The Dangers of Candy Canes by Laura Levine

Author:Laura Levine [Levine, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780758236883
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2007-05-10T04:00:00+00:00

***

I made a mental note to write a letter to the mayor about the exorbitant parking rates in Century City and headed back to my apartment for a bite of lunch.

In spite of the Almond Joy I’d wolfed down on Hysteria Lane, I was hungry. I had an untouched order of pork potstickers in my refrigerator which I intended to demolish the minute I got home.

Back in my apartment, I raced past the eternally napping Prozac and made a beeline for the kitchen. I grabbed the potstickers from the refrigerator and put them in the microwave, counting impatiently as the seconds ticked by. It’s amazing how long thirty seconds can seem when you’re starving.

Then, wouldn’t you know, just when I’d snatched them out, the phone rang.

Argggh! Why does the phone always ring when you’re about to shove a potsticker in your mouth?

“I’ll be right back,” I promised the little darlings, and raced to the living room to get the phone.

“Yes?” I growled, answering the dratted thing. Probably some stupid telemarketer.

“Am I speaking with Jaine Austen?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“It’s Tyler Girard.”

Oh, shoot. In my frenzy to get at those potstickers, I hadn’t recognized his voice. Why had I been so grouchy? I wanted him to think I was sweet and upbeat, not a snarling harpy.

“Oh, hi, Tyler!” I gushed.

“It sounds like you were in the middle of something.”

“Well, yes, actually. I was baking cookies for the homeless.”

Huh? Where had that come from? Why on earth had I made up such an outrageous lie?

“For the Union Rescue Mission,” I added in a fit of lunacy, referring to a local soup kitchen.

“Really? I didn’t know they accepted homemade goods. I thought the stuff had to be packaged for security reasons.”

“Oh, they know me down there. I’ve been doing it for years. In fact, they call me The Cookie Lady.”

If I told one more lie, I’d be struck by lightning.

“So,” he asked, “how was your date with Angel Cavanaugh?”

“Fine! Terrific. We definitely began to bond.”

Would the whoppers never end?

“That’s so gratifying to hear. It’s always nice to know we’ve made a good match. I hope we’ll see you at the Christmas party.”

“We?”

I smelled a Significant Other lurking in the wings.

“Yes, I told Sister Mary Agnes all about you, and she can’t wait to meet you.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. The “she” in his “we” was Sister Mary Agnes.

“Well, you’d better get back to those cookies.”

“Cookies?”

“For the homeless.”

“Oh, right. My cookies.”

I hung up, vowing to some day actually donate cookies to the homeless, and praying that Angel wouldn’t spill the beans about our disastrous date. Then I hurried back to the kitchen for my potstickers, whose heavenly aroma had now drifted out into the living room.

What happened next was absolutely heartbreaking. Sensitive readers may want to get out their hankies.

I bounded into the kitchen, only to find Prozac curled up on the kitchen counter, belching softly, surrounded by what just five minutes ago had been my potstickers. Now they were mangled bits of dough, pathetic dim sum corpses.

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