?”
“She was right. I can’t. What am I going to do?”
She gave him some lettuce to shred. Then some more tea. Then started working with some ground round—in the long run, she refused to stuff her dad with the cholesterol-packed diet he wanted, but tonight just wasn’t the right time to argue with him.
She just didn’t seem to have a choice about putting her own crisis on a far back burner. She cooked. Picked up. Cleaned. Listened to her dad. Tried to fit in a general plan for Project Bliss to give to Nick in between it all, but of course, the phone kept ringing.
Right before nine, someone rapped on the back door. She found Russell hunched on the porch. At nineteen, her cousin was cuter than an Abercrombie model, all boyish charm and shy smiles. He’d glommed on her when they were kids, followed her around like a puppy, and once she’d moved into her own place, he’d shown up regularly.
She gave him a big hug, but whispered, “Maybe it would have been better if you called first this time—”
“I couldn’t, Luce. I had something really important to discuss with you.” He only stepped in as far as the doormat, standing there in the dim light with too thin a jacket and no gloves.
“And you’ve driven all the way from Mankato—”
“It’s not that far, but…aw hell. I just have to get this off my chest. And you’re the only one I can discuss this with—”
“What?”
“I think I’m gay.”
“Gay,” she repeated, and thought, nope. This wasn’t happening to her. Maybe she was the crisis counselor in the family. Maybe she’d been born with the assignment of being the Listener and Soother for the Fitzhenrys. Maybe with so many dramatic people in the clan, they naturally gravitated toward the nondramatic, boring one. Only for Pete’s sake. Her whole world had fallen apart today.
And right now, if she’d even wanted to throw up, she couldn’t have scheduled the time.
A voice called out from the living room. “Who’s that, Lucy? Your mother?”
Russell mouthed, “Who in God’s name is that? Your dad?” and she yelled back cheerfully, “It’s Russ, Dad, just come for a visit.”
“Well, tell him to come on in.”
Russell whispered, “I can’t.”
She said, “You’re going to have to now. Come on. I’ll get you something to eat. Take off your jacket.”
“I only wanted to talk to you. I don’t want anyone else to know about this,” he said desperately.
“And we won’t be talking about this in front of my dad. But right now, there’s no way to pretend you’re not here.” She would have thought she was stating the obvious, but Russ still had to be herded into the living room.
“So, I’ll bet the girls are really chasing you, huh, Russ?” was the first thing her father said, making her wince—but it was typical family teasing. Girls had adored Russ from grade school on, and as far as Lucy knew, he’d adored them just as likewise. She had no idea when the gay question had started troubling him, but soon enough could see that discussion was going no further—not tonight.
Her dad immediately perked up for the company. At some point he miraculously found the beer at the back of her refrigerator, and a short time later Russell came back from the kitchen with her one and only partial bottle of wine. She raised a serious protest about his drinking and driving, but her father readily settled that by insisting that Russ could spend the night.
She made up the second twin in the spare bedroom, blinked a bleary-eyed good-night to them both around eleven, and crashed in her bedroom. Literally crashed. She pushed off her shoes and dove, head-first, for the lilac-flowered duvet cover. Between the feather bed and down comforter, her bed was conceivably the softest thing in the universe. So soft that she determined that she was never moving. Ever again. Even for a minute. Even for a second.
She’d never gone to bed in her clothes—it was unthinkable—but honest to Pete, she couldn’t move. For the first time all day, she felt…safe. Part of the feeling came from being cocooned in all the soft, luxurious down bedding. And part of it came from the purple. She’d really hard-core nested with color in here. The fake Tiffany lamp was lavender, the carpet a pale lilac. The old brass bedstead definitely wasn’t purple but she’d found it thrown out in an alley, brought it home, and buffed it within an inch of its life. The dark purple satin sheets, the swoop of dark purple drapes…for a woman who dug in dirt most days, the room was an unabashed female hideaway. Exactly what she craved.
She’d had more than enough stress today. She’d think about everything tomorrow, but for right now she just needed…
The telephone rang.
Of course her dad could have answered it. Or Russell.
But when the receiver next to her bed rang again, it was obvious no one else was going to pick it up. And it could have been her mother. Or Ginger. Or something wrong at the lab or greenhouse…worry built up so fast and thick in her throat that she grabbed the phone and then almost dropped it.
“I’ll be back in town tomorrow, Lucy,” Nick said, “but I had to know what the doctor said. Are you all right?”
That voice. It made her think of dark chocolate, but not just dark chocolate…a dark chocolate mint with brandy inside, or maybe with a little vanilla mascarpone filling in there, too. It was a voice that flowed into a woman’s mind and seeped into her fantasies. It was a voice that tended to make bone tissue turn liquid. It was a voice with so much pure lusty male vibration to it that it could probably make a puppy puddle.
“Lucy?” Nick repeated. “Are you all right?”
“There’s no ulcer, no tumor, nothing terrible. Thanks for calling, Nick. And thanks for arranging for me to get into a doctor so quickly. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hung up.
Then unplugged the phone. Thank God there were still some land lines left in this world.
NICK BARELY STEPPED out of the car before the front door opened. Out bounded Baby and Boo Boo, accompanied by his niece.
“Hey, Uncle Nick! Bet you didn’t expect to see me, huh?” Gretchen had turned twelve a few weeks ago. Nick had figured out that was some monumental thing to her because she’d changed her whole style of clothes, but what that all meant completely eluded him. This morning she had on a down jacket over a corduroy shirt that showed her skinny tummy—and here it was, freezing like a banshee outside. She was so gawky, all hair and big eyes and knees, so shy she could make herself sick in public situations. But not with him. She adored him almost—almost—as much as he adored her.
“Hey, shorty. What’s this, you’re already skipping school at your young age?” He pulled her into a hug, loving the smile she beamed up at him. She was smaller than the dogs. Although God knew, almost everyone was smaller than the dogs.
“Nah. There was a teacher in-service day. So I had it free. And I’m supposed to be at Dad’s this week, but he’s busy and he and Mom are fighting anyway, you know? So…I thought I’d come out and see Gramps and you.”
Nick couldn’t kick his big brother from here to the South Pole, but often enough, it was tempting. Clint and Gretchen’s mother had never gotten