A Catered Valentine's Day. Isis Crawford

      KENSINGTON BOOKS

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      For Marna

      Contents

      Acknowledgments

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Recipes

      Acknowledgments

      I’d like to thank the usual suspects.

      Dan, for his suggestions and corrections.

      Mike, for listening.

      Sarah, for her cooking sense.

      Chapter 1

      Bernie entered the room ahead of her sister. Drats, she thought as she looked around. There were no empty seats, at least none that she and Libby could get to easily. Plus, the minister was already giving his eulogy, which meant they’d missed most of the ceremony. This was not good. Not good at all. Being late to a movie was one thing; being late to a funeral was quite another.

      “I told you we should have left earlier,” Libby hissed in her ear.

      Bernie grunted. She wasn’t taking the blame for this one. She wasn’t the one who had decided they had to go to the funeral at the last minute. And she wasn’t the one who’d decided that wearing her Dolce & Gabbana slacks and a mauve blouse wasn’t “respectful enough,” an archaic concept if she’d ever heard one.

      The lady in the last row was wearing red and the woman right next to her had on a pink jacket, for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t Bernie’s fault her navy suit was hiding underneath her ski stuff or that her navy suede pumps had gotten stuck behind her travel bag. How often did she wear this kind of stuff? Never. That’s how often. At least not since she’d quit her straight job five years ago. More like ten actually.

      Bernie automatically rebuttoned her top suit button so the lace on her cami wouldn’t show. So maybe she had taken a little more time than was strictly necessary putting on her eyeliner and mascara. So maybe she did hate funerals.

      Okay, loathed them. Had ever since Uncle Tom’s coffin slid out of the hearse on the way to the funeral and got hit by a milk truck. She hadn’t had a milk shake since that day, and they had been her favorite food. Bernie repressed a shudder. Uncle Tom all over the highway had not been a pretty sight. Fortunately Aunt Ethel had been too drunk to make much sense of what was going on.

      Bernie sighed. When she died she wanted to be cremated and have her ashes shot into space. Or sent down in the deepest chasm in the ocean or scattered in the Himalayas. The walk would do Libby good. After all, she kept saying she had to get more exercise. Bernie luxuriated in the thought of Libby trudging up the side of the mountain, bearing her ashes through a blizzard.

      One thing was for sure. Bernie didn’t want to be laid out in some funeral parlor—a term that harkened back to the days when the dead where laid out in their houses, not carted off to funeral homes. And why did this funeral home have to feature beige as its dominant color? Talk about drab. Bernie shook her head. No, siree, Bob, as her dad liked to say. Now, if she were doing this place she’d do it in shades of light green, green being the color of renewal.

      Bernie moved her silver and onyx ring up and down her finger while she surveyed the room. Okay, so Libby was correct—not that she’d ever tell her that. They should have gotten here earlier. In a situation like this, being conspicuous was not necessarily a plus. After thirty seconds or so Bernie spotted two seats. Unfortunately they were smack dab in the middle of the third row. Better to stand in the back, she reasoned, never mind that the shoes she had on weren’t made for standing, but then four-inch heels rarely were. She was just going to make that suggestion to Libby when an usher appeared and started herding them toward the third row. By now the minister was in full oration mode.

      Bernie caught the words “kindly” and “charitable” and “loved the outdoors” and “dog lover.” This was not the mother of Mrs. Vongel that she’d heard about, she reflected as she began making her way down the row. The mother she’d heard about had allergies to every living thing and spent most of her time behind her triple-sealed windows watching the Shopping Channel and buying exercise equipment she never used. But that was the thing with eulogies.

      Most of what was said wasn’t true anyway. At least not in her experience. Look at what the priest had said about Ann Higgenbottom and her scones. The pride of the parish, he’d called them, when actually they’d been responsible for more cases of dyspepsia than anything else served at the potlucks.

      “Excuse me. Excuse me,” Bernie whispered as a chorus of “ouchs” and “reallys” followed her down the row.

      Finally she arrived at her seat.

      “I told you this would happen,” Libby hissed as she plopped herself down next to Bernie.

      Bernie noted she was red in the face. Bernie wondered if it was from anger or embarrassment. Probably both.

      “Yes, you did. Several times in fact,” Bernie retorted.

      She was about to add something to the effect that Libby’s habit of repeating things didn’t help anything when she caught a glimpse of the puckered lips of the lady sitting next to her and decided that in this case silence really was golden.

      Instead Bernie settled into her chair, which kept shifting from side to side whenever she crossed and uncrossed her legs, and attempted to focus on what the minister was saying, but despite her best intentions she found her attention drifting.

      She