Bingo. The last-known address for Mim, from more than twenty years ago. But it was all she had to go by.
She wasn’t going to try to find Gregoire, but it would be fun to catch up with Mim after all these years. And it would give her a sense of ownership of this trip to France, rather than just being the passive recipient of a gift kindly organised by Emily. She wanted to feel that she was taking charge of her fate, rather than just going where the wind took her.
She skimmed the letter. Mim described her studies, the boy she was interested in, her little dog, and talked about the latest music. Christmas smiled. Things seemed so much simpler back then. She wished she had copies of the letters she’d sent to Mim. She’d love to know what had been her biggest concern at fourteen.
Her socks slid on the floor as she hauled herself up, still holding the letter, and shoved the chest back under the bed. In the top drawer of her desk she found some cards with images of Provence on them; deciding that it was pathetic to send a picture of Provence to someone who actually lived in France, she settled on a card with a shot of Cradle Mountain instead.
Dear Mim,
I don’t know if you’ll remember me but we used to be pen pals when we were teenagers. I’m coming to France next month and I wondered if you might be interested in meeting up with me.
I don’t know if you’ll even get this card. I’m sure you don’t live at the same address anymore, but I’m hoping that whoever lives there might still be related to you and can pass this on. My email address is at the bottom of this card if you’d like to drop me a line.
Christmas Livingstone
She considered signing off with ‘love’ but it didn’t feel right so she added a smiley face instead. Tomorrow she’d take it to the post office and then wait to see what happened.
13
‘Help me make chocolate,’ Christmas said, handing Lincoln a plain white apron.
‘I thought we were working,’ he said, dropping his pile of books and papers on the table in the centre of the shop and following her into the kitchen.
‘We are. But as this is our fourth week working together, I thought it was time I trusted you with the chocolate,’ she said, smiling.
‘Finally! My mouth waters uncontrollably every time you send through another recipe,’ he said, tying on the apron.
‘I think you’ve earned your stripes.’
They’d been meeting up at the shop every Monday to work together on the manuscript. Lincoln had found a cartoon image of a cacao bean and photoshopped a hat, hands and feet on it, and printed out maps of the world and cacao-producing countries. They’d been having a great time creating a travel itinerary for the bean and making up notes on his adventures. Christmas was enjoying writing her sections on the creative aspects of chocolate, and she enjoyed helping Lincoln with his text. They laughed a lot during their sessions and each of them took the other’s criticism and suggestions well. Mostly, they ended the day together more excited about the book than when they’d started.
It felt significant now that she would invite him to make chocolate with her, as though they’d crossed an imaginary line, moving beyond colleagues to real friendship. Her chocolate-making world was a private sanctuary and only special people were allowed inside.
‘You’ll need this,’ she said, passing him a hair snood.
He extracted the dishcloth type of shower cap and grinned. ‘Sexy.’
Christmas smiled, thinking he’d look good in a sack. She put hers on too. ‘You should really have a beard net as well, but I don’t have any. I don’t normally have men in here and thankfully I’m not old enough to have grown a granny beard yet. You’ll just have to go without but do try not to shed over anything.’
‘I promise not to rub my face in the chocolate—unless there’s some kind of chocolate crisis, like an apocalypse or something. It would be such a shame for it to go to waste just because it was the end of the world.’
She really wished he’d stop being so damn charming.
‘I think we should watch some episodes of Jamie Oliver’s cooking shows,’ Christmas said, organising the moulds on the kitchen bench and demonstrating how to polish them.
‘He’s not really my type,’ Lincoln said, taking the cotton wool from her hands, his fingers brushing hers and sending a jolt up her arm.
‘Ha ha. It’s just that he’s got this really fantastic way of educating people and celebrating food at the same time. Some of his documentaries are awesome. And he’s ridiculously popular. I want our book to be just as popular.’
Lincoln had stopped polishing the moulds and was staring at her with a funny look in his eyes.
‘What?’ she said, suddenly self-conscious. She reached for her mouth. She’d been eating pancakes and syrup for breakfast just before he arrived. ‘Is there something on my face?’
‘No. You look perfect. It’s just that when you said “our book”, it made it all seem real. I know I’ve published a book before, but for such a different market. It’s not like it got any mainstream publicity or anything. But the way you talk about the book, your vision for it, sometimes I can see us ending up on television talking about it. It’s stupid, I know.’
‘No, it’s not stupid.’ It’s adorable.
‘I spend a lot of time alone, in the forest, in the lab, or at computers,’ he went on. ‘It’s not a particularly social existence. This is fun, working together.’ His eyes lit up and she was struck by his incredibly long lashes. Any woman would kill for lashes like that.
‘Yes, it is,’ she admitted. She handed him the spoon to stir the brandy ganache. She stared indulgently at his wrist as it rolled and guided the spoon around the pot.
‘So how is this helping us get our book done, exactly?’ he asked, licking his finger.
‘I figured you needed some creative practice,’ she said. ‘And in return, you’re helping me get more scientific credibility.’
‘With your medicinal chocolate?’
‘If I get the chance to talk to Master Le Coutre about it when I’m in France it would be good to sound like I know at least a little bit about what I’m talking about. I know it seems like a pipedream.’
‘No, it doesn’t. I think it’s entirely possible.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’ve told you about Lien Pham, haven’t I?’ she asked, filling a piping bag with ganache.
‘Juvenile arthritis?’
‘Yes. She’s on all these horrible drugs with awful side effects and it would be wonderful to find something natural that could help her with the pain and inflammation. And imagine if it could be chocolate!’
‘Potassium,’ he said thoughtfully, his eyes turned up towards the ceiling. ‘Cacao has high levels of potassium, and most of us, with processed foods and modern lifestyles, have a potassium imbalance.’
‘What does potassium do?’
‘It regulates neuro-muscular activity,’ he said. ‘Low potassium levels can lead to muscle weakness and tiredness.’
‘What else?’ she asked, excited.
‘It’s high in magnesium,’ he said.
‘And magnesium helps with muscle cramps, doesn’t it!’ she said, beginning to pace. ‘Am I crazy? Am I totally off base here?’
‘No, actually, I think it’s quite plausible. It’s not as far out there as you think. Like you said, heaps of medicines come from rainforest species. Why shouldn’t chocolate be one of them? And maybe Master Le Coutre thinks so too. You might find that this is exactly why they chose you. Think about it. There are thousands of wannabe pastry chefs out there in the world. What they need is someone with a real edge. Something different, unique. Skills can be taught. Brilliance can’t.’
Christmas froze. ‘You think I’m brilliant?’ The words were out before she could stop them.
‘In my professional, studied, scientific analysis? Well, yeah.’
The space between them was immediately thick with desire, whether hers or his she wasn’t sure.
He held her gaze confidently and her heart hammered madly within her breast. He reached out a hand towards her neck as though to draw her to him.
But just then, the thermostat on the tempering tank clicked off, breaking the trance.
She tore her eyes away from his and brushed some imaginary fluff from her arm.
He hurried to fill the awkwardness. ‘You’ll be fine in France,’ he said. ‘Who knows where it will lead? Anything could happen.’
•
Val asked Christmas if she wanted to meet her and her brood at the Clarendon Arms for dinner mid-week. Christmas had happily agreed and told Val she’d ask Emily along too, thinking it might help them both to move into a more normal state of being and wipe away any remaining unease between them.
While Christmas was at the bar ordering another round of drinks before their meals arrived, Val leaned over to Emily, talking quietly so Archie and the boys couldn’t hear—which was unlikely, actually, given the commotion they were all making, ravenous and overexcited about eating something other than tinned spaghetti on toast for dinner.
‘Have you told Christmas we’ve been talking?’ she asked.
‘No, have you?’ Emily said.
‘No.’ Val paused. ‘It would seem like we’re ganging up on her, wouldn’t it?’
‘Hmm. Are we?’ Emily asked, appearing anxious and watching Christmas out of the corner of her eye.
‘I don’t know.’
Val sipped her white wine thoughtfully while Emily began a tournament of thumb wrestling with Nate; Willis and Archie shouted with glee as Archie’s Keno numbers came out; and Braxton played a game on her mobile phone.
The thing was that her own boys loved their dad and she couldn’t even begin to imagine Archie not being in their life. And she had such a close relationship with Joseph that the thought of not having her dad now, let alone when she was growing up, was inconceivable. She simply wanted what was best for Christmas, and if that meant putting a bit of pressure on her to find Gregoire than that’s what she’d keep on doing. Surely it was better to have a chance of something rather than a guarantee of nothing?
She resolved to keep trying, for Christmas’s sake.
•
Dennis Chamberlain had declined to meet Christmas prior to the night of the wedding proposal, claiming that he was simply too busy. He was an accountant with more work than he could handle, and the sole reason he’d asked for her help was that he was too busy to organise a satisfactory proposal and, besides, he was no good at love. She’d spoken to him once on the phone and he’d sounded exactly the way she thought he would after his taciturn emails.
‘Do you have a specific date in mind to propose?’ she’d asked.
‘Sunday, in the evening.’
‘Do you have a preferred location?’
‘At her house. She wouldn’t like a bunch of strangers watching.’
Christmas remembered that he’d said she hated crowds. He’d also said she loved jazz, spicy food, cooking, foreign films, good chocolate, and cats. Juliette sounded like someone Christmas might actually like very much. Someone who appreciated sensual experiences. And she sounded very different to Dennis, who seemed to possess no sense of joy or spontaneity, or appreciation for luxury.
She could just picture Dennis sitting in his chrome and glass office with his synthetic tie and ten-dollar business shirts, which he probably threw away after a few wears rather than investing time into taking care of more expensive ones. He would have a receding hairline and boofy waves to counteract it, and pasty white skin. By contrast, the photos he’d sent her of Juliette showed a pretty, well-groomed woman with simple but stylish clothes, minimal jewellery and makeup, and smooth, shiny hair.
Christmas had begun to feel a little uneasy about this relationship and her role in it, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. If Dennis hadn’t been a paying client, and hadn’t already transferred over the godmother fee, and Christmas hadn’t gladly spent it on travel insurance, she might have thought about calling the whole thing off.
‘Will anyone else be there for the proposal?’
‘Just her mother.’
Her mother?
‘They’re very close, and at the same time as proposing to Juliette I intend to ask Virginia if she’d like to live with us after we’re married.’
Christmas wasn’t sure if she thought this was sweet, or kind of twisted.
But Christmas’s vision of Dennis Chamberlain couldn’t have been further from the reality. Dennis met her at the end of the leafy street in which Juliette lived so they could make their surprise appearance together. Christmas had kept hounding Dennis to tease out ideas so there would be some chance of getting this proposal right. They’d eventually come up with a plan that Dennis had said was ‘good’. She hoped what he really meant was ‘fantastic’ or ‘perfect’, but she accepted ‘good’ and proceeded to make the preparations. It was fortunate that Juliette liked chocolate. That was safe territory for Christmas.
Nerves had been plaguing her before he got out of his car. Then she saw him and stared in disbelief. This man must have been a model. Or a personal trainer. Or perhaps a health-conscious chef.
He was tall. Broad. Buff, in fact. His clothes were impeccable. Actually, he looked like a motivational speaker and had the intense eye contact and engaging smile of one. He had hair. Lots of it. Dark, neat, brushed. He shook her hand firmly and with confidence. His hand was dry and warm. He was lovely. How could this friendly, charismatic man possibly have been ‘no good at love’? Where was the dour man she’d been dealing with up till now?
‘Juliette’s house is up this way,’ he said, tilting his head to indicate the direction. ‘Shall we go?’
At Juliette’s front door—a pot of cheery orange flowers on each side—Dennis knocked once and called out, then opened the door without waiting for an answer.
Juliette was sitting at her kitchen counter, a bunch of takeaway menus spread out in front of her. She didn’t look up. ‘Hi. Do you fancy Vietnamese or Indian?’
‘Neither,’ he said.
She looked up. And noticed Christmas. ‘Oh, hi.’ Her wary expression turned to Dennis as he stooped to kiss her lightly on the lips.
‘This is Christmas Livingstone,’ he said. ‘She’s the owner of The Chocolate Apothecary.’
Juliette’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, I love your chocolates!’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Christmas smiled, now abuzz with excitement. These two were so comfortable and looked so good together.
Juliette stood and pointed to the vintage mint-green suitcase Christmas was holding. ‘What’s in the suitcase?’
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ Dennis said. ‘I thought we could do something different tonight and learn how to make chocolate.’
‘Really?’ Juliette did a bit of a jig that made Christmas laugh.
‘And I’ve invited your mum, too,’ he said. ‘I know she’s been a bit lonely and I thought she’d enjoy it. But she’s going to join us a bit later because I wanted some time alone with you first.’
Juliette kissed him.
Again, Christmas marvelled at how well they seemed to fit together. They lit up the room when they looked at each other. People could be very surprising.
She couldn’t help but smile as she unpacked the tools from her suitcase. Her plan was to set them up with everything they needed, offer some basic directions and leave them to it. She also had a small white box, trussed up with pink and red ribbons, containing one perfect double-layered ‘wedding cake’ chocolate, with rose petals on top and the engagement ring nestled into a drop of frosting to keep it secure at the pinnacle. Dennis was going to bring it out at the end of the evening and present it to Juliette.
Christmas slipped some champagne into the fridge unnoticed, then lined up her ingredients on the bench. A brown paper bag with white chunks of cocoa butter, a tin of fine cocoa powder, a bottle of agave syrup, a small bottle of her handmade vanilla essence (with the vanilla beans
still in the bottle), and a tiny thimble of sea salt. She also left three chocolate mould trays, in the shapes of half eggs, hearts and birds. And she had included a small number of additional ingredients—roasted hazelnut pieces, dried cranberries and raisins.
Juliette picked up the brown bag of cocoa butter and inhaled. ‘It smells like chocolate,’ she said. ‘Just a bit, I don’t know, thinner somehow.’
‘Smell the cocoa,’ Christmas said, opening the tin and holding it to Juliette’s nose.
Juliette breathed in, looked puzzled, and breathed again. ‘It doesn’t actually smell very strong at all.’
‘I know. Odd, isn’t it? You’d think the cocoa was the main ingredient contributing to that gorgeous chocolate smell, but it’s the butter, which is why white chocolate still smells like chocolate, even though there’s no cocoa in it.’
‘It’s just fat!’
‘Sadly, yes.’ Christmas could see Juliette was hooked on the process already. She opened the agave syrup now and commented on its molasses-like aroma, despite its thinner-than-honey consistency.
Dennis rolled up the sleeves of his blue shirt and pulled out a saucepan for boiling water and a steel bowl for melting the ingredients. Christmas handed Juliette a brand-new French linen apron with images of dried lavender and rosemary around the hem, and a navy apron for Dennis—gifts for them to keep.
The last things she had to do were hide the box with the engagement ring in the pantry as planned, and give them some basic instructions on how to proceed.
‘Melt the cocoa butter, add the agave syrup, sift the cocoa and whisk it in, add a pinch of salt and vanilla and away you go,’ she summarised.
Dennis’s arms wound their way around Juliette’s waist and she leaned into his body.
Christmas took a moment to enjoy the thrill of a successful godmother wish. Then she left them alone to make chocolate, make love, and make a new life together.
The next day was Monday, which was dedicated to working with Lincoln on their book. But today was also the day of the chocolate tasting at Green Hills Aged Care in Oatlands. Christmas had made plans to meet with Lincoln afterwards, late in the afternoon, grab some takeaway together, and work into the evening. But Lincoln texted her early in the morning to ask if she’d like to share a ride to Green Hills. He explained that his grandmother had asked him to come and he thought it was a good idea, since Christmas was educating him for chocolate credibility and all.
The Chocolate Promise Page 14