Table Of ContentON ANY GIVEN SUNDAE
By
MARILYN BRANT
Smashwords Edition
On Any Given Sundae
Copyright 2011 by Marilyn B. Weigel
Cover Design by Kim Killion
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Other Books by Marilyn Brant:
According to Jane
Friday Mornings at Nine
A Summer in Europe
For Simone & Sara, who read it first…thank you.
CHAPTER ONE
It was long, Elizabeth Daniels noted. Without a doubt, Jacques’s was
several inches longer than most.
She leaned in, scanned it and ran her index finger along its prodigious
length. She heard Jacques’s quick intake of breath.
Silken to the touch, yet deliciously firm. Broad. Sleek. Inviting. She nodded
her approval, swallowed and brought her lips to its soft-brown side. A thick,
creamy droplet poised on the tip. She moaned, anticipating the coming moments.
Her tongue snaked out to lick the end clean.
“Mmmm,” she murmured.
“C’mon. Go for it,” Jacques urged, tension filling his voice. “Pleeeeease.
You’re killing me.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Elizabeth, I’m pleading with you.”
“Oh, all right.” She licked the tip again, inhaled deeply and took a big bite.
Jacques exploded next to her. “Well?”
“Incredible,” she declared. “This is the single best éclair I’ve had in
months.” She glanced at Jacques’s expression. “Years,” she amended.
“And?”
“And you’re absolutely right. This new recipe is even better than your last
batch. It has to be featured in the book. In fact, I’m giving you the cover spread
for the pastries chapter.”
“Yes! Yes!” The portly, thirty-six-year-old French chef did a little jig in the
front aisle of Tutti-Frutti, the ice cream parlor and confectionary shop where she
and Jacques worked part time. Elizabeth’s uncle and his business partner owned
the place, and they’d turned it into “The Coolest Hotspot” in Wilmington Bay,
Wisconsin.
Elizabeth grinned at her good friend’s jubilance. Jacques’s enthusiasm was
one of the many things she adored about him. Another thing was that, despite the
remnants of Jacques’s French accent, they spoke the same language—a
vernacular inhabited by fillo dough, shaved almond bark and imported spices.
As one of the few people she could be herself around, the Frenchman was worth
his weight in dutched cocoa.
Jacques pranced around a little more, his receding hairline becoming more
prominent when he jumped. “I knew you’d love it, chéri,” he said. “Didn’t I tell
you you’d love it?”
“You told me.”
Elizabeth wiped the chocolate frosting and custard splotches off her chin
before scribbling a few cursory comments in her notebook. She hadn’t
exaggerated in her assessment. Every one of Jacques’s creations was bigger and
better than the competition. She needed her first solo dessert cookbook—Perfect
Pastries, Pralines and Parfaits—to do the same.
He gave her a saucy wink. “You know, I think you need to take my
marriage proposal more seriously, ma petite brioche. Just imagine the two of us
together. We could bring tasty comfort to millions of people daily. Sweet-
toothed folks the world over,” he raised his voice and waved his oven mitt in the
air with fervor, “will flock to Wilmington Bay to see where this wonder all
began.” He beamed at her. “Jacques and Elizabeth—Saviors of the Dessert
Deprived.”
“Please tell me that’s not going to be our slogan.”
He shrugged. “I will leave the naming up to you, but I’ll be hurt if you
don’t think it through just a bit. Our possible engagement, I mean.” He couldn’t
disguise the mischievous glint in his eye. “Friendship is the key to long-lasting
love. I’d be honored to marry such a good friend as you, Elizabeth.” His voice
dropped. “If you’ll have me.”
She walked to where he stood behind the counter and threw her arms
around him. “You are an amazing man…and yet, totally, unbelievably insincere
on this subject.” She punched him on the shoulder. “But thanks for trying to
cheer me up. I may have given up looking for love, but one of these days you’ll
find someone worthy of you.”
“Nonsense. You’re just saying ‘no’ now because you want the empire all to
yourself, you greedy girl!” He dipped her backward, as if in a finale to a dance
routine, and planted a brotherly kiss on her forehead. “In another year or two
you’ll be ready for me.”
She laughed and they stepped apart. Their conversations were peppered
with moments like this: Jacques tossing a half-hearted proposal her way and her
waving him off until next time. There was truly no romantic chemistry between
them, but loneliness made people play these kinds of games. They’d spent hours
recounting their relationship woes, alongside their other close friends, Nick and
Gretchen. All of them had known too many years of heartbreak.
“So, it’s a bright and lovely Sunday morning. What else is on your agenda
today?” he said as he walked over to the oven and pulled out a steaming batch of
fresh cranberry croissants. Elizabeth could feel the butter clogging her arteries
from across the room.
“I’ve got some rewrites to do on the pecan-praline cookies,” she told him.
“I had Nick try out the lead recipe, and he said the tops burned if we left them in
at three hundred seventy-five degrees for the whole twelve minutes. They’re
only supposed to be ‘golden brown.’”
“It’s always something.”
“Exactly.” She sighed.
“I’ll bring you one of these to taste when I’m done,” Jacques said, taking
the croissant tray into the backroom to decorate the pastries with icing.
Just then, her uncle, Siegfried Finklehooper, burst through the front door.
From the look on his face, she knew bad news had crossed his path, and now it
was going to cross hers.
“Hi, Uncle Siegfried,” she said. “What’s wrong?” She brushed a strand of
frizzy reddish-brown hair away from her eyes and stared at him. His blue eyes
flashed with strange brightness.
“I need your help, Liebling,” her uncle said, using his native German
endearment for “darling,” which would’ve made her smile at any other time.
He’d called her mother that, too, when she was alive.
“Of course,” she said.
“I must go back to Bavaria.”
“When? Why?” Elizabeth’s worry gene jumped into gear and her pulse
picked up speed. She could only think of one reason he’d have to go to
Germany. “Is it Aunt Anita?”
He nodded, and Elizabeth knew he’d be flying out immediately. He’d
promised his late wife, Elizabeth’s wonderful Auntie Bette, he would never let
her sister Anita die alone. But at age seventy-two, that wouldn’t be an easy trip
for Uncle Siegfried to make.
“I can come with you,” she blurted. “Let me go home to pack and—”
“No, no, Liebling. You have a deadline on your cookbook, and I must be
gone for several weeks, maybe a month. Either until she recovers or until…” He
let that distressing thought trail off. “Pauly’s going with me.”
“I, um…really?” she said. Pauly Carrera, her uncle’s business partner of
forty years, was a full-blooded Italian a few years older than Uncle Siegfried. He
was also cantankerous, prickly and on the opposite side of obliging. “But, who’s
going to run the shop then?”
Pauly chose that moment to make his entrance. “Did you tell her yet?” he
said in a gruff voice to her uncle.
Uncle Siegfried shot him an irritated look. “We leave tonight, Liebling,” he
explained to Elizabeth. “And we were hoping we could count on you to be in
charge while we’re away.”
“Me?” Her pulse halted mid-beat. As it was, she would barely make her
deadline on the cookbook but, looking at her uncle’s face, she knew she’d have
to burn a lot of midnight oil this summer because she couldn’t say no to him.
“Oh, sure—if—if that’s what you think is b-best.” There were also her nerves
and her “minor” public-speaking problem, but she’d just have to deal with those
issues too.
“Thank you,” Uncle Siegfried said. “You’re one of the few people we’d
trust with Tutti-Frutti, and you know we could never afford to close the shop for
that long.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, rubbing gently the paper-thin skin on her uncle’s
hand, praying she could handle this task. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Pauly coughed and patted his chest with his fist. “Well, it’s not like you’ll
have to do it all alone.”
“Why?” Elizabeth couldn’t disguise her surprise at this news. “Who else
will be here?”
Pauly shot her a curious stare. “Didn’t your uncle tell you anything? You
know my nephew? Roberto Gabinarri?” He rolled his R’s in that deeply Italian
way. It sounded beautiful, but all she could think was, Oh, my God. No!
She took three very deep breaths. “Y-You mean R-Rob?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what he always goes by, I guess,” Pauly said with a
shrug. “Well, he’s coming up to help, too. Between the two of you, you
shouldn’t have any problems keeping the place together for a few weeks.”
This wasn’t happening. She wasn’t hearing his name again after all of these
years. Ten years, for goodness sake. There was absolutely no way she could—or
would—work with him. None. She’d never be able to speak a coherent sentence
in his presence.
“You’ve already t-t-talked to him?” God help her. If Pauly set things up
with Rob, there’d be no way for her to get out of this without looking even more
foolish than she felt.
Pauly nodded vigorously, and Elizabeth’s heart sank to her toes. “In a
manner of speaking,” Pauly said.
She opened her mouth to question him but her throat clenched up. It was
like high school all over again. Before she could force the words out, Uncle
Siegfried interrupted.
“We’re so grateful to you, Liebling.” Her uncle waved a sheet of paper at
her. “I wrote down Anita’s home phone number and address, in case any
questions come up.”
Pauly shot a rare grin in her direction. “But don’t worry. This will be easy
for you. And Roberto—he’s a wiz at these things.”
“Um, w-when will he be here?” she managed to ask.
Pauly pulled out his cell phone. “Let me just check on that now.” He rushed
out of the room.
Uncle Siegfried gave her a fierce hug and dropped the shop’s keys in her
lap.
***
Rob Gabinarri was enjoying the sound of his own voice in his latest battle
of wits with Miguel, the style consultant for his Chicago restaurant, when the
phone rang.
“Rob Gabinarri, proprietor. The Playbook,” he said into the receiver,
feeling the usual pride at the words. He never got tired of announcing his
ownership of this place.
“Roberto!” his Uncle Pauly said.
Rob checked the date. It wasn’t his birthday. It wasn’t Christmas. It wasn’t
the NFL Playoffs or anytime close to the Super Bowl. Something must be wrong
with somebody.
“Uncle Pauly, how are you? Is everything all right in Wilmington Bay?”
“Great, great.”
“Everyone in the family? Mama and Tony and Maria-Louisa and the kids
and—”
“Oh, they’re all fine. Just fine. But I need your help.”
This stopped Rob cold. The last time his independent uncle had asked for
anybody’s help, big hair and legwarmers had still been in fashion. No matter
what, there was no way Rob could decline. Family always came first.
“Of course. What do you need?”
“You’re the boss of that hotshot restaurant, right?”
“Right,” Rob said, his pride wavering a bit as apprehension seeped in.
“You make the rules and set the schedules, right?”
“Right.”
“So, what you say is what goes, right?”
The last of his pride was now replaced by full-fledged anxiety. “Uh, right.”
“So, you could take some time off now, couldn’t you, Roberto?”
“I, well…sure. I guess so, but…” Please, please don’t tell me I need to
leave the safety of downtown Chicago and return to suffocating small-town
Wilmington Bay. Please, no.
“I need you to come back to Wilmington Bay for a coupla weeks. Help us
out here in the shop.”
Damn! “I—well, I’m not so good with sweets, Uncle Pauly. Is there
anything I can do for you from here? Anything I could send up? Supplies,
maybe? I could hire a person who could step in for a while and—”
“Dire sciocchezze. You’re talking nonsense, boy. You’re great with sweets,
and we need you.”
Rob stifled a heavy sigh. “Okay. When do you need me?”
There was a pause on the line. “Is three hours too soon?” his uncle asked,
his brusque voice unusually cheerful. “How about four?”
***
Elizabeth rarely swore aloud but, in her mind, she was cursing not just a
blue streak, but also a red, orange, yellow and green streak. She was, in fact,
well on her way to a complete blasphemous rainbow, and Rob Gabinarri hadn’t
even arrived yet.
Of all people. She never thought she’d have to make it through so much as
a ten-minute soda pop break with him again. The boy who’d broken her heart
and didn’t even know it.
Or maybe he did know it.
She couldn’t decide which was the greater tragedy.
A snazzy red Porsche convertible squealed to a stop behind her sensible
blue Toyota Camry, and the town’s Golden Boy stepped out of the car and into
the empty confectionary shop.
“Hey, Lizzy. Long time, no see,” he said, glancing around the shop in a
frantic kind of way.
“E-Elizabeth,” she corrected automatically.
“Oh, all right. Sorry.”
She stared at him, which of course he didn’t notice because he was too busy
looking at everything else in the place besides her.
He walked into the backroom then out of it again.
He peered into the washrooms.
He opened and shut a few closets.
He paced back and forth, sat down in a booth, got back up and paced some
more.
The guy was as tall and muscular and breathtaking as he’d been a decade
