“Oh what do I do? Do I call Kevin? Do I not call him?” I said out loud to myself. And then as if answered by some higher power—Verizon probably—the phone started dialing Kevin.
I gasped, panicking. Do I hang up? Do I wait and see what happens?
Yes, I’d taken a vow but this was really out of my hands. Literally. My phone had made the decision for me. Could I help it if the voice-dialer app I’d recently installed on my smart phone had reacted to the words I’d spoken aloud: “call Kevin” and had interpreted them as a voice command? No, I couldn’t.
I heard the click of someone answering. But no one spoke.
“Hello?” I said softly.
“Kevin’s phone,” a female voice answered. “Who’s this?”
I quickly hit the ‘end call’ button and pushed the phone as far away from me as I could on the coffee table.
Okay, that had been a big mistake. Now Kevin would think I was a stalker. A dateless stalker on a Friday night. I groaned to myself and buried my head under the couch pillow, then I fell asleep .
***
I woke up an hour later, feeling miserable and hung-over, which was weird since I hadn’t had anything to drink. It was probably a shame-hangover from having called Kevin. I re-vowed never to call him again and in fact, never to think about him again, then I went into the kitchen to get some food.
I warmed up the Coq au vin. Then I poured myself a glass of red wine and sat at the dining table to eat, ‘like a lady,’ as Nana would say. I practically swooned as I took the first bite. Babette truly was an amazing cook.
But a s I ate, my mind, of course, kept drifting back to Kevin. I forced myself to think about other things. Doug, for instance—and what Nana had said about him. Could he really believe that Babette was cheating on him? And did he possibly have a real reason to believe it?
I didn’t think so. No matter what a jerk he was, Babette seeme d to still be in love with him.
But as to Doug cheating with Dahlia Wiggins— that part was very believable. And very concerning. Especially since she was the one that had hired us to cater the bridal shower the next day.
I just couldn’t imagine that Babette knew anything about the rumors, or she wouldn’t have agreed to cater the event. Would she have?
CHAPTER FIVE
I awoke the next morning feeling totally refreshed. I ’d only planned to take a short nap the night before and then catch up on some reading and maybe refinish a set of drawers I’d rescued from someone’s trash. I had a new homemade chalk paint recipe that I really wanted to test out on it. Instead I conked out right after dinner and slept through the whole night.
As I pulled my shoulder length sandy-colored hair into a smooth pony tail and put on a neat black skirt and white top, I studied myself in the mirror. It wasn’t my best look, but it was neat, clean and appropriate for the bridal shower we were dessert-catering.
The party was at the bride-to-be’s mother’s house and we were setting up the dessert table in the dining room, arranging everything on a lovely blue and white striped silk table cloth.
It looked beautiful, there were flowers everywhere and a cornucopia of Bundt cakes of every size and variety. Some were on silver tiered cake plates, some were spilling artistically out of blue Tiffany boxes, all were gorgeously decorated, in the “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” theme, with pale blue frosting, white pearls and tiny black sunglasses made from fondant.
Babette’s artistic talents were on full, gorgeous display and the bride-to-be, a sweet faced blonde in her mid-twenties, loved it. She went around excitedly hugging everyone—including Babette and me.
After everyone arrived and placed their blue-wrapped gifts on a table in the living room, Dahlia Wiggins, the hostess of the event, finally made her grand entrance down the grand staircase in the living room.
As I looked at her, I realized it was no wonder she’d
I gasped, panicking. Do I hang up? Do I wait and see what happens?
Yes, I’d taken a vow but this was really out of my hands. Literally. My phone had made the decision for me. Could I help it if the voice-dialer app I’d recently installed on my smart phone had reacted to the words I’d spoken aloud: “call Kevin” and had interpreted them as a voice command? No, I couldn’t.
I heard the click of someone answering. But no one spoke.
“Hello?” I said softly.
“Kevin’s phone,” a female voice answered. “Who’s this?”
I quickly hit the ‘end call’ button and pushed the phone as far away from me as I could on the coffee table.
Okay, that had been a big mistake. Now Kevin would think I was a stalker. A dateless stalker on a Friday night. I groaned to myself and buried my head under the couch pillow, then I fell asleep .
***
I woke up an hour later, feeling miserable and hung-over, which was weird since I hadn’t had anything to drink. It was probably a shame-hangover from having called Kevin. I re-vowed never to call him again and in fact, never to think about him again, then I went into the kitchen to get some food.
I warmed up the Coq au vin. Then I poured myself a glass of red wine and sat at the dining table to eat, ‘like a lady,’ as Nana would say. I practically swooned as I took the first bite. Babette truly was an amazing cook.
But a s I ate, my mind, of course, kept drifting back to Kevin. I forced myself to think about other things. Doug, for instance—and what Nana had said about him. Could he really believe that Babette was cheating on him? And did he possibly have a real reason to believe it?
I didn’t think so. No matter what a jerk he was, Babette seeme d to still be in love with him.
But as to Doug cheating with Dahlia Wiggins— that part was very believable. And very concerning. Especially since she was the one that had hired us to cater the bridal shower the next day.
I just couldn’t imagine that Babette knew anything about the rumors, or she wouldn’t have agreed to cater the event. Would she have?
CHAPTER FIVE
I awoke the next morning feeling totally refreshed. I ’d only planned to take a short nap the night before and then catch up on some reading and maybe refinish a set of drawers I’d rescued from someone’s trash. I had a new homemade chalk paint recipe that I really wanted to test out on it. Instead I conked out right after dinner and slept through the whole night.
As I pulled my shoulder length sandy-colored hair into a smooth pony tail and put on a neat black skirt and white top, I studied myself in the mirror. It wasn’t my best look, but it was neat, clean and appropriate for the bridal shower we were dessert-catering.
The party was at the bride-to-be’s mother’s house and we were setting up the dessert table in the dining room, arranging everything on a lovely blue and white striped silk table cloth.
It looked beautiful, there were flowers everywhere and a cornucopia of Bundt cakes of every size and variety. Some were on silver tiered cake plates, some were spilling artistically out of blue Tiffany boxes, all were gorgeously decorated, in the “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” theme, with pale blue frosting, white pearls and tiny black sunglasses made from fondant.
Babette’s artistic talents were on full, gorgeous display and the bride-to-be, a sweet faced blonde in her mid-twenties, loved it. She went around excitedly hugging everyone—including Babette and me.
After everyone arrived and placed their blue-wrapped gifts on a table in the living room, Dahlia Wiggins, the hostess of the event, finally made her grand entrance down the grand staircase in the living room.
As I looked at her, I realized it was no wonder she’d
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