The Chocolate Promise

by Josephine Moon

  She peered down at it.

  Lincoln van Luc

  Botanist

  ‘I thought I should give you that, officially, so you know who I am rather than just thinking I’m a guy who hangs out in your store and eats loads of chocolate. I’m writing a book, actually, on cacao. And my editor, Jeremy, thinks my writing isn’t particularly people-friendly. He says it’s too scientific and dry. He wants me to find a co-author, someone who works on the other side of chocolate production. Someone like you.’

  Christmas took a moment to understand what he was saying. ‘You want me to work with you?’

  ‘It seems ideal, doesn’t it? I’m a scientist, you’re a chocolatier—’ ‘I’m not, actually. A chocolatier is a professional, whereas I’m just an artisan . . .’

  ‘—and I know you can sell chocolates and you used to be a PR manager. I read about you in the copy of the in-flight magazine you have in the shopfront, while I was eating here the other day after the expo. And I thought . . . well, in fact my grandmother suggested it, and I couldn’t agree more, and I could kick myself for not thinking of it sooner, but you seem to be just the right person,’ he finished in a rush, his posture stiffening slightly, betraying a degree of something like nervousness, or self-consciousness.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You’ve got to love the unexpected and random, don’t you?’ Lincoln said, with genuine enthusiasm.

  Her mind whirred. She wasn’t the person to write a chocolate book, was she? She’d only been in the business a few years and she was self-taught. Not exactly someone who should be claiming to be an expert on chocolate making and putting her name to a book.

  On top of that, her career as a fairy godmother, which she pursued in her spare hours outside of the shop, was surprisingly time-consuming, and she was horribly behind on that right now too. She really didn’t have time for any more commitments.

  And then there was him: a shaggy yet somehow alluring man. Lincoln van Luc—Just a Little Bit Cute. He was far too tempting to work in close proximity with.

  Absolutely NO romantic relationships. It said so clearly on the charter above the desk in her office, and she read it aloud several times a month, though of course she now knew it off by heart, having lived by it ever since the day she wrote it three years ago. Then again, that particular rule didn’t specify how long it was to be enforced.

  Why was she searching for loopholes?

  ‘It’s very flattering,’ she admitted. ‘And a wonderful opportunity. But I just don’t think I have the time.’ She turned towards the tempering tank and vigorously stirred, smoothing out lumps as she sought to settle the emotional ripples set off when Lincoln van Luc had loped easily into her kitchen.

  ‘Look, I know this was totally out of the blue, and I can see you’re working hard here,’ he said, casting his eyes over the trolley racks stacked six-feet high with cooling chocolate moulds. ‘How about I email you the synopsis and a bit of info and you can have a read and see how you feel? I’ll be living nearby for a while, just ten minutes that way,’ he pointed over his shoulder, ‘so we’re practically neighbours.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, the word loaded with caution.

  ‘Excellent.’ He smiled, confidently, like it was a done deal.

  The next thing, he was gone, leaving Christmas alone with her chocolate and her busy, busy hands.

  A moment later, not yet recovered from the shock of Lincoln’s proposition, she heard her mobile phone buzz with an email. And because she was looking for a distraction from thinking about Lincoln, she washed her hands and checked the message. It was from her old PR firm, McKenzie Jones, regretfully informing her that their friend and colleague, journalist Peter O’Donnell, had passed away from a heart attack at the age of sixty-nine.

  •

  ‘Emily!’

  Emily turned around, a tube of eye cream in her hand, to see Val walking through the cosmetics section of Myer in Launceston, loaded down with bags.

  ‘Hi!’ she said, putting down the cream and kissing Val on the cheek.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Val asked, slightly breathless.

  ‘I’m actually on an assignment. The station’s been doing a series of segments on cooking, retro style. I’ve just been down in the mall at the CupCakery doing research on cupcakes through the ages. Have you been in there? It’s really funky—lots of fifties posters, antique mixers and old recipe books, a bit like a museum to cake baking.’

  ‘No, I don’t bake,’ Val said definitively. ‘But I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve been meaning to call or text to say what a wonderful job you did getting that scholarship to France for Massy. That was so inspired! It will be so good for her.’

  Emily bit her lip. She didn’t want to break the unspoken codes of sister–friend–sister relationships, but as the nominated best friend in this triangle of women, she truly believed it was her duty to step up if she thought it was necessary. ‘Actually, do you have time for a coffee?’ she said.

  ‘Sure. I don’t have to pick up the kids for another hour.’

  ‘Excellent. I was hoping we could have a chat about Christmas and this trip to France. I’m worried she’s not going to make the most of the chance to do something about . . .’ she searched for the appropriate phrase, ‘. . . healing her past.’

  ‘You mean look for her father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Val said, and they wandered off to find a good brew.

  •

  Christmas had been to only a few funerals in her life, the most recent of which had been for Mr Tupper, Rosemary McCaw’s twenty-year-old, arthritic, diabetic cat, who died last year in his sleep on Rosemary’s lap while she was watching Downton Abbey. Mr Tupper was buried beneath a blossom tree in Rosemary’s backyard, and she’d invited a handful of close or notable villagers to the service, which included readings (by Rosemary) from Shakespeare, and an opera singer—a friend from her days in the theatre. It had been surprisingly moving as Mr Tupper’s ginger body was laid to rest in the grave.

  Perhaps now, though, Christmas reflected morbidly, she was approaching the age when those around her started to shuffle off their mortal coils and this was just the beginning of an endless procession of sad farewells she’d have to endure until she too went to the big lavender field in the sky.

  She swirled the red wine in her glass, sitting up in the queen ensemble in the bed and breakfast where she was staying for the night on Sydney’s north shore. It wasn’t far from where Peter’s family were gathered in his home to comfort one another after the service. An empty Thai takeaway container sat on the bedside table and a pile of used tissues littered the sheets. She hadn’t cried until tonight. She’d refused to let herself, forcing the tears back down inside her body. Let it hurt, she’d told herself. Because it wasn’t hurting her anywhere near as much as it was hurting Peter’s wife or children. What right did she have to cry? He wasn’t her father.

  His children all spoke so eloquently, reminiscing about childhood games and recalling pieces of their father’s wisdom that they’d carry to their own graves. They spoke of his insatiable thirst for knowledge and his intrepid enthusiasm for travel journalism, which had taken him to places like Antarctica, Lebanon and Estonia and everywhere in between. He’d walked the Great Wall of China; unwittingly swum with a great white shark; trekked Kilimanjaro; been invited to Ethiopian family coffee rituals; walked on hot coals; been held up at gunpoint in Egypt; and cried in the refugee camps of Sudan.

  But it was his eldest daughter’s words that had reached deep into Christmas’s heart. ‘No matter what happened to Dad out in the field—dysentery, muggings, being detained on suspicion of spying, lost passports or cockroach-infested hotels—his enjoyment and love of travel, and of life, never waned. Dad always said, “Life’s too short to live it behind a desk. Grab every opportunity that comes your way. Never say no.”’

  Christmas poured herself another glass of grenache and wonder
ed. She wasn’t living her life behind a desk; she’d at least extricated herself from that. But was she now hiding behind the four walls of her chocolate shop? If she was truly honest, as one could only be after more than half a bottle of fantastic Australian wine, she knew deep down that she was treading too carefully. She wasn’t grabbing every opportunity that came her way.

  Not even Peter could make her reassess her position on Gregoire Lachapelle. She just wasn’t interested in going down that path. But Lincoln’s book? It was a rare professional opportunity. And she’d been determined to turn it down because she didn’t trust herself around an attractive man.

  She cast her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh, Peter, what a scolding you’d give me if you could see me like this.’

  Years ago, when she was still at McKenzie Jones, she and Peter had gone on a junket to the Great Barrier Reef, staying in a five-star hotel that was the subject of one of Christmas’s biggest-ever campaigns. They lay side by side on the beach under comically large straw hats, drinking piña coladas by the bucketful. As the day wore on and the sun got hotter they’d become quite hysterical, laughing at the silliest things, and then Peter had suddenly said, ‘I’d trade all the trips in the world for just one more day with my mum and dad.’

  Instantly stone-cold sober, Christmas had burst into tears.

  Peter patted her arm. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me think of them just now.’ He pulled himself up off the beach lounger with some difficulty and steadied himself on the back. He stared into his balloon glass and pulled out the glacé cherry and ate it. ‘Alcohol, I suppose.’ He had shrugged. ‘Cuts right to the chase sometimes.’

  Now, sitting in that bed-and-breakfast room in Sydney just five hours after Peter’s funeral and his daughter’s words, the thought slid into her mind that perhaps she should just start saying yes. She threw back the last of the red wine and decided that there was one thing she could say yes to right now.

  Can we talk?

  Lincoln van Luc

  Who is this?

  Christmas Livingstone

  Oh sorry. It’s Christmas Livingstone.

  From the chocolate apocalypse

  apoplexy

  apagoge

  Apothecary!!!

  Are you still there?

  Lincoln van Luc

  Yes sorry. Just watching my neighbour over the fence. He’s a retired sea captain and limps and smokes a pipe. As true as I stand here.

  Lincoln van Luc

  I probably shouldn’t have said that. Now I sound like a weird peeping Tom or something. It’s just that he’s building something in his backyard.

  Christmas Livingstone

  What is it?

  Lincoln van Luc

  I don’t know.

  Christmas Livingstone

  Can’t you ask him?

  Lincoln van Luc

  No. He only talks in sign language.

  Christmas Livingstone

  He’s deaf?

  Lincoln van Luc

  No. He actually writes stuff on a blackboard and leaves it on the footpath. Today it says, ‘All governments are corrupt; you just need to pick the one less so.’

  Christmas Livingstone

  Huh. Cheery.

  Lincoln van Luc

  Yeah.

  Anyway, did you want to talk?

  Christmas Livingstone

  Yes.

  I think I’d like to write your book with you. I’m not sure what your time frame is—I’m leaving for France in seven weeks, and I’ll be gone for a bit over three weeks. But I’d like to do it. I’d like to say yes.

  Christmas Livingstone

  If you’re still interested.

  Lincoln van Luc

  I am.

  8

  It was Friday again—two whole weeks since Emily had delivered the news about the scholarship course, and Christmas still hadn’t taken the first steps closer to France. If she was going to get herself overseas, she needed to start working through a long list of tasks to complete before she left. And at the top of that list were the two most recent godmother requests. She left Cheyenne in charge of the shop for a few hours to squeeze in a visit to Veronika Lambert.

  It was a bit over an hour’s drive from Evandale to Sheffield, and Christmas passed by seemingly endless yellow pastures that were occasionally interrupted by a stark, leafless gum reaching its bare branches to the moody grey sky like a bony hand. The paddocks resembled wheat fields; it was only the clusters of ebony Angus cattle and blotches of sooty grey sheep clumped like rocks on the ground that identified the stalks not as wheat but as tinder-dry grass.

  The town of Sheffield sat flanked by Mount Roland to its south, and from the main street the view floated along rolling yellow hills down the highway towards Cradle Mountain.

  The Lambert house was just one street away from the centre of town. Veronika answered the door with a baby on her hip and stains down her overalls, her hair in pigtails, making her look much younger than Christmas knew she was. Her bony frame and translucent skin gave her a fragile appearance, which wasn’t helped by the red-rimmed eyes and her red-tipped nose, bright eyes and auburn hair, all of which made her look as though she might dissolve into tears at any moment.

  Thankfully, she smiled with a burst of energy.

  Christmas greeted her and handed over a box of chocolates tied with an aqua ribbon.

  ‘Thank you!’ Veronika said. ‘Come in. The kids are going to love these. I’d better hide them away or I won’t get any. I have a secret spot, in my underwear drawer. If I want to savour anything slowly, rather than having to fight the family for it like a pack of starving wolves, I have to hide it. And things just aren’t as enjoyable when you’re shoving them down your throat to get your fair share. You know?’

  ‘Hey, your secret’s safe with me,’ Christmas said, wiping her feet on the mat and stepping inside as Veronika held the door open. The house was in desperate need of a makeover, with peach-coloured veneers and an outdated kitchen visible through a doorway, the standalone stove on a slight lean. Looking around, she glimpsed socks, shoes, a tricycle, a headless doll and a small television set. A mishmash of furniture that looked as though it had been picked up at garage sales or handed down from family members, some items with faded floral prints, others with seventies-style wood veneer. The greenish-grey carpet needed a good clean.

  ‘Excuse the mess.’ Veronika led the way to the dining table. She tapped it with her fingernail and it gave a hollow clang. ‘Metal was the only surface they couldn’t destroy.’

  Christmas smiled sympathetically.

  ‘Would you like a tea or coffee? Oh, wait. I think I’ve run out of coffee. But I can do tea. Teabag only, I’m afraid. No time for steeping leaves in a pot. I can barely finish a cup once I’ve made it. I’m forever finding half-drunk cups of tea around the house. Often with mould floating on top. That’s awful, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have said that. Now you think I’m a disgusting slob.’ Veronika moved the chubby baby to the other hip, swaying to keep him happy.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’ Christmas laughed. ‘And you’re certainly not alone with the half-drunk cups. My sister’s exactly the same. She has three boys.’

  ‘My condolences,’ Veronika said.

  ‘I really just wanted to come and say hello in person and bring you some chocolate. I have a meeting tomorrow with my friend Mary Hauser to see what we can do. She’s a journalist and we often manage to swing some goodies for people who need them in return for publicity.’

  ‘Oh, do you think you can help?’ Veronika’s eyes widened and a wisp of vulnerability floated across her face.

  ‘Would you be open to sharing your story and being in a photo later on? With the washing machine or something like that? It helps if we can promise a store a feel-good news story promotion.’

  Veronika nodded quickly. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘It would be tastefully done,’ Christmas assured her, sensing a hint of embarrassment creeping in. ‘I wa
nt to help you, not make you feel awkward or anything.’

  Veronika placed the baby down in a wooden playpen in the corner and passed him a box of blocks. Then she pulled out a green vinyl chair and sat down across from Christmas. ‘Of course I’d be happy to help. I’m just so grateful for any assistance at all. I can’t keep up with taking the washing to the laundromat.’ She covered her face with her long fingers. ‘You don’t want to open that door behind you. There’d be a landslide of footy jerseys and Taylor Swift pyjamas and you’d never be found again.’

  Christmas reached out a hand and placed it on Veronika’s thin arm. ‘It’s all okay. Believe me. You’re not the first person to strike a rough patch, and you won’t be the last. It’s good you asked for help. I’m going to do the best I can to get this fixed for you straight away.’

  As if that small touch of kindness had been a pinprick to a water balloon, a tear seeped slowly from the corner of Veronika’s eye.

  •

  The Saturday lunch rush had passed and only a handful of customers were left in the shop, slowly savouring coffees and hot chocolates. Christmas was putting the finishing touches to another batch of flower-inspired chocolates. These pieces had been a hit at the garden expo and she’d completed many orders for them for Mother’s Day. Now she was working on even more for Mary Hauser to give to her mother for her seventieth birthday. These particular pieces featured white and yellow daisies—Mary’s mother’s favourites. She’d made a batch of flat round Belgian chocolates about a centimetre thick and piped them with crème brûlée-flavoured ganache, then added a flat disc of chocolate to the bottom, wider than the first round, so each ganache was sitting on a chocolate plate.