Candy Hearts: A Romantic Valentine’s Day Story Read online

Candy Hearts:

  A Valentine’s Day Story

  By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake

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  Candy Hearts

  Rusty Fischer

  Copyright 2014 by Rusty Fischer

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Cover credit: © Oleksandr Kotenko – Fotolia.com

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  Author’s Note:

  The following is a FREE short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar! Happy reading… and happy holidays!

  Enjoy!

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  Candy Hearts:

  A Valentine’s Day Story

  “How do we run out of candy hearts?” I ask, voice a little high, tone a little tight, “… on Valentine’s Day?”

  Rory Cates, part-timer extraordinaire, he of the bushy mop of brown hair and adorable pug nose, flinches, a blush rising to his young cheeks.

  “I-I-I,” he stammers, “I mean, Cara, I thought we had plenty. It’s been really busy, I mean… the Sweetheart Scone is our biggest seller. You know that.”

  His soft brown eyes drift to the display stand just outside the front door on the busy sidewalk. It shows a heart shaped scone, gently iced with vanilla hazelnut frosting, a generous sprinkling of cinnamon candy hearts spread evenly all over it.

  No cinnamon candy hearts, no Sweetheart Scone. No Sweetheart Scone, no Valentine’s Day Promotion. Period, end of story. He knows this.

  “Rory,” I grunt, doing a slow burn as we linger behind the bakery counter. “We need to fix this. The after-date dinner rush is coming and you know this place is going to be swamped…”

  He runs long, pale fingers through his hair and frets.

  “I think… I think I saw a ton still on sale over at Dollar World,” he offers, shoving his hands nervously inside his red Snowflakes ‘N Scones work apron.

  I groan, glad for the brief respite in the Valentine’s rush. It’s been nonstop since I came in at noon, and we don’t close for another two hours. I open the cash register and take $20 from the till, making a note in my petty cash column.

  “Fine, well… here’s twenty bucks, head on over and… what, why are you making that face Rory? That’s your ‘I hear what you’re saying, but I’m not going to comply with your wishes’ face.”

  He smirks, looks away, says, “I… I kinda left my license at home, so…”

  I grit my teeth. Bad enough I’m here working on Valentine’s Night, in plain view of all my happily coupled friends instead of on a date myself, but now I have to deal with this?

  “So… it’s five blocks. I mean, you’re not going to risk it for the sake of St. Valentine’s?” I bite my tongue to keep from laughing, because the only good thing about working on Valentine’s is working with a guy like Rory, who always makes me laugh.

  But this? This isn’t funny.

  He pulls his hands out of his apron and holds them out, pleading, “Cara, I already have, like six parking tickets, if the cops catch me I’m for sure going to jail.”

  I finally chuckle. “You’re not going to jail, Rory, but God forbid anybody goes over and above for their job anymore,” I huff, grabbing my keys and storming toward the door. “You think you can hold down the fort until I get back?”

  He nods, politely, head hung low in the force of my uncharacteristic tirade. I push through the front door, out into the blustery night, topiaries twinkling with white string lights all up and down Cobblestone Center, the quaint little shopping district where the store I manage, Snowflakes ‘N Scones, sits amidst a row of other cute little storefronts, from the jewelry shop to the ceramic date night place to the cozy little Italian restaurant.

  Most are winding down by now, Valentine’s night almost over (thank God!), but we’ve still got another few hours to help drown the sorrows of old maids like me who have no date and want to get a little calorie comfort before the night is through.

  I drift toward the employee parking lot, passing couples walking hand in hand, lips tenderly brushing against one another’s, my eyes about to roll out of my head and onto the sidewalk.

  But at least I wait until I’m safe inside my six-year-old Honda, to make gagging noises.

  It’s not supposed to be like this; it never was. I’ve always loved Valentine’s Day. And I’ve never understood those sourpuss chicks who didn’t. Maybe it’s because I’ve always had a Valentine since, well, pretty much the eighth grade, when it all started to count.

  I’ve never had to be one of those girls sitting at home on the couch, stuffed in sweatpants pigging out on pints of Rocky Road watching anti-chick flicks and blowing her nose into a half-empty box of tissues with the rest balled up at her feet.

  At least, not until this year, when my boyfriend of seven months Phil Rosenkrantz sent me a Valentine’s Day card… intended for his other girlfriend. Yeah, you heard me: right address, red envelope, proper postage… wrong card inside.

  Whoops.

  I’d opened it up excitedly, sitting on my balcony with a glass of wine, cell phone at the ready to call him and squeal out my appreciation five seconds after opening it. It was cute, fancy, much fancier than the Christmas card he’d sent only a few months earlier.

  Then I opened it: “Dear Marcy,” it said, in passionate script, unlike the careful printing he always used in my cards. “Last weekend will be forever burned in my mind, and on my sheets, and on the kitchen counter, and in the shower. Please let me return the favor this Valentine’s Day, over and over again as I…”

  There was more, MUCH more, but that’s about as far as I got before I ripped it up and sent it sailing over my balcony railing, into the courtyard below. I’d broken up with him that night, via text, and that was that.

  I guess that’s what hurt so badly: not that he’d put some other girl’s card in my envelope, or even that he had another girl, or had spent the weekend he told me he was at a seminar consummating every piece of furniture in his apartment.

  Well, okay, of course those hurt but… what hurt the most was that he didn’t even bother to deny it. Didn’t even bother to argue, to lie, to fuss and fight and make some lame excuse.

  I wouldn’t have bought it, but… gheez, give a girl a little pride, huh? Go through the motions, at least.

  I sigh and back out of the parking lot, eyes moist even though it had happened over a week earlier. You think I’d be over him by now. You think I’d have moved on, good riddance, but seeing all these swooning couples, the starry eyes, the brushing lips, the holding hands… ugghh, each one is like ripping the bandage off all over again.

  “Get it together, Cara,” I grunt to myself, easing out into prime time traffic and crawling toward the Dollar World on Mott Street. The traffic inches forward, two heads in every front seat, heads on shoulders, brake lights steady, everyone mooning and swooning while romantic light rock songs ooze from their radios, I bet.

  I honk my horn, the angry spinster in her granny panties and work ponytail, out to buy off-brand cinnamon hearts. Which I’ll use to slather on scones I’ll never eat, for couples who will share them, bite for bite, licking their lips and mooning over every mouthful as they end their blissfully romantic evenings.

  Dollar World looks as cheap as its name as I pull in, striding out of the car and only realizing I’m still in my work apron as I stroll up to the co
unter, loaded for bear, gunning for the minimum-wage Granny standing there.

  “Do you guys have any of those little cinnamon hearts left?” I huff to the older woman in her Dollar World apron, straightening a display of fuzzy red gorillas next to the register.

  “Oh dear,” she says, shaking her head. “We just sold the last one.”

  “Of course you did,” I say, so sarcastically even I hate myself.

  The woman looks hurt, and I shake my head. “I… I didn’t mean it like that,” I blather, wanting to take her old, tired hand and press mine against it. “I… rough night, you know?”

  She holds up a red gorilla, ridiculous, cheap, fuzzy... and stares back at it solemnly. “You think?” she asks. The gorilla, not me.

  I snort and sigh all at the same time, making her arch one white eyebrow. “I’ll take one, for being so rude,” I say, reaching for some crumpled bills in the bottom of my purse.

  “Your boyfriend will love it,” she coos, and my clucking tongue can be heard all the way back to Snowflakes ‘N Scones. “Or… not,” she sighs, handing the ridiculous ape over in a