Page 63 of That Reunited Feeling

And it brings Louisa’s infuriatingly selfish demand for the house in France right back to the front of my mind. I’ve still not replied to her lawyer’s email or her text. Nor any of the half dozen increasingly impatient and entitled texts since.

Thankfully I’m saved by Delia starting a talk on the history of chocolate.

As she speaks, she points to a series of framed prints of antique illustrations and photos of cacao plantations and manufacturing equipment hanging on the back wall. “Cacao was domesticated in sixteenth-century Mexico, where the Aztecs developed it into a drinkable chocolate, and appreciation for the initially bitter treat later spread across Europe and to the United States.”

After more details of changes in the chocolate-making process over the years, she wraps up her account by opening the fridge door and peering inside.

“These are good to go,” she declares. “Come pick up your penises and we’ll get to decorating.”

All the women knock back their drinks and trot toward Delia, giggling and asking how “firm” or “hard” their chocolate is. The bride brings up the rear.

“Katie,” Hannah touches her arm as she passes by. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.” Katie looks like she’s trying to brighten her expression. “This is such fun. And the gang are so funny.”

“Pardon me for asking.” Hannah lowers her voice. “It’s just that you seem a little down.”

Katie smiles a sad smile. “That’s so sweet of you to notice.”

And it is. Has motherhood given Hannah a sixth sense for these things?

“There was a bit of a hiccup with the honeymoon.” Katie pauses to swallow, her eyes filling up. “We’ve been saving for it for two years. Supposed to go to St. Lucia for a once-in-a-lifetime trip. But there was a fire at the hotel, and they’ve had to cancel everyone.”

“Haven’t they booked you in somewhere else?” I ask. Organizing might not be my strong point—chocolate penises, anyone?—but I sure as hell know how customer service is supposed to work.

“February is high season.” Katie sniffs and wipes her nose with the heel of her hand. “All the decent places are already full.”

The conversation is cut short by Mother of the Groom prodding Katie with her chilled chocolate mold. “Time to pimp your penis, daughter-in-law-to-be.”

Katie slaps on a smile and heads back to join the others at their workstations.

“I brought yours over for you,” Delia says, placing mine and Hannah’s on our tables before heading to the front of the class.

“Now to add the finishing touches,” she declares. “But take care as you peel them out of the molds. No one needs a broken penis.”

“Ha. Remember Alexander?” Bridesmaid #1 nudges Bridesmaid #2.

“Hell, yeah,” Bridesmaid #2 says. “That thing could see around corners.”

I’d hoped by now Hannah and I would be heading off into the night, our bellies full of delicious handmade candies, and I’d be about to get a taste of something even sweeter.

But instead, I find myself holding a fully solidified chocolate penis by its peanut butter balls. This is not how I’d ever expected this evening to go.

“Oooh, mine got air bubbles in it,” Katie says through a pout.

Maid of Honor leans over to take a look. “Kinda looks like genital warts.”

“You’ll find the base is flat,” Delia announces. “Stand them upright in front of you, and we’ll get to decoration.”

I look around the room. Every woman is standing in front of a vertical eight-inch penis. Some are light brown, some dark, and one—courtesy of the Mother of the Bride—is bright white.

“First let’s dip the balls,” Delia declares.

“That’s what Graham said to me on our first date,” Mother of the Bride quips.

Even I snort at that one.

Katie’s not so amused, though. “Again, Mom. Please. No Dad sex jokes.” She sticks out her tongue and makes a barfing noise.

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