‘So the book was ridiculous, obviously,’ Lulu began, sitting up as straight as her arthritic back would allow. ‘What a pathetic excuse for a woman Bella Swan is. Who would write such appallingly weak female characters these days? Haven’t we come further than that? The popularity of this book is truly disturbing. The leading man is a murderer, and she can’t do anything other than faint and mope and beg him to kill her so she can be like him.’
Lulu was one of those feminists who had emerged during the eighties and nineties, Elsa realised, the kind that gained power by dominating and outsmarting men. She’d obviously missed the goddess revolution of the new millennium, which seemed to be all about embracing and celebrating one’s femininity. As for Elsa, her version of feminism was quite simple: let every person’s true character show for what it was.
The way she was standing up to Tom, for example, might actually be applauded by the likes of Lulu. Her youngest son was being a brat and a bully, and the shame of her poor mothering lay heavily on her shoulders, as she was at great pains to admit. But she wouldn’t let him manipulate her. She might be of advanced years and less mobile than him, but she still had all her faculties, and while there was breath in her body she wasn’t going to let him push her around.
He wanted money. Well, in her day, if you wanted money you went and found a job and made it. He wasn’t infirm. He wasn’t useless. He might not be able to find work as a lumberjack anymore but it was up to him to direct his life. She’d worked hard, giving the better part of her productive years to the dairy farm she and Ebe ran, working in the rain, snow and wind all year round, from dawn till dusk and beyond, and the nest egg she now held, in the form of her house at Western Junction, was there as her insurance for a rainy day. If there was one thing she knew for sure it was that you could never know what was coming in the future.
At his core, Ebe had been lazy and dishonest. If there was a shortcut, he’d take it. If he could sell a twelve-year-old cow as a three-year-old breeder and get away with it, he would. If he could ‘accidentally’ send the cows to graze on someone else’s lush pasture, he’d do that too. Tom, to her disappointment, seemed to also believe the world owed him. It was her duty as a parent, possibly her final duty, to teach him otherwise.
She had been sad at first when he’d told her he wouldn’t come and visit her anymore. But that sadness quickly skedaddled, replaced by a tide of anger. How dare he? She didn’t even like his company that much, to be honest.
‘I admit I t-too thought it was bupkis at first. But I did get into it once I acc-accep-pted it for what it is. It’s f-f-fantasy,’ Rita stuttered, ticcing.
‘Does that matter?’ Lulu demanded. ‘Bella is still a role model of sorts for girls everywhere.’
Rita smiled. ‘I wouldn’t be a t-true artist if I said someone else’s work wasn’t valid.’
Lulu snorted.
‘So you don’t believe in escapism?’ Elsa asked Lulu.
‘Not if it promotes women staying in abusive relationships, no.’ Lulu’s cheeks were red and the sun-damage lines on her face were deeper than usual. ‘I thought—’
Elsa nodded and turned to Robert. ‘And what did you think?’
Lulu huffed as her diatribe was cut short.
Robert took a deep breath. ‘Can’t say vampires are my thing,’ he said arduously. ‘I did read Bram Stoker when I was young, but nothing since.’
Robert’s care at Green Hills was thanks to trauma insurance cover that paid out after his stroke. He also was too young to be here, Elsa thought sadly.
The debate raged on between Lulu, Elsa, Rita, Robert and Yvonne (whose Alzheimer’s meant she couldn’t actually remember reading the book or watching the film in the movie room last Friday night), while Doris continued to snooze, her steel-grey curls bobbing with each inhalation. Doris’s doting family and her own personal pension paid for her high level of care. Her grandchildren seemed to love sitting in ‘Nay-Nay’s’ lap and stroking her cheek and hair while she snored on.
Elsa was pleased with the robust discussion going on around her. Wasn’t that what book club was all about? It would be so boring if everyone agreed. They were here to keep their minds active while their bodies took a back seat. Stave off Alzheimer’s, for those who didn’t already have it. She looked at Yvonne, struggling to keep up, and wondered if these mental games would help slow the spread of it in her.
She glanced at the clock. It was nearly afternoon tea time. Robert would want to get a move on soon, as his wife would be waiting to join him.
Beside her chair was a bag containing the next read. She always chose books with a movie tie-in, so that even if one of them couldn’t read the book, or remember it, there was always the movie to give them another chance to be involved. And she knew exactly what they’d be reading for the June meeting, thanks to the idea from Lincoln. She’d ordered the books from the library straight away.
Next month, they’d be discussing Chocolat, and as well as the movie, she’d organised a guest speaker. She’d emailed that lovely Christmas Livingstone from The Chocolate Apothecary, who’d replied immediately, warmly accepting Elsa’s invitation to visit the home. And not only would she speak about chocolate, but she’d offered to hold a chocolate-tasting workshop too. Which would be marvellous for anyone not on a diabetes diet. Elsa was dying for Lulu to end her tirade so she could make her announcement.
She was excited about the news for several reasons, one of which was that she wanted to be the best book-club captain the home had ever known. She was determined that her name would stay in gold lettering on the board in the dining room. It gave her a little lift to see it at each meal; if she were honest, she also took some satisfaction from the knowledge that it irked Lulu, who would have loved to take her place. But booey to her. She’d be out of here one day.
It was also a welcome opportunity to break up the monotony of the days, and a chocolate tasting sounded right up her alley, especially if the gift box Lincoln had brought her from Ms Livingstone’s store was anything to go by. My, my! Wonderful work! Elsa would have loved to have had a job crafting chocolate, instead of milking cows and delivering calves. But those had been the golden years of dairying and eventually, unlike dairy farmers today, she and her husband had made enough money to take care of her now. (Thanks largely to her careful scrimping and planning, it had to be said.)
Of course, marriages were different back then, based on different values. The young people of today had so many more opportunities to pick and choose, and change their minds. But it did mean they could take their jolly time in settling down. Too long, if you asked her. Like Lincoln.
Just days after setting herself the challenge of finding a way to make Lincoln settle down, he’d arrived at her bungalow with potted plants for her room and full of chirpy conversation about Christmas Livingstone’s chocolate shop, effusively praising its range and Christmas’s careful consideration of chocolate brands and their origins. And not ten minutes later, he was telling her about his call with his publisher, and how Jeremy wanted him to find a co-author. Lincoln had looked a bit downcast at the prospect, while she’d sat there thinking, really, could it be this easy and obvious?
‘What about Christmas Livingstone?’ she’d gently queried, not daring to seem too eager. ‘She sounds like she’s got a lot of commercial sense and creativity. Might she not be a possible co-author for your book?’
And Lincoln’s expression had changed in a second from morose to inspired. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, stroking the right side of his bearded cheek. ‘She could well be.’
Elsa smiled inwardly while feigning nonchalance and already planning a visit to Rita; a good Jewish grandmother, known for her matchmaking, Rita could be a useful ally. But she knew Lincoln well enough to know it was better if he thought it was all his doing, so she said nothing more and casually changed the subject.
Now, she cleared her throat to call the book-club group to attention. ‘I have an announcement to make about next month’s novel and a s
pecial event.’ She paused, enjoying their rapt attention. ‘I’m sure you’re going to love it. It’s going to be delicious.’
6
Mother’s Day was tomorrow—the first Sunday in May—so today would be another busy day in the shop. But Christmas had decided to squeeze in a quick early-morning jog before she met Emily for breakfast at Ingleside Bakery. It was exactly what she needed to work off some of the calories she’d inevitably consumed over the Easter weekend, through the necessity of sampling her wares before they went on sale.
On Easter Sunday, Val, Archie and the boys had come to The Apothecary, along with Joseph, for a big brunch set out on the long wooden table in the empty store, and as much chocolate as they could consume. There was much wedding discussion while her nephews hoovered up bars of chocolate and fine handmade pieces. No one had given her chocolate, of course, but the boys offered her a package of rough, unfired and largely unidentifiable clay pieces.
‘Don’t think your nephews don’t love you,’ Val said, sipping coffee and leaning back against Archie’s chest while he wrapped his thick, hairy arm around her. ‘It took them a whole half an hour to do that. Do you know how hard it is to get boys to sit still for that long?’
‘Well, I think they’re just wonderful,’ Christmas said, although of course the clumps of clay were completely awful. She thought about giving specific compliments but was unsure how to identify each piece so decided not to risk offending. ‘Thank you, I’m very touched,’ she said sincerely; apparently satisfied, the boys ran through the swing doors, out through the kitchen and into the small backyard to chase each other around the birdbath.
She told Val, Archie and Joseph about Emily’s surprise, and everyone was duly impressed and talked about how wonderful the trip would be. But then Joseph, arms crossed comfortably at his chest, quietly and perceptively asked, ‘And how do you feel about the French connection to your past?’
Val’s gushing had ceased instantly. ‘Oh, crap, sorry, I hadn’t even made that link yet,’ she said, screwing up her face. ‘I was just thinking about Paris and wine and baguettes.’
Archie was silent but scratched thoughtfully at his hairy face. The boys screeched out in the garden. And all eyes were on Christmas.
‘It’s confusing,’ she admitted. ‘I haven’t had much peace and quiet to process it yet with everything going on this weekend.’
‘But surely you’d like to try and look him up?’ Val said. Archie cleared his throat and sipped his coffee and Val shot him a look, clearly wondering if he disapproved of the question.
‘You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,’ Joseph said. ‘It would be perfectly okay just to enjoy the experience in France and the chocolate course and not put yourself under any pressure.’
Christmas smiled at him gratefully, warmed by his understanding.
Just then the middle boy, Nate, came in cradling an unconscious sparrow. Braxton followed, trying to take it off him, and Willis strutted importantly to the table as the oldest child to declare, ‘It’s dead.’
‘No, it’s not!’ Nate countered. ‘It’s just sleeping. It’s breathing. See!’
‘What happened?’ Val asked, jumping up.
‘It flew into the window,’ Braxton said breathlessly.
‘And fell to the ground,’ Willis finished. ‘It couldn’t have survived the impact.’
Goodness, Christmas thought, he sounded like a news reporter.
And so the conversation about France had ended there while the poor stunned sparrow was put into a cardboard box and placed in a quiet(ish) section of the room to recover its wits, which it did, thankfully, and a while later they’d all released it with great ceremony.
Now she pushed herself up to a slow jog, something she hadn’t attempted since she lived in Sydney, and was soon puffing hard. Exercise was something she’d learned to do because it was good for her, like occasionally eating Brussels sprouts or mung beans. If she was going to devote her time to working with chocolate, she would be a fool to think she didn’t need to actively burn off some calories. As it was, she was one and a half dress sizes larger than she’d been when she was in PR. She normally walked, sometimes took a class with Emily, but didn’t jog. So she barely managed a wave to Gordon Harding on his penny farthing when she passed him in Pioneer Park and he smiled at her through his thick white moustache and tipped his Ivy tweed cap. Instead she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and defeating the stitch in her side. She also decided to take the opportunity to think about France, as her overriding physical need to breathe would prevent her from expending too much energy on unnecessary angst.
Of course she had always been fascinated by France. How could she not be? It was her only link to her history on that side of the family.
She’d had a pen pal while she was in high school, a girl her age called Miriam Deschamps, and Christmas wrote to her every week for seven months, going to the local post office for stamps and airmail stickers and fine, almost weightless, blue paper. Writing to Mim—even though it was always in English—had felt like some sort of validation of Christmas’s ethnicity.
Mim lived in Paris, was studying for the baccalauréat, drank black coffee without any sugar, and read Rolling Stone magazine. They exchanged photos. Mim had mouse-brown hair down to her waist, thick eyebrows and a gappy smile. She was lanky and seemed to wear jeans all the time, in pink, orange, black, white and purple. One day, like so many things in childhood, they just stopped writing to each other.
Actually, now that she was thinking about it, Christmas remembered that Emily had always been dismissive of their contact, snatching letters from Christmas’s school bag and reading them, snorting with derision at Mim’s intensity and her passion for her city, and rolling her eyes at Mim’s poetry. Christmas had enjoyed Mim’s letters, but she remained silent while Emily sneered at them. If she could help it, she kept the letters away from Em’s eyes in the first place. Perhaps it had been jealousy of Mim. Or maybe of her connection to France, which was exotic compared to Hobart.
She gritted her teeth now as she ran, and didn’t glance at the antiques store on High Street or pause for breath when she hit her usual turn-around spot at the old brick water tower at the corner of Cambock Lane. To avoid the car exhaust fumes in High Street she cut through the back of St Andrew’s church. In the quieter residential streets, families shuffled kids into cars, balancing mobile phones and cereal bowls.
Over the years, Christmas had watched lots of movies featuring France, both French films with subtitles and anything from Hollywood set in France. She particularly loved Amélie, Midnight in Paris, French Kiss, A Good Year and, of course, Chocolat. But she’d never gone so far as trying to learn French. She’d thought about it, naturally, but never done it. It was as though going ahead and learning the language would commit her to actually tracking down Gregoire Lachapelle. And while that idea was never too far from her mind, it was also quite scary. He might not exist, after all. And then the few tangents of a life she’d built in her imaginings would be gone and she’d be left with nothing.
Darla assured Christmas that his name was Gregoire Lachapelle, but she could—or would—give her daughter no more details about his life other than that he came from somewhere in the south of France and that he’d spoken once or twice (in his heavy, sometimes indecipherable accent) about a younger sister, whose name Darla couldn’t remember.
Christmas felt that familiar irritation with her mother now, jogging in Falls Park, where she spied Mary Hauser Who Carries Her Schnauzer and gratefully took a break, bending over with her hands on her knees and gasping for breath. Mary put Ferdy down and he jumped and licked at Christmas’s hands while his mistress chatted on about the Easter weekend, the stories she was writing for the newspaper on the expo events and today’s great weather before continuing on her way.
Setting off again at a pace more reasonable for someone who hadn’t jogged in years, Christmas turned up Russell Street once more, he
ading to the bakery, where she’d organised to meet Emily. Her mind quickly returned to France and all it meant.
Sometime back in the nineties, when the internet had become the primary research tool, Christmas had gone through a phase of obsessive searching for Gregoire Lachapelle. But with nothing else to go on it was impossible to find him. There were more than a thousand Lachapelles listed in Les Pages Blanches. And even if he’d lived in the south of France at one time it didn’t mean he was still there years later. It didn’t mean he was even alive. She didn’t know a single thing about him. And that was the problem. Not knowing gave her imagination far too much freedom to torture her endlessly. That was why she needed to keep busy; her mind left to its own devices found destructive ways to behave. It was something she’d inherited from her mother, sadly, and was why Darla had always taken physical jobs—cleaning, gardening, forestry work, fieldwork. Darla needed to be busy too.
Christmas staggered through the double iron gates into the courtyard of Ingleside Bakery, just a few doors up from The Apothecary. Emily was already there. She was always early, something that seemed incongruous with so many of her other disorganised traits. She wore a hand-knitted scarf (due to the gaping holes in it, Christmas concluded that it was probably made by one of her nieces going through a craft phase) that draped around her in a layered nest, entwined with her long, tangled hair.
Seeing Christmas, Emily jumped to her feet, scraping the metal chair along the brickwork. ‘Hi!’ Emily hugged her, and her hair tickled Christmas’s nose. ‘What have you been doing? You’re all sweaty and red!’
The Chocolate Promise Page 6