The Chocolate Promise

by Josephine Moon

  ‘I pour orange juice into them each morning to cling to the vague notion that I’m succeeding as a mother,’ she admitted to Christmas. Hopefully the chocolate sauce—made with only dark chocolate, so it really was reasonably good for them—would help ease Val’s guilt and encourage the boys to expand their idea of vegetables past potato chips.

  The BLTs were a big hit, and Christmas, along with her special helper, Nate, was busy in the kitchen slicing and toasting and frying multiple servings for each person. Plates were licked clean. Val enjoyed an extra glass of wine since she didn’t have to be in charge of the stovetop. Archie declared it a triumph of modern cookery. Willis, at nine years of age an exact replica of his father, right down to the dark blue trousers and steel-capped boots, pronounced bacon the best food in the world. And six-year-old Braxton asked for an extra BLT to feed to his toy dinosaurs.

  At that, Willis rolled his eyes at Braxton and leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head, just like Archie. And lovely Nate, the eight-year-old wise man of the house, said that of course he would make the dinosaurs a BLT, and then went outside and picked some grass to add to the plate so the herbivores in the group could have something to eat too.

  For dessert, Christmas had brought over chocolate roulade with strawberry mousse filling. Afterwards the adults groaned and patted their stomachs while the boys sprang out of their seats, high on sugar.

  ‘I’ve got them,’ Archie said, easing out of his chair and herding the boys to the lounge for a game of sponge ball soccer.

  Christmas and Val sat at the table, surrounded by the detritus of the feast, and sipped wine. ‘Don’t touch a thing,’ Val said. ‘It’s outrageous you even brought your own farewell dinner.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I don’t have a family to look after.’

  It was meant to be a light-hearted comment but they both paused a moment, catching the other’s eye.

  ‘Are you sure it’s not something you want?’ Val asked. ‘It’s not too late.’

  ‘I think it’s too late for me.’

  ‘No, no, lots of women have babies up into their forties these days.’

  Christmas shrugged. ‘Then I guess that’s not really the issue. Before I got pregnant, kids really hadn’t been on the cards anyway. Yes, I would have loved that child and my life would be totally different today. But I’m not unhappy.’

  ‘You work hard not to be.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Val said, backpedalling, her hand across her heart. ‘I just worry about you, that’s all. It’s my right as your sister.’

  They sat in silence for a minute or so while yells erupted from the lounge room over the validity of a goal.

  Christmas had her legs crossed and swung the top one back and forth, thinking. ‘Did I tell you I heard from Miriam Deschamps? My pen pal from high school.’

  Val’s eyes widened. ‘Seriously? How?’

  Christmas filled her in.

  ‘Are you going to visit her?’ Val asked.

  ‘Of course. I’m going to spend a week with her and her husband and teenage daughter when I first get to Paris, though Mim’s warned me they’ll all be crazy busy and I’ll hardly see them.’

  ‘Do you think she could help you find Gregoire?’

  ‘Oh God, not you too!’ Christmas let her head fall back in frustration. ‘Emily’s been on at me about this since Easter. I think I’ve made it pretty clear that I’m not interested.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Maybe I would have been in the past. But not now.’

  Val pursed her lips.

  ‘Oh, go on,’ Christmas said. ‘Say it.’

  ‘Look, I’m not a psychologist or anything,’ Val began. ‘But do you think it’s possible that you’re in denial?’

  ‘Denial of what?’

  ‘That this really is a big deal and you’re just too afraid to see it for what it is?’

  Christmas stood up to get another bottle of red from the wine rack on the dresser and held it up questioningly to Val, who nodded her head in affirmation and sculled the last of her glass. Christmas thought about the question while she peeled off the foil and twisted in the corkscrew. It was so much more satisfying to pull out a cork with that pleasant pop at the end. She’d never got used to the idea of twisting off a top, the snapping metal sound that was no different to removing a soft-drink cap. There was no ceremony in that. Nothing special about it at all. She braced her hand on the bottle and extracted the cork, pausing to inhale the fermented aromas wafting from the neck, before glug-glug-glugging wine into both of their glasses.

  ‘Why do you think that?’ she said at last, turning the tables back on Tiny Val. ‘That I’m afraid.’

  Val held up a hand. ‘I’m not trying to be difficult,’ she said. ‘I was just wondering.’ Val, with the practical, patient, negotiating mind of her father the school principal, wasn’t taking the bait. She took another tack. ‘How do you feel about France, then, in general? Because like it or not, it is France—the home of your father.’ She raised her shoulders. ‘Some people might think that was a big deal.’

  She sipped at her wine, turned in the direction of the lounge and shouted, ‘Willis, I can hear you from here. Stop being the boss of everyone. Daddy makes the rules, not you. Give the others a chance to play too!’ Then she turned back to Christmas, her face mellow once more, waiting for her to answer.

  Christmas was hit with a numbing wave of alcohol, her body feeling pleasantly heavy. ‘Look, I’m not saying that France itself doesn’t stir something in me. Of course it does. What I am saying, though, is that I can’t afford to let thoughts of my father take over my mind. I accept that France is where Gregoire comes from. That is all. It will be nice to see some of the country, but it doesn’t mean I need to go any further.’

  ‘But supposing you could find him, would you actually want to?’

  ‘Honestly, I’m not sure. I mean, yes, if it was the happy-ever-after tale, but so much could go wrong, couldn’t it? He could be horrible. He could be an axe murderer. He could be filthy and slobby, in jail, homeless, or just plain mean and nasty.’

  ‘He could be the President of France.’

  ‘Or Louis Vuitton.’

  ‘And you could get free couture clothes for the rest of your life!’

  ‘Exactly. But that’s the point, isn’t it? I have no idea what I’ll get. The risks are really high and the whole thing could be so devastating that I might never recover. I could end up back in the foetal position in bed and you’d have to come and get me again.’

  ‘Hey, I wouldn’t mind a trip to France. Once I got you out of your pyjamas we could go to the Champs-Élysées and buy handbags.’

  ‘It’s similar to the question of having kids,’ Christmas said. ‘The rewards are tremendous but the risks are just as high. I could lose a baby before it was even born. Again. It could be stillborn. It could die due to complications at birth. It could have a serious illness or major disability. It could live five years and then I could lose it. And I know I’d never recover.’

  ‘Oh, Massy.’

  Christmas wiped at her eyes. ‘Sometimes it’s the braver choice to know your limits and stick to them. I’m happy right now. Why would I risk that?’

  Suddenly, there was a nasty, human-sized thump from the living room, followed by a shriek and tears and shouting. Val gripped the table and took a shaky breath. ‘Is everything okay?’ she called.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Archie said. ‘It’s under control.’

  Val shuddered.

  ‘Huge risks,’ Christmas said, gesturing towards the lounge room.

  ‘Yes,’ Val said. ‘And huge rewards when it works out.’

  ‘It’s the unknown that’s the problem,’ Christmas said. ‘If only we were fortune tellers.’

  ‘There’s always Jaelle,’ Val said.

  ‘I can’t believe I went to her.’ Christmas slapped her hand to her forehead at the memory of visiting gypsy Jaelle in her w
ooden wagon in a field.

  ‘She seemed to help at the time. She said you have a gift for helping others. That seems to be true.’

  ‘I was just feeling lost after coming back from Sydney. Probably anyone could have helped me at the time. I shouldn’t have gone. It broke rule number eight—Your destiny doesn’t happen to you; you make your destiny.’

  ‘Do you ever break the rules?’

  ‘Apparently only when my life’s a shipwreck and I want advice from gypsies who appear mysteriously overnight and read tea leaves by oil lanterns and catch rabbits to cook on open fires.’

  ‘Well,’ Val said, ‘here’s to a fabulous three weeks in France!’

  •

  ‘So tomorrow’s the day,’ Lincoln said, here with her once more on a Monday. ‘Is everything set to go?’

  Christmas bit her lip. ‘I think so. I’ve got to empty my fridge upstairs and take out rubbish and turn off appliances and all that, leave extra keys for Abigail, book the taxi to the airport. I have a list but it just keeps getting longer.’

  Butterflies had set into her belly, chasing each other around in circles as she tried to get on top of everything. It was silly, really. She’d be back in three weeks and life would carry on as normal.

  Now she kept her hands busy while they discussed the book and their plans and timetables for its completion. It would be the end of her if she had to sit still and stare into Lincoln’s eyes and be taunted by his new aftershave. Something citrusy and salty. It was like sitting by the ocean and squeezing lemon on fish and chips under the warm sun. She’d rushed him to the chocolate immediately, smothering the smell in comforting cocoa instead.

  They were making chocolate cigars. The truffle ganache was infused with Lapsang Souchong tea leaves and the cigars were rolled in powder-soft cocoa. Together, they were now wrapping the ends with thin strips of tissue paper and dipping the tips into a crushed cornflake and tea mixture to imitate the glow of fire, then lining them up in mock cigar boxes. It was fiddly and they had to concentrate, which suited her just fine.

  She used a knife to neatly score small indentations across the cigars for added texture and effect. Beside her, she could feel the heat coming from Lincoln’s body as he worked. He seemed to sense her mood, and once they’d finished discussing the book he maintained a companionable silence, not even needing to ask many questions.

  They’d dealt with the business discussion efficiently enough. Lincoln had work to go on with and would make sure it was completed for her to enflourish on her return. And she gave him a copy of her itinerary—a week in Paris with Mim, a week in Aix-en-Provence at the chocolate course, and a week in Provence at the end, staying at a chateau—so if he had any chocolate emergencies he could contact her. He wouldn’t, of course, it was really just to make herself feel that she’d ticked off every last box on her checklist so she could leave with a clean conscience.

  She’d called her mother last night to say goodbye, and just because Emily and Val had been on at her so much, she decided to ask Darla one more time about Gregoire, if only to prove to them that it was pointless.

  ‘Why would you want to dredge up all of that?’ Darla snapped, the sound of a hooting owl in the background. She was camping in a dry creek bed somewhere in Victoria.

  ‘Well, I don’t actually—’

  ‘It’s in the past and has nothing to do with your life now. Even if I wanted to help you, I can’t. You know everything I know. We didn’t keep in contact. I’ve no idea where he is. And you’re only interested because it’s France, you know. If he’d come from some war-torn hellhole or deathly poor, filthy, disease-ridden country you wouldn’t be so keen.’

  Despite having to endure the harangue from her mother, Christmas was glad she’d asked one more time, just to make absolutely sure. She said she’d email at some point from France and ended the conversation.

  So that was that.

  But Rosemary’s advice about Lincoln was a different matter. Ever since the older woman had told her to kiss him it was all she could think about. It had been years since she’d kissed a man; there had been no one since Simon. She didn’t even know if she still remembered how to do it. Besides, Lincoln was forbidden. And yet that just made him more attractive. She clenched her jaw. It was a good thing she was getting out of the country tomorrow. This could only end in tears.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Lincoln asked.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Just now. Your face went all kind of red and grumpy.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Oh.’ She forced her eyebrows up towards her hairline to smooth out the crease she knew would have pinched between her brows and moved her jaw around to release the tension. ‘Sorry. I guess I’m not very talkative today. Got a lot on my mind.’

  ‘France?’ he said, passing her the scissors and some raffia.

  ‘I guess.’ She forced a laugh. ‘You’re probably relieved not to have to listen to me prattling on as usual.’

  Lincoln reached for the scissors as she passed them back. But instead of taking the scissors he clasped his big warm hand around hers and held it, his eyes locked onto hers, the muscles in his neck twitching as though with the effort of self-restraint. ‘I like talking to you,’ he said. ‘You’re addictive. Like chocolate.’

  She didn’t move. She didn’t take her eyes off him. She didn’t breathe.

  It will free your mind, Rosemary had said.

  Her mind could sure use some freedom right now.

  Would there be anything between them? She had to know. For her own sanity. To free her mind. To be able to go on her way without giving him another thought.

  She looked down at his hand on hers, cocoa powder adding a smooth layer of sensation between their skins, like silk sheets she just wanted to dive into. Everything stopped except her heart, which beat like a drum. Aromas rushed to her nose—Lincoln’s aftershave, that alluring combination of lemon and salt; the cocoa powder; the tank of chocolate; the Lapsang Souchong tea leaves; the sickly sweet cornflakes; the linen starch on her poodle-print apron. She could hear the ticking of the thermostat and the small moist parting of Lincoln’s lips. His pupils were fixed on her lips.

  He increased the pressure on her hand, capturing her in his grip, a slow but inexorable pull, drawing her to him.

  She let him.

  She wanted him.

  Her eyes closed, blocking out the world, as she felt herself falling into him.

  The last sensible thought she had before her lips met his was that she had to kiss him for the greater good. Was there anything between them? With just one kiss she could prove there was nothing there and free them both to go on their ways.

  Their lips connected for her first kiss in four years and it was like falling into a meadow of soft grass on a warm day. And Rosemary was right. Christmas knew straight away that she could never be with Lincoln van Luc. Anything that could feel that wonderful, take you to such heights of joy, could also cast you into the very pits of despair.

  She pulled away from him, her hand across her mouth, instantly saddened by the shock and confusion in his eyes but determined to protect herself, and then hurried him out the door.

  16

  ‘Where are you?’ Emily asked.

  ‘On my way to the airport,’ Christmas said, her voice raised over the taxi’s radio.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘I just had to call you before I leave. I want you to know that I’m not interested in Lincoln.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not interested in him. At all. But I thought maybe you were, because you gave him your card at the chocolate tasting—’

  ‘That was just business.’

  ‘—and all those things you said about him in the car on the way home . . . I want you to know it’s okay if you want to see him. You know, date him.’

  Emily was confused. ‘Why are you saying this?’

  Christmas sighed. ‘I think Lin
coln is a really great guy. And you’re right, it would be a terrible shame to waste a good man in Tasmania. So if there’s any chance you like him, I just don’t want you to hesitate because of me. That’s all.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. You sound upset.’

  ‘No, no, no. It’s just the stress of getting out the door on time. Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say,’ Christmas repeated, sounding slightly unhinged. ‘So I’ll see you in three weeks, okay?’

  ‘Okay. Take care of yourself and have fun.’ Emily hung up, stunned.

  •

  Caesar burst in through the front door of Elsa’s bungalow and greeted her with a huge, slobbery nosing around her knees, leaving wet patches on her purple track pants. As he thoroughly licked any traces of an apple tea cake from her hands his long tail efficiently cleared her side table of photographs, the television remote control and her mobile phone.

  ‘Caesar!’ Lincoln growled, reaching for his collar to halt the wild circling that had now brought down a three-legged stool.

  Elsa laughed. ‘Oh, leave him.’ It was rare to see anyone with such bounce in a place like this. Then again, there was the Kristof boy, she realised with some regret for treading on his spirit.

  Lincoln let go of Caesar to pick up the stool.

  ‘Why do I have that thing anyway?’ she said. ‘It’s not like I ever sit on it. I’d topple off it in less than a second. I can’t even get myself in and out of the lounge chair very often these days.’ She stared at the soft blue couch in front of the television. Caesar followed her gaze and evidently liked what he saw. He trotted over and pulled himself up onto the couch, not without some stiffness in his back legs, she noticed sympathetically, and settled himself down with his big head resting on a cushion. He let out a heavy, satisfied sigh and thumped his tail a few times to indicate that all was well in his world.