The Chocolate Promise

by Josephine Moon

France was the home of the father she’d never known. For so long it had sat there on the other side of the world, taunting her with the possibility of discovery, and the terror of what that might lead to. And given her history, her family history, inviting the unknown into her perfectly neat life was not something to be taken lightly.

  But with the trip literally in her hands right now, how could she not at least consider it?

  2

  A Little Piece of Chocolate Magic

  By Peter O’Donnell

  Is chocolate good for you?

  At The Chocolate Apothecary, the answer is unequivocally yes. But its owner and creator, Christmas Livingstone, goes a step further than that. For her, chocolate is not just good for you; it’s medicine.

  It could be easy to assume from the outside that this is just one more chocolate shop among the delights of the gourmet food trails for which Tasmania has become famous. But as its name suggests, The Chocolate Apothecary is much more than a quaint, charming, French-inspired artisan’s boutique.

  Inside its stone walls is an abundance of magical enchantments, mystical wisdom, and potions disguised in smooth Belgian chocolate, home-made rose-petal meringues, and fine tea and coffee.

  ‘I wanted it to feel as though when you eat something here you’re eating a little healing potion,’ says Livingstone.

  Those potions are dispensed during a ‘chocolate consultation’, in which a person’s character or life circumstance is matched to the particular properties of chocolate and the botanical extracts Livingstone combines with it.

  The Chocolate Apothecary is the manifestation of the long-held dream of Ms Livingstone, a former Sydney-based public relations manager who was once in the media spotlight during her whirlwind relationship with tennis player Simon Barton.

  A native Tasmanian, originally from Hobart, Livingstone seems to have transitioned into her new life here in the village of Evandale easily. And successfully. Her appointment list for private chocolate consultations is fully booked most weeks. She glows with the disposition of something akin to what her own name suggests—a little bit of magic.

  Asked what drives her, she replies, ‘It’s one of my life rules to do what I love and love what I do. My goal for each day is to bring happiness to myself and to others. That’s a huge motivation. I think we’re a terribly stressed society and have lost the art of valuing simple pleasures and the wisdom of knowing just how important that is. What could be a better job than that?’

  Well, possibly this: not only is Livingstone a chocolate apothecarist, but she has also carved out a niche for herself as a ‘fairy godmother’.

  ‘I started the website on a whim a few years ago, partly to give myself a feel-good project to work on while I was going through big life transitions,’ she explains. ‘I was soon overwhelmed by requests for wishes to be granted. I’ve had to restrict the number I take on, simply because of the time commitments involved in running The Apothecary, and that’s the hardest part. Now some people pay me for services—such as helping them to throw a surprise party or do something nice for someone anonymously—and other wishes I do pro bono. I keep doing what I can in a small way but my ultimate goal would be for the paying clients to subsidise a part-time role for an assistant so we can get through more wishes. So many people out there are struggling.’

  For now it’s a small sideline operation, but one she finds immensely rewarding. ‘It’s great fun,’ she says. ‘And of course every wish is accompanied by gifts of chocolate. And any day that ends in chocolate is a good day.’

  This travel writer can’t disagree with that logic. So make sure you put a visit to The Chocolate Apothecary high on your to-do list when you’re next heading to this wonderful island state.

  What: The Chocolate Apothecary

  Where: Russell Street, Evandale, Tasmania

  When: Tuesday–Sunday each week, 9 a.m. to 4 p.m.

  How to get there: Evandale is a short ten-minute drive from Launceston airport.

  Christmas dialled Peter’s number.

  ‘Christmas Livingstone, I presume,’ he boomed, the warmth in his voice sending a wave of nostalgia through her.

  ‘I just read the article in the copy of the in-flight magazine you sent. It came in yesterday’s mail but I only just got the chance to read it. It’s really lovely, thank you. It’s always so nerve-racking when someone does a story; they never seem to get it quite right. But I think that might be the best one I’ve read on The Apothecary yet.’

  ‘Never trust a journo,’ he said. ‘You of all people should know that.’

  She could hear the smile in his voice and she missed him. Solid, dependable Peter—one of the few people who knew why she’d left Sydney three years ago. He was an old-school journalist who should rightly be retired but who found the life far too exciting. ‘You’re brilliant, and a great friend. I should send you a portion of the extra profits that will surely come in after this.’

  ‘Nonsense. Give them to some poor kid who needs a teddy bear.’

  ‘Where are you off to next?’ she said.

  ‘Cambodia. I hear the noodles are excellent.’

  ‘Well, have fun, and have a bowl for me.’

  ‘Will do,’ he sang. ‘Bye, kiddo.’

  ‘Bye. Make sure you drop in again next time you’re in Tassie.’

  ‘Will do.’

  She was grinning as she hung up and slid her mobile phone into the pocket of her blue apron. Talking to Peter had given her the lift she needed, having spent much of last night listening to Emily enthuse about the scholarship to France and trying so very hard to pretend she was incredibly grateful and excited too. And she supposed she was, somewhere deep inside. But it was such a shock and she’d found it difficult to concentrate on the work; eventually she had apologised to Emily and explained that she couldn’t stay up half the night talking because she had a huge weekend ahead. Emily had understood, of course, but Christmas had lain awake for several hours in her bed up in the loft, listening to Emily’s deep breathing on the fold-out couch across the room, feeling anxious whenever she thought about France.

  But now she surveyed her beautiful shop, buoyed by Peter’s words, energised on this Good Friday public holiday, alone in the store and free to use her imagination. Her eyes fell on the store’s logo.

  At one point in primary school, it was all the rage among the girls in her class to take cold black coffee, dip a sponge in it and wipe it across white paper. After letting it dry, you took a lighted match and ran it around the edges to make them blackened and fragile. The paper absorbed the aroma of both the coffee and smoke, a heady combination that made Christmas feel rather mature. Then you wrote in ink across the paper, creating an ancient-looking letter.

  These memories had inspired her when she was designing the logo for The Chocolate Apothecary; the result was a rectangular sepia-coloured label, with the corners blunted and the edges lined in black. The Chocolate Apothecary arched across the top in scrolled writing. Below the words was a sketch of a woman in Victorian dress atop a penny farthing—a nod to the town, famous for its annual penny farthing races through the village. The woman’s basket overflowed with herbs and flowers—her medicinal tools—and her hair streamed out behind her in complete contrast with her prim Victorian clothing. Although the design was Victorian in feel, it coexisted harmoniously with the Georgian building she’d acquired to run her business.

  When Christmas first saw the shop, it had a hand-painted sign tacked to a post and hammered into the overgrown front lawn saying, For Sale or Rent by Owner. At the time, she had enough money saved from her former career in public relations to place a deposit, but with no regular income now coming in, she knew that a bank wouldn’t give her a loan to purchase the place. Instead she’d struck a rent-to-buy deal with the owner with the hope to one day own it outright. That was why articles like Peter’s were so important. She was in this for the long haul, and failure was not an option.

  ‘Most businesses fail in the first year,�
�� her mother, Darla, had helpfully told her when Christmas announced she was opening the store. ‘Well, I’m just being practical,’ she’d said defensively in response to Christmas’s dismayed expression.

  But she was still here, three years on.

  Like most small businesses—particularly those in sleepy towns off the popular trails—Christmas had known she’d have to diversify if she was to survive. While chocolate remained at the heart of what she did, she could never make a living just selling it; after all, people could pop into their local supermarket for a huge block of chocolate for a fifth of the price of hers. She had to entice people with a total sensory experience. So she found beautiful knick-knacks to sell and involved community members with small businesses of their own who needed a gorgeous place to sell their wares. In gilt letters on the front door, The Chocolate Apothecary now offered Chocolate * Flowers * Homewares * Massage.

  In renovating the old building’s front room, she’d sought to retain the essence of the original dispensary but also bring in a breath of fresh air and French country charm. Through a curly trail of paperwork with the council over heritage requirements, she’d replaced the solid wooden door with a glass one to make it inviting to customers on the street. To bring in as much light as possible and give the whole space a warm glow she’d hung rows of lamps and a couple of chandeliers from the ceiling.

  She’d kept the original twenty-four-drawer dark wooden apothecary chest along the back wall. It still had some of its brass shell-shaped handles, though others had been replaced by silver replicas over time. On top of it, she’d mounted three tall whitewashed hutches with shelves for products. The counter, which separated the apothecary chest and hutches from the customers, was a marble-topped affair, the kind on which you could grind, chop and mix ingredients and then scoop them off and into a mortar for further pounding. This was also where clients sat for chocolate consultations.

  It was there at the bench that she’d first met Tu Pham, only weeks after opening the store, full of lofty ideas of chocolate as medicine she still wasn’t really sure she could pull off. Tu had come to The Chocolate Apothecary to request a fairy godmother wish for her niece’s thirteenth birthday.

  At the time, Christmas had been making mousse. There was something so inspiring about turning unappealing egg white and sugar into a rich, snow-white, fluffy mound of foam. As Christmas whisked egg whites, Tu explained that her niece, Lien, lived with her because her parents had been killed in a car accident five years earlier. If that wasn’t bad enough, Lien had juvenile arthritis, leaving her with stiff, swollen and painful joints, debilitating fevers and generally feeling unwell and fatigued. She was a smart girl and a big fan of Irish dancing, and whenever the medications were working and her arthritis was clinically under control, she took lessons.

  Christmas, listening sympathetically, took a moment to enjoy the idea of a Vietnamese–Australian girl loving Irish dancing.

  ‘But she’s recently had a setback—her body’s become immune to the cocktail of drugs she’s been on. I’d take all her pain if I could.’ Tu’s knuckle caught a drop from her eye.

  Christmas slid Tu a crystal glass filled with freshly made strawberry mousse, to which she’d added a drop of geranium essential oil.

  ‘Thanks,’ Tu said, taking the silver spoon from the marble counter and poking it into the shiny surface of the mousse.

  ‘She must be missing her friends from school,’ Christmas said. ‘Thirteen is such a tough age.’

  ‘It is. Her two closest friends come to visit her after school but it’s like the light has gone out of her. She’s depressed. And why wouldn’t she be? She should be hanging out with her friends, wondering what dress to wear to the school dance, thinking about boys. Instead, she’s basically bedridden like an old person.’

  Tu sucked the spoon clean and her eyes opened wide. ‘Mmm! That’s really good.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s an experiment.’

  ‘Well, consider me a willing guinea pig.’

  Normally Christmas would have taken more pleasure in the compliment, but she was distracted by Tu’s description of Lien’s situation. It wasn’t fair. A thirteen-year-old shouldn’t be in that much pain. And depressed as well? Christmas knew only too well that dragging, empty, endless despair of depression. The way you became detached from everything around you, the fire extinguished. It was too much.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when a woman in a bright yellow anorak approached the counter. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ Christmas said, patting Tu’s hand.

  She served the customer, placing a dozen of her handmade chocolates into a box and tying it with ribbon. By the time she returned, Tu was halfway through the mousse and visibly cheerier.

  ‘I’m serious. This is really good,’ she said, waving her spoon in the air.

  ‘Wait there. I’ll give you some to take home to Lien.’ Christmas popped out into the kitchen and spooned some mousse into a takeaway coffee cup, then snapped down the plastic lid.

  She went back through the swing doors and resumed her position at her consulting stool. ‘Apologies for the lack of presentation,’ she said, handing over the cup.

  ‘No, that’s great. She’ll love it, I’m sure,’ Tu said.

  ‘So tell me what I can do to help.’

  Tu jiggled her leg beneath her on the stool, as though embarrassed or nervous. ‘There’s a big Irish dance company touring Australia right now and they’ll be in Hobart next week. It will be hard for her to go—she can’t get comfortable sitting up, but if we could get tickets, we could hire a special wheelchair, we can take her heat packs and pillows, we could organise special disability access. I know it’s a lot, and we’d have to stay overnight because the long car trip would be really hard on her . . .’ Her face fell then, reconciling all these challenges.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ Christmas said. ‘I have a good feeling we can make it work and Lien will have a wonderful time. I’ll try for tickets for her two friends as well, and hotel accommodation with a super-soft bed, all of it.’

  ‘Really?’ Tu’s eyes welled with grateful tears.

  ‘Absolutely. Lien needs as much joy as we can muster. Don’t tell her yet in case it doesn’t pan out. But I’ll call you as soon as I can. In the meantime, if she likes that mousse you can come in every day and pick some up.’

  Tu put her hands together in prayer position, her fingertips at her nose, and stared at Christmas as though she couldn’t believe it. ‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure. Truly.’

  Later that afternoon, Tu had texted Christmas to say that Lien had loved the mousse, it had really lifted her spirits and she had been smiling ever since and telling jokes. It must be magic mousse! she finished.

  And Christmas had stopped in the middle of sweeping the shop floor and leaned on the broom, a powerful, tingling wave rolling down her spine.

  Geranium oil was well known for its effect of balancing the nervous system, lifting spirits, instilling a sense of hope, and relieving depression. Or so she’d read. Could the geranium oil in the strawberry mousse really have lifted Lien’s mood?

  It was possible, she’d realised with a turbo charge to her heart. It was entirely possible. And there’d been so much research into the health benefits of dark chocolate. So if both of those things were true, did that mean that her chocolate creations really could be medicinal? She’d been worried it was a bit fanciful, and her mother’s eye-rolls didn’t help, but maybe, just maybe, there was something in it after all. Tu’s feedback certainly seemed to give the idea serious validation. And from that moment, she’d never looked back.

  Everything had worked out perfectly for the trip to the Irish dance performance. Tu, Lien and her friends had had a great weekend in Hobart. Christmas’s PR skills had combined with her journalist friend Mary Hauser’s contacts to get free tickets, offered by the performance company. They’d also managed to secure hotel accommodation for all of them, with Lien’s bed upsized
to a king so she’d have lots of room to prop herself up with pillows as necessary. Tu and Lien had come in to see Christmas the day after their return, the young girl bubbling over with happiness. Soon afterwards, Lien became Christmas’s taste tester.

  ‘Dreadful!’ she had declared about Christmas’s German chamomile and lime chocolate shells.

  ‘Lien!’ Tu said, mortified. ‘Sorry, Christmas.’

  ‘No, no,’ Christmas said. ‘I need to know. Better to hear it from Lien than from a paying customer.’ She winked at the girl.

  Unabashed, Lien reached for her walking stick to go to the fridge for a glass of milk. ‘Maybe sheep would like it?’ she’d teased.

  ‘Great idea. I’ll take the rest to the animal sanctuary in Longford.’

  Tu had handed Christmas a bowl of noodles. ‘Stay for dinner?’

  ‘Love to.’

  Quickly, finding ways to help Lien had become one of Christmas’s key motivations for what she was doing.

  Rule number one—do what you love and love what you do.

  And Christmas loved this store. She adored the crumbling brickwork and original fireplace, which she could never actually light because the heat would destroy the chocolate. She loved Cheyenne’s glorious pyramid of fresh flowers next to the chocolate display case, with its blooms that mingled and cascaded down like a colourful fragrant waterfall. She loved the massage room in the back corner, the serene little hideaway for healing and relaxation, where Abigail eased muscles and minds every day. (Rule number six—massage is not a luxury but a necessity.) And she loved the nooks and crannies harbouring wooden trugs, wine barrels and metal bread bins, and the handmade soaps, floral linen water, ceramic birds, teapots, dried lavender, kitchen canisters, covered chairs, clocks, preserves, linen and lace.

  It was precisely because of this that she should go to France. This career she’d built for herself was exciting; it was her life. She’d be mad not to go. She would just have to close the vault on any thought or emotion regarding her father. Stick to what was simple, the basic facts. And the facts were that she loved working with chocolate and Master Le Coutre was a virtuoso chocolatier.