Julia's Chocolates (18 page)

T
he tire blew out with a bang. I automatically covered my head with my arms, sure that Robert had found me and had shot a bullet through the tire and was reloading. The car plunged into a ditch, driver’s side down. I heard myself scream, while at the same time I knew that on this particular country road no one would hear me. I dragged myself over to the passenger side, intending to escape, while I envisioned Robert running toward me, pickax or knives in hand, an implacable fury twisting his features into a gross mask of hate and revenge.

Already I felt my breath catch, knowing the Dread Disease was here again, but in a rare burst of courage I decided to fight through the disease, shoving the door open with my hands and feet and scrambling from the car.

It was still early in the morning, and I had another ten houses to deliver papers to, but I really didn’t think about how inconvenienced those people would feel that morning without their papers. I didn’t even look behind me as I tore up the bank and over the other side, running as fast as I could through a field. I remembered this field, knew that on the other side of it were woods that I could hide in, and a stream running through it that would eventually lead me back to town.

I heard my breath heaving in and out, sweat lacing my brow even though the morning was as cool as the inside of a refrigerator. I flew across that field into the woods, and when I could run no more, I looked behind me and saw…no one. I hid behind a rock, watching the darkness, trying to breathe, looking through the branches of every tree, all around, knowing that Robert could pop out from anywhere with his chosen instrument of torture.

I waited for what seemed like years, then peeled my body away from the rock I was clinging to for dear life and looked around. By this time the sun was starting to glint through the trees. The light took away some of my fear of sprinting through dark woods, and the thought of Robert sprinting after me was greater than my fear of any wild creature.

As soon as I thought it was clear and my breath was coming in a somewhat normal fashion, I ran through the woods, over a hill, and to the back side of town. I saw Donald, a friend of Stash’s who looks like a giant, walking by the General Store. I darn near tackled the man I was so happy to see him and had him drive me back to Aunt Lydia’s in his truck. He was almost stuttering in his efforts to calm me, to help me. Aunt Lydia called Stash, and he was there within seconds.

Stash told Aunt Lydia to get her guns out, and then he and Donald and Dave and Scrambler, one of Stash’s favorite employees, went out to get my car and find Robert. He had five of his ranch hands surround Aunt Lydia’s home while we were gone. Aunt Lydia pulled the blinds down in the whole house except where she poked a rifle out the crack of one window, her finger on the trigger.

Stash was gone for a long time, but when he came back, he was smiling, as were Dave and Scrambler. He hugged me when he told me about the flat tire that had sounded like gunfire. The rock was still in the tire. Dave clasped my shoulder. Scrambler said, “It’s so unfortunate that this happened. Please, Julia, take it upon yourself to indulge in a nap and a small cocktail. You’ll awaken feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.”

Aunt Lydia sagged with relief onto the couch and didn’t move for hours.

I went to bed. I was too exhausted to feel embarrassed.

It was only later that I realized that I had not been completely overcome by the Dread Disease. I had had trouble breathing from fear of Robert. It had been hard to catch my breath. But I had caught it, I had breathed. I had functioned.

I couldn’t help it. As much as I had been scared right out of my pants that morning I was proud of myself.

I had won against the Dread Disease. Just once. But there it was.

You would never guess by looking at Carrie Lynn that she could draw outstanding dragons.

And suits of armor.

And castles.

And a princess that looked a great deal like…me.

But she could.

And I found that out when I was bending over a large piece of butcher paper making a sign advertising our new, daily, Children’s Story Hour. I blew my curls out of my hair, my patience long gone with this little project.

For long minutes Shawn and Carrie Lynn watched as I attempted to draw a dragon with a crown on its head.

I had drawn the tail and body and head but could not get the face of that dragon. I erased the eyes for the third time, sighing in frustration. Stupid dragon. Stupid, stupid dragon. What did I care that he looked like an overgrown pig with snail eyes?

Carrie Lynn touched my arm, her little fingers warm. “Can I try?”

I gave her the pencil. What the heck. Anyone could probably draw a crowned dragon better than me. Carrie Lynn leaned over the paper and drew the dragon’s eyes then proceeded to fix the body and the tail.

She handed me the pencil.

Stunned, I handed it back. “Why don’t you finish up the poster?”

She needed no further prompting, taking the pencil from me and drawing a sprawling castle in the background across the whole page, complete with a turret and moat. Next to the dragon, she drew a smiling girl with curly hair wearing body armor, and holding a sword.

I looked close.

“It’s you, Miss Bennett,” she said.

“I’m not that pretty.” The words slipped out. I wasn’t asking for a compliment.

“Yes, you are,” Shawn and Carrie Lynn said at the same time.

“It looks just like you,” said Shawn.

Carrie Lynn put the pencil down, then picked up the crayons nearby and starting coloring. I watched as she blended the colors together, making the dragon and the girl come alive with color, even somehow managing to make the girl’s body armor shine.

“Carrie’s pretty good at drawing, isn’t she, Miss Bennett?” Shawn asked, pride in his voice.

“No, Shawn,” I said. Carrie dropped the crayons as if they’d burned her hands, her face flushing with color. Her eyes almost hit the floor as I hurried to tell her the truth. “Carrie Lynn is not
pretty good
at drawing. She’s absolutely brilliant. Absolutely talented. Absolutely incredible. You’re an artist, Carrie Lynn. An artist.”

And at that, Carrie Lynn, tiny Carrie Lynn with her little hands and huge blue eyes that always looked on the verge of tears, wrapped her skinny arms around my plump waist and hugged me.

The front door of the library was on the main street of town, so I attached the poster to an easel and put it right out front at 2:00. Shawn and Carrie Lynn and I surreptitiously watched the townspeople looking at the poster while we ate our snack of White Chocolate Fudge Triangle Cookies and milk on the front steps. The Vulture had already had her lunch/vodka break.

Every time someone smiled when they saw the poster, I nudged Carrie Lynn. She looked so pleased—so small, so fragile, and so pleased! Her hair, which Shawn brushed every day now, shone in the summer light like gold.

I hadn’t seen any more bruises, but I looked, and when I saw them again I would call Children’s Services. Why does a child have to be half dead before the state will step in to help?

When our break was over, we put books back onto the shelves, and I read them both a story. By 3:00, the appointed time, we had two mothers and four children at Story Hour.

I chose my four favorite storybooks. After two books I taught the kids two songs about a naughty donkey and a princess who always got in trouble. I read another book, then put on a children’s CD I had bought the day before, and we danced and I blew bubbles. To close Story Hour—we were ten minutes over time—I put the two puppets I had bought on my hands to say good-bye to the children.

The next day we had four mothers and their children. The day after that, nine mothers. By the end of the week eleven mothers and their children came to Story Hour. Each day I introduced Shawn and Carrie Lynn as my helpers. The mothers must have heard the town gossip and felt sorry for them, because they went out of their way to be kind.

And when they found out that Carrie Lynn was behind the wonderful poster, they were so complimentary that Carrie Lynn almost smiled. We decided that the children who came to Story Hour could put their names in a purple velvet hat I borrowed from Aunt Lydia. Whoever had his or her name drawn could keep the poster Carrie Lynn had drawn for that week. No one was allowed to win twice.

On Friday a four-year-old girl won the first poster. With braids flying, mouth open wide and screaming with excitement, she went up and hugged Carrie Lynn and Shawn, then grabbed the poster and ran out the door, her mother struggling to keep up with her.

Two of the other children cried.

I had Carrie Lynn and Shawn come early on Monday to make a new poster. Carrie Lynn drew a giant spotted dog surrounded by miniature kittens because we were going to read stories about dogs and cats. Up it went on the easel outside the library. By 3:00 the small Story Hour area was jammed.

Story Hour was a roaring success.

The only person who didn’t like it was Ms. Cutter, but every time she said something sarcastic about “her” library turning into a children’s zoo I would glance pointedly at her drawer.

At Golden’s fiftieth annual town fair I decided I would sell chocolate truffles with a pink or white frosting bow on the top, and chocolates in the shapes of chickens, teddy bears, lizards, and cats. I had also decided that I would whip up Chocolate French Silk Pies, Chocolate Lemon Tartlets, Chocolate Mint Filled Cupcakes, and Chocolate Crackle Top Cookies. Might as well cater to every taste and see if I could make some money doing this.

“Those are some fancy-schmancy chocolate desserts you got there, Julia,” Lydia said, dividing up all the eggs we had collected that morning into different egg cartons. The egg cartons all came printed with
WILD EGGS FROM THE LADIES
in red on the top, the name of her business. In each dozen-count carton she dropped nine white eggs, two brown, and one blue. “People love to see art in their egg cartons, and this is art!” Lydia declared. “Pure white, brown that looks like those mochas you like to drink, and blue as blue as those oceans in the advertisements for cruises. My eggs are art!”

She grabbed five eggs at a time in each hand and plopped them into the egg cartons. Already she had bound her elephant garlic together in white mesh bags and tied them with long purple ribbons and attached tiny tags with her company’s name printed on them.

For someone who takes exactly eight minutes in the morning to shower, get dressed, and put her hair up in braids or a ponytail, and who thinks women who wear makeup and get dressed up are wasting their time on their looks instead of their “innards,” as Lydia likes to call them, she was surprisingly picky about her “farm art,” as she called it.

“Garlic is for lust,” she told me. “For lusty lust. That’s why I’ve called them Lusty Elephant Garlic. These will sell like you wouldn’t believe, especially when I tell women their orgasms will be better.”

A better orgasm.

Women could always use that type of thing.

“I’m off!” Lydia shoved several egg cartons in the refrigerator, tossed a bag of Lusty Elephant Garlic in a basket, and gave me a quick kiss. “I’m meeting Caroline today. She called last night, and I could tell she was seeing the future for many people and their tears and screams were upsetting her. I’m going to grab a joint and go. Are you sure you don’t want to come, dearie?”

I shook my head. “I have to stay and prepare more Jumbo Chocolate Chip Cookies. Chocolate is an aphrodisiac, you know.”

“Yes, it is!” Aunt Lydia agreed. “Chocolate is love and desire and passion all rolled up into delicious bites.” She popped a chocolate cat into her mouth. “Delicious. I’m going to bring some to Caroline. You don’t mind?”

I didn’t mind. Aunt Lydia kissed me again and said good-bye to two birds who flew over her head. “Put the birds back in their cages after their morning flights, would you, love?” she called, and then she was off and I was back to my baking.

Aunt Lydia had taught me to cook and bake and can when I was a child, and ever since I was seventeen, making chocolates and chocolate desserts gave my mind a break from worrying about my problems and whacked-out emotional issues, the “life sucker” problems as Aunt Lydia called them. Chocolates were my escape.

But they offered no escape from thinking about Dean Garrett. In fact, I thought about Dean Garrett most of the time. I thought about that smile and the way he looked at me as if he thought I meant something, and the way he listened to me even when I sounded oh so inane. I let my mind wander just a tad to how warm his hands would feel sliding down my hips and how much my big boobs would fill out his hands and how he would be warm and snuggly in bed.

Now, I am not going to get involved with him,
I told myself as I frosted a truffle. And I was sure he didn’t want to get involved with me, especially not when he probably had another woman (or women) waiting for him in Portland, and my ass is rather wobbly and large, and my waist is none too thin, and my curls are always all over the place.

But I could fantasize a bit, because the Dread Disease would probably soon kill me, or Robert would, and I should enjoy my time on Earth as much as I could at this point. And, besides, Dean was supposed to be back tomorrow from a trial in Portland, which had gone two weeks longer than expected.