Free The Chocolate Bear Burglary by JoAnna Carl Page B

add glamour, though it meant enough money to pay for a speech coach, once I learned where to buy used evening gowns.
    I was still trying to get through college when I was twenty-two, and I met the guy I thought was my dream man—Jeff’s father. He was old enough and successful enough not to be impressed by having a wife who had once been a loser in Miss Texas competitions. He was settled in life, I told myself. I could trust his love.
    Wrong again. Rich didn’t love me. He loved his idea of me—a blonde who could look good when we went out with his business associates and who was barely smart enough to punch in the phone numbers for the right caterer and the right decorator.
    I was still trying to finish my accounting degree when we got married, and he encouraged me to enroll in a full class load the next semester. I overlooked the patronizing way he wrote my tuition check, but I caught on when I brought my grades home. I made the President’s List, and Rich sulked for three days. Then I asked a few accountant-type questions about his business, and Rich was furious for three weeks. Because I get my tang tongueled all the time, he’d thought I was stupid. And that’s what Rich had wanted me to be. When he found out there were a few brains under my natural blond hair, it ruined our marriage.
    I’d wasted five years on Rich. Then I wasted nine months on Joe Woodyard. Now Hart VanHorn was standing there, smiling at me and offering to buy me a pizza at the Dock Street. A lot of emotional baggage might have flashed through my mind, but I answered him within fifteen seconds.
    “That sounds wonderful,” I said.
    “Great! About seven?”
    “Fine. But are you sure you want to make it the Dock Street?”
    “Nearly everything in Warner Pier is closed this time of the year. Doesn’t the Dock Street have the best food of any place that’s open?”
    “Oh, yes. But the Dock Street is gossip central for Warner Pier.”
    Hart laughed. “I don’t mind. But I don’t live here. If you’d rather go into Holland . . . ?”
    “No, the Dock Street is fine.”
    “Good. Now you tell me just where to pick you up.”
    I described the landmarks that identified Aunt Nettie’s drive. “This time of the year you can see the house easily,” I said. “I’ll leave the lights on in front and in back, and you may want to come around to the kitchen. That sidewalk’s easier to get to, since the drive curves around to the side of the house.”
    “I know the house you mean,” Hart said. “It’s not far from our place. I’ll be there.”
    I rang up his chocolates. While he was signing the MasterCard slip I stood there beaming because one of the most eligible bachelors in Michigan had asked me out to a highly public place. Then our boarded-up front door opened and admitted an attack of guilt.
    Joe Woodyard’s mother came in.
    I almost ducked down behind the counter. I’m sure I did turn red and look guilty. For a mad moment I was sure she was going to accuse me of being untrue to her son.
    “Hi, Lee,” she said. “Sorry I wasn’t in the office when you called. Of course your insurance covers your break-in—after your deductible.”
    “Oh!” I’d forgotten that I’d called her. “Handy Hun called the grass destroyers.”
    Joe’s mom and Hart VanHorn both stared at me incredulously. I’d reached a new standard in scrambled language.
    I spoke again, slowly and carefully. “I mean, Handy Hans called the glass installers. They’ll be here tomorrow.” I gestured toward Hart. “Mercy, have you met Hart VanHorn? Aunt Nettie and I were terribly relieved that the burglar didn’t take Mrs. VanHorn’s mold collection.”
    Mercy Woodyard’s whole demeanor perked up. She beamed at Hart. “No, we haven’t met, but I heard the speech you gave at the insurance convention last summer. On the state violence-against-women bill. It was excellent.”
    They shook hands. I left them chatting about women’s shelters and insurance coverage