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“I read that you were doing a major redesign of your stores, which are already the hottest thing around,” she told him.

“You’re good with flattery. I like that. But one thing you learn after a lotta years in business is what’s successful today usually ain’t successful tomorrow. I opened my first store after the war, when discount was the name of the game. Now times are better, and suddenly everything is designer … designer clothes, designer pillowcases, designer chocolate-chip cookies. Hey, if someone’s gonna pay a hundred bucks for a pair of jeans, what’s so terrible about offering him a cup of coffee or a glass of papaya juice? It’s a whole different ball game.”

Annie didn’t know whether she liked him or not. He

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seemed warm, but underneath she sensed he could be tougher than nails.

“Did you like the samples I sent you?” she asked.

“Wish I could say I did. Truth is, I can’t touch the stuff.” He pressed a hand to his bulging midsection. “Some fancy doctors tell me that if I don’t take some of this off, I’m gonna make Mrs. Felder a very rich widow in the near future.”

“But …”

He held up a hand. “Hey, what I like is that you called. And the same day it all hit the press. You got moxie, and you’re quick on the draw. But you see, for Felder’s Pantry-you like that name? It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?-I was thinking, well, smelly French cheeses, high-end Colombian coffee beans, that kind of thing. Candies, too, but they’d have to be in boxes, like in the supermarket, only better quality.”

“It’s a wonderful idea … but in terms of chocolates, what I had in mind for you is a whole separate boutique,” she told him, swallowing hard against the panic rising up in her throat. “Sort of a … a miniature version of Tout de Suite. Here, I’ve brought pictures.” She pulled a back issue of New York magazine from the briefcase by her chair and spread it open before Felder. “This is an article they did on me last September.”

“Hey, I like the chandelier. Where’d you ever find a chandelier made outa twigs and bird’s nests?”

“I know a florist who makes them. Each one is a little different. He makes all my baskets, too. He decorates them with stencils and with different-colored ribbons, depending on the time of year, or for particular holidays.”

“What’s this?” He jabbed a meaty finger at a stone pedestal pictured in the corner of the spread.

“A birdbath. I rescued it from a house that was being Tom down.” She didn’t mention that it was Emmett who’d found the house … and the birdbath.

“Nice touch. You like birds? They got chicken here like you wouldn’t believe. Nice duck, too … made with cranberries. No kidding. You hungry? You want to order?”

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No, what I want is for you to say that you’d love having such a charming boutique filled with my sensational chocolates in every one of your stores. But, of course, she couldn’t say that. She had to smile and nod, and at the same time resist with all her might the force field that seemed to be drawing, no, magnetizing her thumb toward her mouth.

She leaned forward, locking her gaze on him, mentally demanding his attention. Then, certain that his gaze was not in danger of dropping to the menu, she said in an easy voice, “You’re a very smart man, and you’re right—we all do have to change with the times. And these days people want quality, and they’re willing to pay more for it. They’re buying Hเagen-Dazs in pint containers. And David’s Cookies at practically a dollar a cookie.” She sipped in a long, slow breath, willing the throbbing pulse in her neck to subside. “Last year, Tout de Suite grossed three million. This year, it looks like we’ll be up forty percent over that.”

“With half a million plus in unsecured debt, a maybe sixty percent jump in your payroll with a union breathing down your neck, mortgage payments on your new plant, and a lease commitment in that new ghost town of a mall in Glen Harbor. But, hey, it could be worse.” Jovial, avuncular call-me-Hy of a minute ago was now transformed into the flint-eyed Hyman Felder of legend.

Annie sat back, stunned … feeling violated somehow, as if he’d tried to slip his hand under her skirt. “How … how do you know all that?”

“I’m like you, Annie.” He smiled, and it was the smile of every kid’s favorite uncle-good old Uncle Hy, who never visited without a pocket full of candy. “I don’t have time to horse around. If I hadn’t gone and done my homework first, we wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“But-“

He held up his hand like a traffic cop. “But you shouldn’t get the wrong idea. I’m not knocking you. You think I built Felder’s with a triple-A bank account and solid-gold bricks? There was a time I had three mortgages on my house, and I was finagling to get a fourth. So

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“Be thankful at least you haven’t gone public, or you’d really have problems.”

“People have approached me about selling my cornpany, but so far I’m not really considering it.”

“Felder will not be one of those people.” He laughed, and grabbed a braided poppy-seed roll from the basket their waiter had just placed on the table. “I got more headaches than a busload of frigid wives. Yours I can live without.”

“Then what sort of arrangement did you think we might make?” She’d already more than broken the ice, she thought, so why hold back now?

“Look, we just met. We gotta feel our way.”

“You do understand that I don’t feel I’m asking for any favors. Felder’s could do very well from what I’m proposing.”

“You might be right. Eventually. But to begin with, who’s gonna put up all the dough for those twiggy chandeliers and the birdbaths? My guess is they don’t come cheap.” He leaned forward, so close that she could see the hairs sprouting from his nose. “And your chocolate stuff has got to be expensive just to make. So how much can you mark it up? So how much upside could there be?”

“Well, what about gold jewelry?” she countered. “You sell that, don’t you? Expensive, but probably marked up plenty. But the thing is, we’re both aiming at the same customer, the kind who’s more interested in how good it is than in what it costs-within reason, of course. Tout de Suite’s chocolates are one of the ultimate luxuries. My customers feel as if they’re indulging themselves … the same as if they’re buying silk underwear or an ounce of Chanel No. 5-they want it because it’s the best.”

“I like your chutzpah. The best.’ Sounds great, but says who? You? How do I know you’re the best?” He stared at her, challenging her with an expression halfway between a smile and a shrug.

Annie had observed that slyly innocent look before, on cabbies who took you the long way around and butchers who said, “It’s just a little over.” So he was a chiseler. But then, who in his position wasn’t? And despite his

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blunt, streetwise manner, he did seem genuinely interested. So now, how could she push him over the edge, convince him to let her open up in his stores?

He wants me to push him. He’s testing me. Backing down wasn’t Felder’s style. Well, it wasn’t hers either.

If only it weren’t so hot in here, like a sauna … but Felder didn’t seem uncomfortable at all.

Her mind was racing. Come on, Annie, you’ve been in tight spots before. An idea came to her, Gourmand’s annual chocolate fair at the Plaza was a week from Saturday. Chocolatiers were coming from the world over, the biggest names-Godiva, Kron, Tobler-Suchard, Perugina, Gianduja-and all the tiny great ones like Manon from Belgium and Teuscher from Switzerland. And, of course, Girod’s. As always, there’d be a banquet, dancing, speeches … and … and … yes, prizes. Going up against those heavy hitters would be a bit like David versus Goliath, but for a fairly new operation like hers to win the general excellence award would mean manna from heaven: great free advertising, a tremendous boost in retail, and lots of new contracts, with hotels and gourmet outlets.

Annie remembered the excitement she’d felt the year Girod’s had won first place. Other years, they’d placed second, and once third. Dolly, she knew, was counting on taking home one of the prizes again this year, but she had unofficially given Annie her blessing as well. “The only thing better than Girod’s coming in first would be to see you walk off with that trophy,” she’d said.

This would be Tout de Suite’s first competition. Until this year, she hadn’t felt confident enough about presenting the new line of small, exquisite tortes and ้clairs she had only recently introduced in her shops, and was still experimenting with. But now Annie was determined that Tout de Suite should win. For months now, she’d virtually given up going home at night, experimenting endlessly with new flavors, shapes, new displays. There was not a detail she was going to overlook … even her dress, which Laurel was sewing for her. Tomorrow afternoon, in fact, she was driving out to Laurel and Joe’s in Bayside, where Laurel was giving her a final fitting.

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Was it the thought of her gown, with its sleek lines and plunging back, she wondered, that made her feel so daring now?

“I’m competing in the Gourmand chocolate fair a week from Saturday-in my business, that’s the equivalent of the Academy Awards,” she told him. She unfolded her napkin and smoothed it across her lap. Keep your eyes down and your hands busy … don’t let him see how much you want this. Casually, she added, “If I take one of the prizes, will that be enough to convince you?”

“First prize?”

“You’re really pushing me.”

“You said you were the best.”

Annie hesitated. A huge gamble, she knew, but she’d been pushed to the wall. How could she back down? If she couldn’t convince Felder that she believed wholeheartedly in Tout de Suite, why should he have confidence in her?

Annie swallowed hard against the knot in her throat, and said, “All right. First prize. But what then?”

“You want me to sign a contract on an empty stomach?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Otherwise, I’m not sure I’ll be able to swallow a bite.”

“Well, 1 guess I can’t let such an attractive, determined lady like you go hungry.” He winked, and with a corner of his napkin brushed poppy seeds from his lips.

“Then do we have a deal?”

He laughed, shaking his head as he picked up his menu. “Sure, why not? You bring home the trophy, and we’ll talk turkey.”

Annie wanted to jump up and kiss him, but she held her menu up over her face, so he wouldn’t see what had to be a very stupid grin. Besides, it was too soon to get excited. Suppose she didn’t win? Or they couldn’t agree on the terms?

No what if s … I have to win, she told herself.

For a moment, she felt sure she would win. Then her glow of confidence faded, and her stomach began to churn. For one indulgent moment, while Felder was study-

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ing the menu, she allowed herself a nibble of her newly grown-out and perfectly manicured thumbnail.

.Less than an hour after her lunch with Hyman Felder, Annie stood in the small test kitchen off the main work area in Tout de Suite’s Washington Street factory, peering over Louise’s shoulder while she put the finishing touches on a cinnamon-truffle cake-a confection that consisted of four layers of rum-soaked chocolate g้noise filled with alternating layers of cinnamon-chocolate ganache and praline buttercream, the whole thing frosted with ganache, then coated in a bittersweet glaze and ringed with toasted hazelnuts. Annie herself had devised the recipe one afternoon in the kitchen of her house on West Tenth Street, and had served it at a dinner party that same night.

She smiled at the memory of Trine Devereaux-the aged, rail-thin former ballerina who lived next door to Annie in the secluded mews she shared with three other houses-clearing her flamingolike throat as the dessert dishes were being taken away, and in her piping, girlish voice asking, “Please, if it’s not too much trouble, may I have another sliver of that heavenly cake?”

Several other guests, including Hubert Dickson, her buyer friend from the Westin Hotef chain, hacf taken Trine’s cue and asked for seconds as well. The cake was loaded with enough calories to sink a freighter, but no one had seemed to care. She hoped it would have a similar effect on the Gourmand judges.

“What about the Turkish d้lice?” she asked Louise, who, even after years of nibbling on chocolate all day long, still looked as waiflike as the Little Match Girl.

Louise blew her wispy strawberry-blond bangs out of her eyes. “Would you like to try it? I finished it while you were out for lunch.” She nipped off a sliver of the Turkish d้lice, which was sitting on the marble slab that dominated the center of the kitchen.

Annie bit into a piece no bigger than her thumb. Wonderfully diverse textures and flavors swam excitingly in her mouth-layers of crisp phyllo and a brandy-laced,

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not-too-sweet syrup, ground pistachios mixed with a spicy, cardamom-tinged ganache, all of it covered in a brittle chocolate glaze dusted with ground pistachios and bits of crystallized ginger. She’d gotten the idea for the d้lice after a dinner out at a Turkish restaurant on Third Avenue, where she’d had the most divine baklava.

“Mmm … perfect,” she told Louise. “Maybe a touch more cardamom?”

“Come on. You said it was perfect.” Louise stopped frosting her cake and looked at Annie, again blowing up a stream of air that set her bangs fluttering. She wore a huge white apron with a hem that came down almost to her ankles, and ties that wrapped several times around her sliver-thin waist. The front right now looked like a child’s finger painting done in chocolate.

“Well … practically perfect.”

Louise laughed. “That line probably ought to go on your tombstone: ‘HERE LIES ANNIE COBB, PRACTICALLY PERFECT.’” She licked a dab of frosting from the back of her thumb. “Oh, that reminds me, your brother-in-law called. No rush, he said. Just call him back when you get a free moment.”

“You mean sometime in 1993?”

Annie laughed at her own joke, but inside, she felt a tug. Six years, and still, when she heard his name-or worse, when she saw him-a sudden lick of heat was followed by lightheaded panic, like a child who accidentally starts a fire and must quickly stamp it out. Sure, everything was fine these days. Good friends, just as they’d always been, nothing more. Now and then, Joe stopped by for coffee on his way to the meat market, or sometimes called just to schmooze. Mostly, though, she saw him on family occasions—Thanksgiving and Christmas, the Fourth of July picnic Laurel held every year in her lush garden, Adam’s birthday parties.