The Song of Chocolate Dreams Come True

Marcia Brandt
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Genres: Chick Lit, General Fiction, Mid-life Fiction. Format: eBook. Views: This Week 19, Total 1178.
Marla was humming her happy Chocolate Eaters song. Her suitcase lay on the bed as she moved from her closet to the window, back to the suitcase and back to the closet again. She just didn’t know what she should be packing for her trip with Frank to Maine. Maine. She’d never been to the east coast nor had she ever seen the ocean. The biggest body of water she’d ever seen was Lake Michigan and that seemed like an ocean to her, the water went on and on and on. She scurried to the window again, ‘just where is he?’ Marla couldn’t contain her anxiousness about their trip. This was like a second honeymoon for her and Frank, although on their first honeymoon they hadn’t taken along anyone else. Marla was positive that Ben was going to be with them and she was confused and concerned about telling Frank about Ben.

How would he react to her story about hearing a voice, meeting someone on her jogging trail and then – this just might be too much for Frank to comprehend, he’s a guy, he loves football and basketball and sports of every kind. He works in an office filled with guys, sure there’s a couple of women there but they seem into sports as well. I’m so ready to discover all I can about opening my very own chocolate shoppe and taking this trip to Maine with Frank. I just don’t want anything to go wrong and crush my dream. This is my chocolate lovers dream, having my very own chocolate shoppe and sharing my passion with others and having fun and having something that I can call my very own. Marla was pacing back and forth from the window to the closet back to the window. Her suitcase lay on the bed, half full and in disarray. She really wasn’t paying much attention to how she was putting the clothes in the suitcase, she was so distracted. From the window she could see her jogging path and the bench that Ben sat upon when she met him face to face. Inside she was hoping that she’d see Ben and she could go and ask him her questions. ‘What should I tell Frank? Will he understand? Should I just omit you as part of my story about how I came to realize that I had a purpose to my life? Will Frank believe that I can see you and talk to you and that you talk back to me?’

Just then she saw Frank’s car pull into the driveway and heard the garage door open. Frank is home! She looked down at the suitcase on the bed and laughed out loud. Heavens! I’m not even close to being packed and ready to fly to Maine. I don’t even have Frank’s suitcase out of the closet. Where is my mind today? She knew exactly where it was, it was at the bench beside the pond next to her jogging trail. She was so focused on connecting with Ben before they left that she hadn’t finished packing or getting much else done. I’m in a pickle for sure. Marla had heard her mother use that phrase hundreds of times when she was growing up. Now that she heard that saying rolling around in her own head, she wondered exactly what that meant. How can someone be in a pickle? That made her chuckle and with that she began to fold her clothes neatly inside the suitcase, noticing that she hadn’t packed any shoes. I must be thinking that I can go barefoot in the beach sand!

“Honey, I’m home!” Frank hollered up the stairs. He was rattling stuff in the kitchen and it sounded like he was fixing lunch. Their flight was in a couple of hours and the drive to the airport would take them about 30 minutes. Marla knew that she had to get the rest of her and Frank’s clothes packed ASAP. “I’m almost ready. Just a few more things to put in the suitcases.” Marla lied. She knew that she wasn’t ready at all. Not ready to tell Frank everything about her chocolate addiction and her encounter with Ben and the glowing light and the feelings she had. Oh, she was ready to go to Maine and talk to Georgia’s friends and see their chocolate shoppe. That part of the trip she was more than ready for. It was the little or big secret that she was keeping from Frank...
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