"Sorry, Mom. I'm sure it's delicious, but I can't. Dad," he added, leaning over and squeezing his father's shoulder, "this audit thing is nothing. You'll go, your accountant will do all the talking, and the IRS will figure out that either you owe them fifty bucks or they owe you fifty bucks. A waste of an afternoon, that's all this is."

"I could wind up in jail," his father said, his hands once again fidgeting.

"Why? Did you break any laws?"

"No. Except maybe for those circuit breakers I sold Jimmy Benedetti."

"Then you won't wind up in jail. I promise you. After it's done, I'll take you out for a beer, okay?"

"Okay," his father said so faintly Casey almost didn't hear the words. He gave his old man's shoulder another squeeze, then sauntered across the living room, past the leprechaun-infested hutch and out the door. The air was gray and muggy, evening hovering in a warm, thick mass above his parents' block. Still, being outdoors was better than being in a house that smelled of boiling fish.

He strolled to the corner, his long legs moving at a gait that would almost qualify as a slow jog. He wasn't racing to get away from his parents, but was simply burning off energy. As exhausted as his sleepless nights left him, he was nearly as jittery as his father.

Starting his own business. Jesus. He wanted it, he had the culinary talent, he understood the mechanics of it, the numbers, the strategies-but did he have the passion for it? Was he really concerned about having people like Julia Bloom hate him?

What he absolutely had to do was separate his career plans from the tar pit of his love life. Susie was gone, she'd said no, and that was that. His father had the right idea: a store with Gordon's written above the door-although Gordon's seemed like a pretty lame name for a gourmet bread shop. Gordon's Gourmet? Casey's Casa? What was the Hispanic population of the East Village?

Bread. Staff of Life. Gordon's Gourmet Grains. Gordon's Grains and Bagels. Beautiful Bagels. If this dream were genuine, wouldn't he have thought of a name for the store by now?

He'd reached the basketball court outside the Edward Mandel School. A half-dozen guys were playing three-on-three, shirts versus skins. He recognized one of them, a six-foot-eight-inch black dude who'd played with the Cleveland Cavaliers for two years before blowing out his knee. He was in his thirties now, and he still boasted quite a few slick moves for someone past his prime with a bum knee. Casey and Mose had played in some pickup games with him. The guy was fierce. Casey loved going up against him, just for the adrenaline rush.

He spotted Casey leaning against the chain-link fence and shot him a toothy grin. Casey smiled back. Had he not been wearing the cargo pants and cotton button-down shirt he'd donned for work that morning, he might have swung around the end of the fence and planted his butt on the bench, where he could wait until someone collapsed in exhaustion and he could take the guy's place.

Simply watching wasn't a bad alternative. It gave his mind a chance to run though options. His eyes recorded the ex-Cavalier's feints and spins and his brain calculated how many loaves of bread and dozens of bagels he'd have to sell to break even. A regular, loyal clientele, even if only a small one, could guarantee him a steady income, and that would see him half the way home.

Susie could see him the other half way home, but he didn't want to think about that. God, he was such an ass, mooning over her when the world teemed with available women who weren't so determined to say no. Three-quarters of what Eva said to him qualified as come-ons, yet he was keeping his fly zipped and yearning for a woman who didn't want him. How had he turned into such a putz?

One of the skins staggered over to the bench and reached for a towel. The ex-Cav glanced Casey's way again. "Hey, wanna fill in?"

"He's gotta go home to his lady," one of the other players singsonged, obviously considering the guy on the bench irredeemably pussy-whipped.

Casey smiled. He wasn't pussy-whipped. He might be inappropriately dressed, but he did have on sneakers. He started unbuttoning his shirt before he'd even walked around the fence.

He tossed his shirt onto the bench alongside backpacks, duffel bags and bottles of water and Gatorade, then rummaged in his trouser pocket for a rubber band, which he used to fasten his hair off his face in a ponytail. The ex-Cav tossed him the ball, and he felt himself come to life. The ball felt like an extension of his hand, connected by an invisible elastic strand to his arm. He slammed it against the blacktop and it popped right back up at him. The ex-Cav came at him and he bounce-passed the ball under the guy's arm to set up one of the other skins.

The hell with love. The hell with business, bread and IRS audits. This was what life was all about-throwing, passing, setting up a teammate, aiming for the hoop.

The ball came back to him where he stood, way outside. The shirts hovered, waiting for him to charge toward the basket. Instead, he dribbled into position just to the left of the key and sent the ball in a high arc, his favorite three-point shot. It dropped cleanly through the hoop.

"Damn! Where'd that come from?" the ex-Cav said, flashing Casey another smile.

Casey shrugged. He'd gotten his shot back. He was going to be okay. The store would work out, he'd find the money, he'd make a go of it. He'd make a living. He'd make a life.

Fuck Susie. He had his shot back.

Susie would kill for a rhyme for stroganoff. Actually, she'd kill for a good night's sleep and a little convincing proof that she wasn't completely insane. Of course, if she killed for that, it would probably prove that she was completely insane.

She had to get a Bloom's Bulletin written and e-mailed to Julia by tomorrow morning, and she was hurting for inspiration. Right now, the only thing she felt inspired to do was toss her laptop out the window. And maybe toss Linus out after it. The motel where they'd taken a room, just outside Boston in the blue-collar seaside town of Revere, was a giant step better than the place they'd stayed at in Maine-and a giant step more expensive, too-but judging by the conversations she'd eavesdropped on in the lobby, she concluded that the majority of the motel's guests were far more interested in betting on the greyhound races at Wonderland Park or the horse races at Suffolk Downs than hiking the Freedom Trail through downtown Boston. If they saw a six-foot-tall plastic lobster in the parking lot, they probably wouldn't think anything of it.

Linus wasn't the cause of her woes, and she shouldn't scapegoat him. She glanced away from her laptop monitor to find the lobster propped up in a corner of the tiny room, staring at her. Actually, she didn't think lobsters had eyes, so maybe he wasn't staring. His crooked antennae were angled toward her, though, and one claw pointed accusingly at her.

She and Rick had checked into the motel after filming a scene with her and Linus on the beach. She'd stood barefoot in the sand, trying to ignore all the strangers gawking at her and Rick as though they were hotshot Hollywood celebrities, and she talked about food. Linus had lain at her feet in the hot sand. Despite Rick's pleas, she'd refused to hold him upright next to her as if he were her personal escort.

Once they'd finished filming and settled into their room, Rick had left to scout sites in Boston-or so he claimed. He'd promised to return with a take-out dinner. It was now nearly seven o'clock and her stomach was rumbling like a rock slide. She hoped he'd get back soon-not only because she wanted to eat but because she wanted an excuse to procrastinate writing the bulletin.

She couldn't procrastinate. She had to get it done. She'd promised Julia she'd supply the bulletins on time. It was her job.

Responsibility sucked.

Julia had e-mailed her all the data she needed for the newsletter: what would be on sale, what guest speakers would be making presentations, what special events the store would be hosting over the next week. Susie kept a file of Grandma Ida's sayings on her computer's hard drive, and the motel offered an Internet connection in the room if she had to do any research.

But instead of putting the damn bulletin together, she stared at the blank screen and struggled to come up with a rhyme for stroganoff. As if she really gave a whoop.

She leaned back into the pillows and stretched her legs. The laptop rocked on her thighs and she set it aside. Closing her eyes against the yellow glare of the bedside lamp and the paint-by-numbers rendering of a greyhound at full gallop on the wall opposite her, she let her mind drift.

To her great exasperation, it drifted to Casey.

Lying down was a mistake, especially on a bed. Her legs shifted again, her hips flexing as her body tensed with a memory of how fantastic sex with Casey had been. Good girls weren't supposed to admit that sex was everything-they were supposed to act as though a man's kindness and sense of humor were far more important than what he could do with his penis. But Susie had never considered herself a good girl, and while she certainly appreciated Casey's kindness and his sense of humor and all his other fine attributes, right now she was sprawled out on a motel bed, all alone, and sex rose to the top of her priorities list.

Was sex worth tying herself down? Of course not. How about really, really good sex? Still no, but without the of course. How about really, really, really good sex with a guy who also happened to be kind and have a sense of humor?

Don't even think about it.

Her purse rested on the floor by the bed, and she reached over the side and dug around in it until she located her cell phone. "Don't do this," she warned herself, her voice echoing against the ugly sea-green wallpaper, but she ignored her own wise counsel and punched the speed-dial for Casey's number.

He answered, out of breath, on the third ring. "Yeah?"

"Casey?"

A long silence, then, "Susie?"

He was panting. She closed her eyes again and pictured him, naked and sweaty, in the arms of Halle Berry. "Sorry," she said. "Forget it."

"Forget what?" His voice sounded a little stronger as he regained control of his respiration. Had he and Halle just been getting started, or were they winding down? Susie's stomach lurched again, not from hunger but from anguish. If Rick walked into the room at that moment carrying a bag of Chinese takeout, she might just vomit.

"Anna told me she ran into you on Avenue A the other day."

"Yeah."

He clearly wasn't going to volunteer information about the woman he'd been with when Anna had encountered him. And Susie was a wuss, because she couldn't find the courage to ask him about his gorgeous female companion, let alone what he was doing with said companion in Susie's neighborhood. "I shouldn't have called," she muttered. "It's obvious I interrupted something-"

"I was playing pickup," he told her. "It's getting dark so we had to quit, anyway."

Then she hadn't caught him in the act. Good. Maybe he was as horny as she was, and was taking the edge off by shooting hoops. Maybe she ought to take up basketball, too.

Just because she hadn't interrupted something X-rated didn't mean his life without her was a Disney family flick, though. He still could be porking Halle Berry. He might shoot hoops not to take the edge off but to build stamina and get his blood pumping.

Don't even think about it.

"Look, Susie-did you phone me for a reason?"

I was lonely, she almost said. I'm all alone in a motel room near Boston, and I'm homesick for New York, and this movie Rick's making is stupid, and Linus is upstaging me in all his scenes, and I don't want to miss you, but I do. "I need a rhyme for stroganoff," she told him.

"What?"

"I've got to write a limerick for the next Bloom's Bulletin. I need a rhyme for stroganoff."

He said nothing for a minute, then: "Jog enough."

"What?"

"Jog enough. 'If I eat beef stroganoff, I'll be able to jog enough.' Something like that."

God help her, she was in love. How could she not love a man who created a rhyme like that?

Tears filled her eyes-an all-too-frequent occurrence these days. She batted them, and the painting of the greyhound racer across the room seemed to waver through the layer of moisture. She loved Casey truly, madly and deeply. Why couldn't she love him on her own terms? Why wasn't her love enough to satisfy him?

Those were questions she couldn't ask him. They were questions she wasn't sure she could ask herself. "Thanks," she said, hoping he wouldn't hear the muffled sob in her voice. "Jog enough. It's perfect, Casey."

"Yeah," he said, not a trace of emotion in his tone. She was falling apart, and he was undoubtedly thinking she was a selfish bitch, phoning him all the way from Revere, Massachusetts, to get a rhyme out of him. Or maybe he was thinking about his play during the pickup game, rehashing a block or a rebound in his mind. He didn't care whether Susie missed him. He'd be spending the evening with Halle, after all.

"Well, thanks," Susie said again. Saying goodbye would hurt too much, so she signed off with, "I'd better get back to work."

"Okay," Casey said, then disconnected the call. Maybe he, too, couldn't bear to say goodbye. Maybe he was hurting as badly as she was, hurting so much that when she came home he'd ease up on the pressure and tell her he'd be happy just to get back to where they'd been before he started this whole moving-in-together crap.

Not likely, but one thing Susie was always pretty good at was dreaming.

Bloom's Bulletin

Written and edited by

Susie Bloom

A dieter looking for dinner Found in Bloom's a delectable winner "If I work out and jog enough, I can eat the beef stroganoff, And the fruit salad might make me thinner!"

Welcome to the June 17 edition of the Bloom's Bulletin. Summer is just around the corner, and hot weather means bare legs, bare arms and frequently bare midsections. It also means Bloom's! Although Bloom's is known as a paradise for food lovers, folks counting calories need not stay away. Bloom's offers many low-fat, low-calorie delights. Fresh, delicious salads are available, including two amazing new fruit salads (citrus, and berries-and-melon) guaranteed to satisfy your taste without expanding your waist. Bloom's also has a full array of low-fat cheeses, low-fat yogurts, extra-lean meats and sugar-free cookies. Bloom's doesn't sell low-fat bagels-but that's because our bagels are NO-fat! So show off your svelte summer bodies and indulge your palates.

Food for thought: As always, Bloom's wants to nourish your mind, as well as your body. In addition to the workshops and presentations we've already announced (a complete schedule appears on page four), we'll be exploring the mind-body connection with Noreen Kastigian, a dietician and meditation coach, who will discuss "Sanity Strategy," her philosophy of food as a form of mental sustenance and thought as a dietary supplement. You won't want to miss this special talk, which Noreen will repeat on three consecutive Thursday evenings. Another edifying lecture we've added to the schedule is Harry Sullivan-Goldberg's "Nosh or Nap," in which he will explain what foods give the most effective energy boosts during those low-energy times of the day. Mark your calendars!

Summertime, and the livin' is easy...

Bloom's wants to make your summertime easier. Check out our specials in the Heat'n'Eat department. Poached salmon, marinated asparagus tips and stuffed tomatoes are all on sale. Even though they're sold as Heat'n'Eat dishes, you don't have to heat them to eat them! All Heat'n'Eat dishes are fully cooked. A chilled poached salmon entree, with a side of cold asparagus and stuffed tomatoes, would make a delicious light meal on a hot day. And it would be so low in calories, you could top it off with a slice of Bloom's melt-in-your-mouth amaretto cheesecake. Explore the tempting contents of our dairy pastry case for more (literally) cool desserts.

Did you know...

The word amaretto is often confused with amoretto. Amoretto is a diminutive of the Italian amore (or the Latin amor), which means "love." Amaretto derives from the Italian amaro (or the Latin amarus), which means "bitter." Amaretto is the almond liqueur-a vital ingredient in Bloom's amaretto cheesecake, as well as many other recipes. Amoretto is the name of a pale pink-orange breed of rose, a gourmet chocolate-truffle candy, and a flavored cigar. A filly named Ambro Amoretto won the Breeder's Cup a few years ago. Bloom's does not use horses in any of its recipes.

Employee Profile: How to describe Dierdre Morrissey? Her official title at Bloom's is general manager, and in a way that sums up what she means to the company. As the executive assistant to Bloom's president, Dierdre manages everything like a five-star general.

Dierdre originally came to Bloom's as a secretary for the late Ben Bloom. Before long, she proved herself indispensable in so many areas of the business that she quickly rose to her current position, with her office right next door to the president's. Need a rabbi to bless the cheese delivery? Dierdre will find one for you. Problems with a coffee importer? Dierdre has the numbers of four other coffee importers in her precious Rolodex. Plumbing disaster in the staff bathroom? If Dierdre can't find a plumber in five minutes, she'll do the repair herself. She monitors the inventory, double-checks the billings and oversees all correspondence. Around Bloom's third-floor offices, the word is that Dierdre can do anything.

A tall redhead with legs like a fashion model's and a passion for stiletto-heeled shoes, Dierdre is single. "Once I started working at Bloom's," she says, "the store became my passion. I grew up Irish. I never tasted a matzo ball before I came to Bloom's. But this place stole my heart." What are her favorite Bloom's foods? "I like everything," she says diplomatically. However, she is partial to the many herbal teas Bloom's sells, and nearly always has a steaming cup of tea at her elbow. She's also been known to nibble on the mandelbrod or sneak a chunk of halvah into her office between meals.

"Dierdre's pretty quiet," one of her co-workers recently said of her. "She keeps to herself. But I'll tell you this-Bloom's couldn't survive without her."

Wise Words from Bloom's founder, Ida Bloom: "If you can't stand the heat, don't move to Miami."

On sale this week: Salads, salads, salads! Also low-fat Muenster, low-fat Jarlsburg and low-fat sliced turkey breast, plain, smoked or Cajun-style. Look for on-the-spot specials in the store-they change daily! Turn the page for details.

Fourteen.

Julia wasn't crazy about the horse joke. And rhyming stroganoff with jog enough seemed like a stretch. But at least Susie had gotten the damn newsletter done on time.

She gave one more perusal of the copy Susie had e-mailed her, then highlighted the horse joke and deleted it. She had never changed a word in one of Susie's newsletters before, but if the line stayed in, Julia imagined that half the city's animal rights activists would be picketing Bloom's within minutes of reading the Bloom's Bulletin. The block of Broadway outside the store would be jammed with protesters throwing water balloons filled with fake blood at the showcase windows and carrying signs declaring, "Bloom's claims it doesn't use horses in its recipes. Do you believe that claim?" Julia had a law school degree. She knew how people could imply a slander without actually coming right out and committing one.

Susie would probably never notice that Julia had removed a few of her precious words. If she did, screw it. Julia was an executive, which every now and then required her to make an executive decision. Besides, Susie was already vying for a place on Julia's shit list, having spent a week roaming the less-exclusive neighborhoods of New England with Rick and a camera, supposedly making an infomercial about Bloom's. Julia was suffering severe misgivings about having funded their excellent adventure. Bloom's was a New York City institution. Why did Rick and Susie have to go to New England to make a movie? Why couldn't they make it here in the city? Were they budgeting wisely? Would they produce something she could actually use to promote the store? Was Susie recovering from the emotional upheaval of ending her relationship with Casey Gordon? Was Rick really the person she ought to have at her side during such a recovery?

Why did being the president of Bloom's mean most of Julia's thoughts ended in question marks?

Dierdre sauntered through the open office door, carrying a stack of papers that were no doubt extremely important and boring. Along with making executive decisions, Julia had learned that being an executive involved reading reams of important, boring papers. Granted, they weren't as tedious as the legal documents she used to have to review when she'd worked at the law firm, and they were by and large written in English instead of jargon. No parties of the first part suing parties of the second part over court-reduced alimony payments. No "hereinafters" and "aforementioneds." The papers Dierdre brought Julia each morning usually included whiny letters from pickle vendors announcing that a cucumber blight in South Carolina had necessitated an increase in price for the half-sours, and kvetchy missives from people claiming that their son stuck a pit from an olive purchased at Bloom's up the nostril of his sister and therefore the store should reimburse them for the bill of the pediatrician, who'd had to use special tweezers to extract the pit from little Katie's nostril, plus the cost of the olives. After receiving a note that made that very demand, Julia had contemplated banning unpitted olives from Bloom's inventory, but she'd come to her senses and instead written back to the woman that rather than blame the store, she might consider blaming her son for his nasal assault on little Katie. So what if Julia's letter cost Bloom's a customer? She wasn't going to let some woman who didn't know how to discipline her own children dictate what went on the shelves of the store.

Dierdre was such a genial woman that Julia smiled and pretended she was thrilled to be receiving today's stack of kvetches and whines. "Susie did a great write-up on you for the Bulletin," she said.

Dierdre shrugged diffidently. "I didn't give her much to work with."

"Whatever you gave her, she made the most of it. She's very creative."

Dierdre nodded and set the stack of papers on Julia's desk. She loomed above Julia, the three-inch heels of her mules augmenting her already towering height. "I hear your mother is dating again," she said.