Sweet Surprises (3 page)

“Well, that sucks,” Brenna said. “But, I have some good news for you, River. I have the key to the shop, and I'm happy to give you some fudge. Belinda was a long-term sub in my class the year my dad died. I've never forgotten how kind she was to me.”

River wanted to tell her that he was sorry about her father's death. It was old news, an old wound, but he didn't think a person ever really got over losing someone she loved.

“I'm—”
sorry you lost your father at such a young age. That had to be tough
, was what he was going to say, but she cut him off.

“I'll meet you over at the shop.” She rolled up the window and drove away, the Chrysler coughing up clouds of exhaust.

He jogged across the parking lot, jumped into his truck and followed. Maybe he
should
have just let Brenna go back to whatever she'd been doing when he'd heard her walking through the cemetery, but the thought of returning to Freedom Ranch empty-handed appealed to him about as much as getting a root canal. Actually, the thought of returning to Freedom Ranch
with
the fudge in hand didn't appeal to him, either.

He'd go back, though, and he'd play nice with the people who were living there.

He'd promised Belinda.

He planned to keep his promise.

Unless that little pipsqueak Huckleberry made Belinda cry again. Then the promise would be out the window and Huckleberry would be out on his scrawny behind.

River Maynard was nothing like Brenna remembered.

And she
did
remember him.

How could she not?

He'd been the talk of the town from the time he'd arrived until the day he'd left when he was eighteen. Every parent worried about him, every girl secretly crushed on him, every guy was jealous. At least, that's the way it had seemed to Brenna, but she'd been three years behind him in school, and she'd been too busy worrying about other things to pay all that much attention to the long-haired demon who'd descended on their quiet town.

His hair wasn't long now.

He'd cropped it short. He probably also went to the gym, because his lanky teenage body? It had filled out. A lot. Shoulders. Thighs. Biceps.

She'd noticed.

God help her.

She had.

She might be off the market forever, but she knew a good-looking guy when she saw one. She knew trouble when she saw it, too. River might have changed, but she was certain he was still that. The curve of his lips when he smiled—just a little sardonic and a little wicked—the gleam in his eyes; they were all the clues she needed. That was fine. She'd keep her distance from him the same way she planned to keep her distance from everyone else in Benevolence.

It wasn't that she didn't like the people there. It was more that she didn't want to be a fraud, and she couldn't see a way to be authentic. Not around all the people she'd grown up with who thought she'd made it big. Janelle liked to talk, and she talked about Brenna. A lot. At least, that's what Adeline said.

Adeline, who'd never left Benevolence, who'd built a nice accounting business that served almost everyone in town, who'd jumped in and taken over Chocolate Haven when Granddad broke his hip and femur. Who'd gotten married to a guy who adored her, given a home to a couple of kids who needed one. Who'd never disappointed anyone. Ever.

Brenna loved her sister, but she'd never be like her.

She was too much herself in a town where being like everyone else was important.

And now she was going to be running Chocolate Haven.

Her birthright.

That's what Granddad had said when he'd been trying to convince her to return to Benevolence.

If she was going to claim a birthright, why couldn't it be crown jewels or a cabin in the mountains? Better yet, why couldn't it be a huge pile of books in a little house in some faraway corner of the world? Why did it have to be a chocolate shop where everyone in town could traipse in and ask questions about Brenna's life, her ex, her modeling career, and her business?

She drove into the heart of town, the old buildings, the wide storefront windows, the soft exterior lights as familiar as breathing. She
knew
this place. Every house. Every alley. Every street.

And, she loved it.

She could admit that now. Just like she could admit that she'd only left because she'd been drowning in the weight of other people's expectations. She'd wanted to be herself, and everyone else had wanted her to be bigger, brighter, better. When she'd been discovered by a talent scout while she was on her senior trip to Washington, D.C., she'd jumped at the opportunity to sign with his modeling agency.

It had seemed like destiny, like finally coming into her own.

It had taken her a long time to realize that she'd simply jumped from one set of expectations to another.

She sighed, turning onto Main Street.

Years ago, the town council had voted to hang flower baskets from the curved streetlights. Every year since then, Brenna's mother had spearheaded the project. She'd solicit donations and volunteers, organize an entire community effort to get those baskets up. Usually there was a vote on the flowers' colors and a few heated arguments about what they should choose and why. Blue and pink because Louise Rockingham had twins. Orange because it was different. Yellow because Lila Samson's husband needed a little cheering up. Pink because Matilda Reed had breast cancer. The list of colors and reasons spanned the ten years Brenna had been away.

This year, though, Janelle had been silent.

No calls in the middle of the day to complain about the bickering council members. No early morning texts asking if fuchsia was too bright for a town like Benevolence. Not even a hint at what color had been chosen. Brenna had wondered if the tradition had stopped, but she hadn't asked. She'd been too distracted by her circumstances, too busy worrying about how she was going to pay the next bill to worry much about flower baskets or, even, her mother's silence.

Now that she was back, she could see that the baskets were hanging. It was too dark to see the colors, but they were glimmering in the streetlights. White maybe. Or pale pink.

She'd have to ask her mother how the process had gone, whether or not the vote had been unanimous, what pressing Benevolence issue had led to the color choice. That would make Janelle happy, and asking questions was a whole hell of a lot better than having to answer them.

She pulled up in front of Chocolate Haven, the bright glow of the exterior lights splashing across the sidewalk. The place looked like it always had: a pretty little brownstone butting up against what had once been May Reynolds's fabric store. She'd closed the store after she'd found true love. Her wedding had been the beginning of the end of Brenna's very short engagement to Dan. While Brenna had been sitting in a pew watching two seventy-something-year-olds exchange vows, Dan had been in New York cleaning out their bank accounts.

She shoved the thought aside.

The police were searching for Dan.

There was nothing more she could do but move forward.

And she would.

She
had
.

She turned into the narrow alley that led to the back parking lot. It was darker there, the exterior light off. She'd been here a thousand times before, though, and she knew which key opened the door, knew just how much pressure it took to get the old key into the lock.

The door creaked open and she stepped inside, the cool darkness filled with the scent of chocolate and a million memories. She'd spent hours in the shop kitchen, sweeping the floor and washing pots and pans. When she hadn't been helping, she'd been sitting in her grandfather's office, a plate of chocolate on her lap, a book in her hand. She'd listened to her grandparents chat about business and customers. She'd bickered with her sisters over the last piece of fudge. She'd heard her parents giggling in the kitchen after the shop closed.

Janelle giggling?

Brenna frowned. She'd forgotten about that, forgotten just how happy and content her mother had been before her father's diagnosis.

Things had been different then, and she could remember just enough about how happy they'd all been to know how much things had changed after Brett Lamont was told he had brain cancer. It hadn't been his death that had changed them. It had been that long decline, the year and a half of watching him fade. It had been the silence, the pretending, the constant fear all covered with a layer of cheer. They were the Lamonts, after all. They couldn't do grief the way other people did.

At least, that's the way Brenna had felt. She'd been young, though. She might have misread things.

She flicked on the light and walked into the pristine kitchen. Not a pot or pan out of place. Not a smudge of chocolate on the counter. If she walked into the pantry, she'd find milk chocolate, dark chocolate, white chocolate, and pecans, all of it in old mason jars. She'd see the old 1920s canister set, filled with sugar and coffee, cinnamon and salt. There'd be large bottles of vanilla on the shelves. Dried figs, raisins, apricots displayed in large glass jars. Local ingredients if possible, and always only the finest quality.

That was the way Granddad did things.

It was the way generations of Lamonts had done them before him, and it was the way Brenna would be expected to do them.

That was fine. She liked neat and tidy and orderly.

She just wasn't sure how good she'd be at making chocolate. It was an art, and she didn't think she had the talent for it. She could barely toast bread without burning it.

One of Grandma Alice's favorite sayings. The problem was, Brenna wasn't sure there was a bridge. She wasn't even sure she was on a road. Right now, it felt like she was running on a treadmill and getting nowhere fast.

“Just look for the fudge and go to bed,” she muttered, hurrying through a narrow hall and into the shop's service area. The display cases nudged up against one another, each one filled with chocolates. She opened the first one, lifting a layer of waxed paper and eyeing dozens of candies. Chocolate hazelnut. Chocolate bark. Caramel rolls with dustings of nuts over the top. Chocolate filled with raspberries and topped with tiny flecks of candied fruit. Mint bars. Praline bars. No fudge, but she pulled out a couple of caramel rolls, their paper wrappers crinkling as she set them on top of the display case. They were Belinda's second favorite candy. She could remember Dillard Keech buying a half pound of fudge and a half dozen caramel rolls for her birthday and their anniversary every year. Granddad had always thrown in a few mint bars and a piece of dark chocolate bark for good measure.

She did the same, placing the candy in a pink box embossed with lighter pink flowers. That was new. Adeline's idea maybe? Brenna couldn't imagine Granddad choosing anything as fancy. He was more apt to use sturdy white boxes and plain gold ribbon.

She opened the second display case, lifting the waxed paper and eyeing row after row of glossy bonbons and squares of silky fudge. Chocolate. Chocolate peanut butter. Marshmallow. Rocky road. That was the newest addition to the family fudge recipes. Her father's contribution. Since he'd died, there hadn't been anything new added to the shop's menu. At least nothing Brenna knew about

She took several pieces of chocolate fudge, a piece of peanut butter and one of marshmallow, added two cocoa-dusted bonbons, and closed the box. She'd have to replace the inventory before the morning rush, but she'd deal with that in the morning.

Five o'clock in the morning.

That's when Granddad began his day. Apparently, it was also when Adeline started hers. Which meant it was when Brenna would have to be in the kitchen, re-creating all the gorgeous chocolates her family had spent generations perfecting.

Early mornings weren't a problem.

She liked getting up before the sun.

It was the chocolate that was going to be an issue.

That and pretending.

She'd worn her façade of happiness just fine when she'd been talking on the phone. Texting was even easier.

How are you doing? Adeline or Willow would type.

Fantastic, Brenna would reply. Glad to be done with the jerk.

Janelle would always get a variation of the theme: I'm doing well, Mom. How about you?

Yeah. Texting a response was easy.

She wasn't sure how she'd do face-to-face.

She didn't know if she could look in Adeline's eyes and tell her things were hunky-dory or if she could smile at Granddad and tell him how happy she was. As for Janelle . . .

Another bridge she'd have to cross when she got to it.

She carried the box across the room, unlocked the front door, and stepped outside.

A truck had pulled up in front of the shop and was idling near the curb, its engine humming happily. She'd figured River to be more the kind of guy who would have gotten out of the truck and banged on the shop door, but he was sitting in the cab as she approached, a phone pressed to his ear.

He unrolled the window, held up a finger, and mouthed, “One minute,” then nodded in acknowledgement to something the person he was speaking to must have said.

“Right. Call a repairman, clean up the mess, and wash the dishes by hand if you can't get the damn thing working before the morning rush. You'll all survive it. I can guarantee you that.” He listened for a moment, then chuckled. “Yeah. We'll talk about overtime when I get back. Keep me posted.”

He ended the call, smoothed his hair, his gaze suddenly focused on Brenna. “Sorry about that. I had some business to deal with.”

“Dish-washing business?”

“Today it's broken dishwasher business.” His gaze dropped to the box of chocolates, and he smiled. “That's a pretty big box for one piece of fudge.”

“No one can eat just one piece of Lamont fudge,” she said, handing it to him. “I packed some of Belinda's other favorites, too. And a few goodies for Huckleberry and the rest of your houseguests.”

“Now, why would you go and do a thing like that, Brenna?” he asked, setting the box on the passenger seat and climbing out of the truck. He was taller than her by a good three inches. Quite a feat considering that she was five-foot-eleven.

“Because it will make Belinda happy.”

“You've got a point. Otherwise, I'd eat every one of those chocolates myself before I let any of that group get their hands on them.” He fished a wallet out of his pocket, peeled a few bills out of the fold.

“There's no need to pay. Take the chocolates as a gift. Granddad would want Belinda to have them.” Byron was like that—always giving away chocolates and candies to people he felt needed a little cheering up.

“Your grandfather runs a business. He won't make a profit if he gives away his product.”

“My grandfather has never cared all that much about making a profit. If he did, he'd have moved the shop to some big city decades ago.”

“I'm going to tell you something, Brenna. I'm not much for taking charity. I hope that's not what those chocolates are.” He smoothed the bills and eyed her as if she'd offered him a box of poison and told him to swallow it down with a bucketful of horse pee.