"So here's the plan." David retrieved a suitcase from the hall.

"Plan? What plan?"

"Therapy, girl." He walked by her on the way to the kitchen. "You
need therapy to purge the demon Tucker from your heart. Lucky for
you, the doctor makes house calls."

"Since when?" She followed the men into her kitchen.

"Since it's you," David answered. "Now, I need a large bowl and a
mixer." He put the suitcase on the counter and unzipped it.
Patrice stared in amazement as he pulled an ice cream maker and a
variety of ingredients from the open case.

"I left my mixer at the party." Patrice blinked hard and managed to
keep the tears from sliding down her face.

"You go ahead and cry, girl," Bubba encouraged, draping his arm
around her shoulders, pulling her close. "David, you count them
tears. I'm making Tucker pay for each one."

"I'm making a special flavor for him as well," David admitted,
rummaging though Patrice's drawers for a spoon. "What did you do?
Move your entire kitchen over there?"

"Pretty much." Patrice left the comfort of Bubba's arms to pull a
large stainless stirring spoon from a drawer. "I can't cook with
crap."

"I can," David smiled. "You haven't seen our kitchen."
Patrice smiled. "Yes, I have."

"If I buy some new cookware, will you move in with us and save me
from the press?" Bubba asked, only half joking.

"No."

"Your mama wouldn't approve of you living with a gay, black man?"
Smiling, Patrice shook her head. "I don't think she'd mind the gay
part."

"I know. It's like `Guess Who's Coming to Dinner.'"

"`Fraid so," Patrice admitted.

"And here I thought a rich, black, professional defensive end was the
stuff of every mama's dream," Bubba said in mock disappointment.
David shook his head as he mixed raspberries and three kinds of
chocolate chunks into the cream and sugar. "Gotta work on that ego,
man. No wonder you can't get a girl."

"Speaking of which," Bubba turned to Patrice, "could I take you to
that Museum of the Arts fund raiser gala thing?"

"I'm in charge of the food at that `fund raiser gala thing,'" Patrice
said, "so I'll already be there. But I really won't have to spend
much time in the kitchen. My job will be to wander around and be
seen while I make certain everything is going all right. I have
assistants to do all the last minute stuff, so I would be happy to—"

"Grace Bubba's arm and send him adoring looks while he gives you
equally besotted ones?" David interrupted.

"Exactly," Patrice nodded. "What are you making there?" she asked
David, leaning closer to look into the ice cream freezer.

"I told you—therapy," David informed her, elbowing her aside and
snapping the lid firmly in place.

Patrice crossed her arms, frowning. "I don't think I like the sound
of that."

"Quit whining." Bubba put his arm around Patrice and led her from
the kitchen. "All ice cream is therapy. Give the man fifteen
minutes and an unlimited supply of ingredients, and he could heal the
world. He's not Doctor Delicious for nothing."

"I know," Patrice grumbled. "Gourmet ice cream at gourmet prices."

"Spoken like the chef of a five-star restaurant," David said, poking
his head out of the kitchen. "Where do you keep your bowls? This
kitchen is bare."

Fifteen minutes later David placed a large bowl filled with the ice
cream equivalent of last night's crème brûlée in front of her.

"I'm really not hungry," Patrice insisted, hating the fact that her
eyes filled with tears at the mere thought of facing the flavors of
last evening's debacle. It might be therapy to eat them and
disassociate the combination from the pain and sadness of last night,
but she didn't feel able to taste them just yet. She didn't want to
eat the ice cream. She didn't want to talk to Mike. She didn't want
to do anything but bury her head in her pillow and feel sorry for
herself. She stared at the ice cream sitting in her bowl.

"Therapy wasn't meant to be easy," David informed her.

"You'd know," Patrice grumbled, fingering her spoon. "How many of
your customers have you bullied into eating whatever you thought they
needed instead of what they ordered?"

"It's one of the draws of my store. Ice cream for what ails you.
Now eat up, before it melts. This portable ice cream freezer makes
good ice cream, but it doesn't freeze it very hard."

"Just take a bite, Patrice, please," Bubba wheedled, eyeing his own
bowl longingly. "You know the rules. The patient has to take the
first bite, and I would rather not drink my ice cream."

"Fine," Patrice snapped, picking up her spoon. "Speaking of
whining..."

"Just eat it," David insisted.

Patrice spooned up a glop of the soft ice cream and put it into her
mouth. "There," she said around the spoon. "Happy?"

"Yes," Bubba smiled, digging into his own bowl.

"Swallow," David directed, watching her until she complied before
eating a spoonful himself. "Good isn't it?"

"Not as good as the crème brûlée." Patrice frowned, taking another
spoonful. Eating ice cream was therapeutic.

"Of course not," David smiled, indulgently.

"And you forgot the caramelized sugar."

"Damn, I knew I was doing this too fast. This whole thing must have
rattled me more than I thought. I think it's the tears. I've never
seen you cry before."

"I know. I don't like it either. I wish I could be mad instead, but
I'm not angry, just incredibly sad."

"Buck up, sweetheart, he's not worth it." David stared into
Patrice's wounded eyes and frowned. "Give me a smile and I'll make
you another batch later at the store."

"With caramel?"

"It won't be true therapy until it contains caramel."

"Okay." She forced a grin.

"Damn pathetic."