by Dee, Bonnie
Papa Merker
For an instant, Candace recalled lying ill when she was perhaps nine years old. Fever had burned through her, leaving her in a dreamlike, shaky state. Dear Papa Merker had sat beside her, holding her hand, resting one cool palm on her forehead. She had felt cherished and safe as she drifted back to sleep.
Then the memory vanished, replaced by one of waking up—only this past summer—tied to her childhood bed with Rose loosening restraints on her wrists and ankles.
The monster was all the worse because she could not fully despise him. There would always be memories of his small kindnesses to disturb her clear-cut anger.
She crushed the card in her fist. When that wasn’t enough, she tore it into bits and burned them in the stove. Merker had no power over her any longer. She need not jump at shadows or fear strange noises at night. Her doors were locked. She was safe. The law was on her side. If anything should happen, her friends or the police were only a telephone call away.
But that night her sleep was more troubled than it had ever been and she awoke in the gray hours before dawn, gasping for breath and sweating through her nightgown. She had been chased by dark evil throughout the night. Giving up on getting any rest, Candace rose to begin her second day as a store-owner.
Chapter Five
After leaving Miss Sweet’s confectionery, Alain berated himself for his impulsive offer. When he had the well-established Charbonnel et Walker, a potential brass ring of success, in his grasp, uniting with a fledgling shop seemed foolhardy. Yet Miss Sweet had appeared so forlorn, and in that instant, Alain had envisioned helping to build her business, while maintaining more control over his brand. There would be a finite end to their contract, whereas Madame Charbonnel seemed to desire long-term exclusive rights. Miss Sweet might actually be the better choice. He would certainly enjoy working with her.
And honestly, the plan to sell worldwide was rather premature. The factory wasn’t equipped to produce sufficient quantities. And if the stubborn, stodgy manager, Jacques Renfro remained in place, it might never be ready. Alain feared he might soon have to suggest retirement for Renfro, a slap in the face for a fellow who had faithfully served the company his entire life.
Alain shook off such concerns before entering the boarding house. He’d always made it a point to give his daughter his undivided attention when he was with her. He entered his rented rooms to the welcome of wild shrieks and laughter, the happy sounds of Vivienne at play with her nurse.
He entered the sitting room with a roar. “What is this? Who is sitting in my chair and eating my porridge? Is it the nuisance of a girl who keeps coming to call while I am away, then steals the silver spoons?”
“Papa! You’re back!” She launched herself at him, hugging his legs hard enough to make him stagger. “I cannot be Goldilocks for my hair is brown. And what would I want with silver spoons anyhow?”
“To eat more porridge, of course.” Alain scooped her up, held her high overhead and gave her a good shake until she squealed again. She was growing every day and soon would be too heavy and too old for such roughhousing. To cherish these moments while he could, he gathered her close for a cuddle before depositing her on the floor. “I’m hungry. What have you left me to eat?”
“I apologize. I was not certain when to expect you,” Madame Bernard brushed back a single wisp of hair that had dared escape her severe bun. “The boarding house supper is long since finished. These British dine so early! I did not have Mrs. Clark keep back a plate as her cooking is…” She shrugged to express her disdain for the local cuisine.
“No matter,” Alain assured her. “I shall go to the restaurant around the corner.” He regarded Vivienne. “How would you feel about another supper? Or perhaps a dessert while I eat my meal?”
“I would like that. But Papa, the park with the carousel… you keep promising, yet every day you come home too late.” Accusing eyes judged him and found him lacking—another similarity to her absent mother.
“The carousel would not be open this late, but we might take a short stroll after supper, if it is not too dark or cold by then.”
With that agreement, Alain bundled Vivienne into her coat and they set out.
At the pub, Alain was served a steaming plate of roast beef with overcooked vegetables in a greasy sauce. Across from him, Vivienne energetically set to work on a thick slice of chocolate cake. Yet she remembered to pat her mouth with her napkin occasionally as Nounou Bernard had taught her. Between mouthfuls, she regaled Alain with the minutia of a seven-year-old’s day; her lessons and her play time both indoors and at the nearby park—not the one with the carousel, she pointed out.
Her blue eyes regarded him seriously as she recalled her manners enough to politely enquire about his day as well.
“I’ve made a good connection with a shop owner. The lady makes quite a delicious truffle.”
“But will she sell our brand?” Trust Vivienne not to forget the point of their trip.
“I hope to make an agreement with her.”
“Her chocolate cannot possibly be as good as ours. May I see the store and taste her sweets?”
Alain smiled at her proud assurance. “I suppose it would not hurt to take you there so you might test them. Why not?”
The moment he’d spoken, he regretted his promise. It was unprofessional to bring his child into a business situation. But Vivienne would own the company one day, so he ought to introduce her to it from an early age.
If he was being very honest, he also wanted to see how Miss Sweet and Vivienne might get on together. He refused to examine his reasons since they were tied into an impossible daydream. Until Geneviève at last agreed to a divorce, he was chained to their aborted marriage and could not even consider a new life with anyone else.
At any rate, he certainly could not back out from a visit to the confectionery now because Vivienne never forgot a promise once made.
*
The following day Alain sent a telegram to Renfro to inform him of the latest development. He could imagine Renfro’s disgusted shake of the head and tongue-clicking. In person, of course, the manager would signal his disdain in much the way Madame Bernard had last night’s boarding house supper—not outright saying he thought Alain’s ideas were rubbish.
In the year since Alain took charge of the company, Renfro had not switched allegiance from the senior Moreau to his noodle-headed son. He gritted his teeth over Alain’s proposed expansion plan, and when Alain told him it was time to upgrade equipment, Renfro had pointed out, “There’s no money for it. You’ve said so yourself.”
“Then we must tighten our belts. The factory cannot be sustained without growth. Some expenditure now will save us in the long run.”
Renfro stopped arguing but moved at a glacial pace in ordering new equipment for husking and roasting cacao beans. Just before he left, Alain had asked how the project was progressing. Renfro shrugged and claimed he was still researching the best option. Every instinct told Alain the old man would remain an impediment to progress until he was forced out.
The terseness of a telegram suited Alain as he composed his brief update: Change in plans for Britain. Launch in one London shop to start. Order new ovens. He needn’t ask after the chocolaterie, for production would be at full capacity under Renfro’s watchful eye. One could not fault the man on that score, only on his refusal to embrace progress and continual undermining of Alain’s directives.
After composing a letter to the company solicitor concerning the wording of a contract, Alain mailed the letter by expedited delivery.
He left the postal office wavering between enthusiasm and dread. Instinct told him this would be the start of a bright new beginning for Moreau Chocolates. But his father’s, grandfather’s and Renfro’s voices were a Greek chorus insisting doom would befall him for his rash decision.
Alain sat on a bench, watching the busy Londoners rush about their business. He pictured Marcoussis, his quiet village on the outskirts of Paris. T
he fertile land had not yet been swallowed by the sprawling city. Farmers growing tomatoes and strawberries sent their goods by train without having to travel to the commercial district. When Alain’s great-great grandfather had settled there, the locals looked askance at the outsider who manufactured chocolates. But the work the factory provided had gone a long way toward the Moreau family’s acceptance. Now it was up to Alain to save the descendants of those workers from a closure. He must make a success of this business trip however he could.
Soon he would have to refuse Madame Charbonnel’s proposal. But he would not worry about that until he and Miss Sweet had signed a contract. Today, he had nothing more to think of than spending time with Vivienne. He would take her to the park before stopping by Miss Sweet’s shop. If she was busy, they’d keep their visit brief.
Alain returned to the boarding house and gave Madame Bernard leave to take time to enjoy the city.
“I should see the sights, I suppose, but really London has little to offer when one considers the glory of Paris.” The woman maintained a strong dislike of all things British even though the last war with their neighbor across the Channel had ended in 1815.
They parted ways outside the boarding house, Madame Bernard toward St. Paul’s Cathedral—a mere hut compared to the grand Notre Dame in her opinion, and Alain and Vivienne to the nearest park—not the one with the carousel.
“I’ve brought crusts of toast from my breakfast. We must feed the pigeons.” Vivienne revealed the edges wrapped in her handkerchief. “I will show you my special pet. I have named him Lutin.”
“Imp? Why is that?”
“Because he is far cleverer than the other birds, and he has red eyes like a demon. I think he might be possessed.”
He mimed a look of shock. “What an awful idea. How do you know about such things?”
“I read, Papa. That sort of thing happens in all the really interesting fairytales, the ones about changelings and such.”
He swung her hand back and forth before Vivienne broke free to race ahead of him into a flock of birds. They barely moved, fluttering a little then settling before moving close to learn the contents of her handkerchief. The birds gave Alain an unsettling feeling, as if they would suddenly rise up to engulf his daughter. He wanted to warn her to come back.
But when one of the birds had the temerity to peck at her shoe, Vivienne stomped her foot and scolded loudly. She turned toward Alain and pointed at the particularly plump fellow with a bright green iridescent head. “See? This is Lutin. Come closer. You won’t frighten him.”
She offered Alain the largest crust so he might feed the bird. He gazed into its round red eyes and reluctantly held out his offering.
Lutin snatched the morsel so quickly it was as if the wind had blown it away. The bird moved off with its jerky gait and Alain’s hand was empty.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” Vivienne sighed, prompting her father to wonder why one of the birds appeared more attractive to her than any other. Instead, he praised her would-be pet as the handsomest of the lot.
When the flock was satisfied there were no more crumbs to be had, they moved away en masse, as if one organism. Vivienne took Alain’s hand again. “Let us go meet your friend. I am excited to see our new shop.”
“Hers, not ours,” Alain reminded her, but his daughter was already convinced of an equal partnership.
Chapter Six
Another day was nearing a close, but it had passed far more quickly than the previous one due to a fairly steady flow of customers. If not for her restless night, she would probably not feel so tired. Candace checked the clock. Still another half hour before she could lock up and rest her feet—perhaps with a nice cup of cocoa to drive away the October chill.
A moving dash of scarlet drew her attention to the window. A little girl in a red coat crossed the street from the park. Candace’s exhaustion fled as she realized the tall figure holding the girl’s hand was Alain Moreau. She had not expected to see him again so soon. Yet, here he was with his young daughter in tow.
It was too late to tidy her hair or pinch her cheeks as Moreau and his daughter entered the shop.
“Monsieur Moreau, good day. Who is this bright young lady you have brought with you?” She crouched so the child would not have to crane her neck to look up at her.
“May I present my daughter, Vivienne. Vivienne, this is Miss Candace Sweet.”
The pretty little girl with wide forget-me-not eyes extended her hand and spoke in clear if heavily accented English, “Good day, Miss Sweet. I am pleased to meet you.”
Candace clasped her small hand and shook solemnly. “As am I. Would you care to look around my shop and see if there is anything you would like to sample?”
“Yes, please.” Vivienne broke her grip and moved away, heading toward the truffle display rather than the brightly colored penny sweets.
Candace rose to face Moreau. “What a charming child.”
“I think so, but then I’m rather fond of her.”
“You and her mother must be so proud of her.”
He replied bluntly, “I am. But my estranged wife lives in New York and has not seen Vivienne since she left five years ago. Vivienne was but two when Geneviève left and scarcely recalls her now.”
Candace did not know how to reply. She knew some marriages did not last. Still, the idea that a mother might abandon her child as well as her husband shocked her. Candace’s upbringing had been sheltered and she’d been taught at the academy that such wanton women were the nearest thing to harlots. A lady did not break her marriage vows no matter how awful the situation she might find herself in.
And Candace saw nothing awful about Alain Moreau.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It must be difficult to raise her alone. Have you relatives to give you aid?” Was that the correct thing to ask or too intrusive?
Moreau shrugged. “None are living. Until her passing, my wife’s mother showered her grandchild with affection, so Vivienne mourns for her more than the mother she never knew.” His lips tightened before he spoke again. “Geneviève did not return to France for the funeral.”
Candace tasted his bitterness as if it were her own. That one sentence told her all she needed to know about Mr. Moreau’s selfish wife. Candace had been approximately Vivienne’s age when her parents were stolen from her by death. She would have moved heaven and earth to spend a single hour in the company of her mother, no matter the breadth of space, time, or distance she had to travel to be with her.
Alain continued. “Vivienne’s nurse, Nounou Bernard loves her dearly, and together we do our best to raise the child.”
“You’ve succeeded marvelously. She is very sweet and polite.” Candace watched the girl studying the tray of truffles. “And discerning. She went straight for the best chocolates in the store.”
The emotional moment broken, her would-be business partner gave a relieved chuckle. “A Moreau through and through.”
Together they joined Vivienne at the display.
“Would you care for a sample?” Candace asked.
“Yes, please. That one, if you please.” Vivienne pointed out her choice. “I love the one with the tiny robin. I must say it is prettier than anything we make.”
The girl’s self-assured manner and extensive English vocabulary surprised Candace. “I understand you are seven years old. That is a very great age to be.”
“Seven and two-quarters. My birthday is in March. Papa says children born in spring are as changeable as the wind, but I don’t think that’s true, do you? When I decide upon something I never change my mind.”
Candace moved behind the counter to get a truffle from the tray. “Well then, I pray you find my sweets delicious and that you agree we might be friends.”
She knew nothing of children, having never had occasion to be around one. Yet she found Vivienne a clever and honest little thing, and quite liked her boldness. She found herself nervous as she awaited the child’s verdict on the cherry-c
hocolate truffle.
Like her father, Vivienne knew how to sample fine chocolate. She studied, smelled, tested with the tip of her tongue then bit off a morsel and allowed it to melt on her tongue. She closed her eyes while assessing the flavor.
“Sweet. Fruity. Perhaps with a touch of nutmeg.” Her eyes flew open and she gave Candace a heart-melting smile. “Very good and so pretty. I love the decoration almost more than the taste which is sublime.”
Vivienne studied the robin again before popping the rest of the truffle into her mouth—too much for one bite so her cheeks plumped as she chewed. The aura of one wise beyond her years disappeared and Vivienne became merely a child with chocolate smudging the corners of her lips.
The rumble of Moreau’s voice sent a warm drizzle down Candace’s spine. “We arrived at the end of the work day hoping you might be interested in joining us for an early supper. While we dine, we might further discuss the terms of our agreement.”
“Oh.” Candace checked the clock and to her surprise it was ten minutes past closing.
Dinner with a strange man? Madame Brodeur would be horrified and Merker would absolutely forbid it. Many years of strict training demanded Candace’s immediate refusal. But she was not the compliant girl she had been upon her return from school in spring. She was a modern woman, who would reply as she wished.
“I would like that very much, if Miss Vivienne doesn’t mind sharing your company.”
The girl wiped chocolate from her lips with one of the mittens clipped to her coat. “Why would I mind? Business dinners are important. Besides, we are friends, aren’t we, Miss Sweet?”
*
“And then the Queen of Candyland kicked off her gumdrop slippers and lay back upon her marshmallow bed with a contented sigh. The end.” Candace finished the tale which Vivienne had begun. She sat back in her chair to await Princess Vivienne’s response.
The girl clapped her hands together and grinned. “Fantastique! The Licorice Villain got what was coming to him.”
