The Chocolate Promise

by Josephine Moon

  Go to France, she told herself. Go to France and forget your father. Simple.

  3

  Over in Green Hills Aged Care in Oatlands, Elsa van Luc was waiting impatiently for her grandson to return. He’d come yesterday, straight from the airport, and stayed briefly, keeping a taxi waiting for him in the car park. She’d so wanted him to stay longer, but she’d quickly sent him home, telling him to get some rest. There was nothing worse than a clinging grandmother.

  She’d heard Lincoln coming before she saw him, and her heart answered a loud hello. He’d called out when he reached the door of her detached bungalow but didn’t wait for her to reply before coming in, just like the hundreds of times he’d ridden his bicycle to the farm to see her and eat her apple pie with raw sugar on top. Yesterday he strode in with a white box squashed under his arm.

  She had known it was him by his voice and his smile, but not much else. There was so much hair.

  ‘Hi, Nan,’ he’d said, bending down to where she sat in her wheelchair and kissing her cheek, wrapping her in a bear hug, his whiskers tickling her nose.

  ‘Goodness, who is this come to see me? A yeti?’

  He pressed the box into her hands and she clasped it in her crooked fingers with their enlarged knuckles. She could smell the chocolates inside and she brought the pretty parcel up to her nose and inhaled, her eyelids closing in a moment of bliss. At the age of ninety-two it was vitally important to make the most of each moment. The smell took her back to her teenage days working in the fancy cake shop in Hobart, where she had to wear a white lace cap, and polish silver, and stand all day long without a minute’s rest off her feet.

  ‘I came straight here, via the chocolate shop,’ Lincoln said. He dragged a sturdy chair up next to her at the bay window where she’d been reading Twilight for the past hour. It was the latest on the book-club list. Lulu Divine—who occupied the private bungalow next to hers—had been so outraged by Elsa’s choice that Elsa had begun to feel nervous about holding onto her position as captain, fearing that Lulu might lead a coup at the next election. She could already imagine Lulu’s scathing diatribe on this one. Oh, what a chore she was. She was a former rodeo-riding, self-reliant girl (for, at seventy-two, she was just a girl compared to most of the residents) who, at just eighteen years of age, had left Australia to brave the tough rodeo opportunities in America. She wouldn’t brook any of this Bella character’s whimpering, simpering victim folly. No, Lulu Divine would have sent that Edward vampire on his way quick smart.

  Elsa, on the other hand, harboured a soft spot for the Cullen boy. Typical really. Nothing had changed then. Sometimes she wished she’d been more like Lulu when she was young. Not that Ebe had been a vampire of a husband. Just a big kid who’d never grown up and didn’t like to take any sort of responsibility in the world. He thought everything should come easily. Hard work was overrated as far as Ebe was concerned.

  ‘You didn’t need to bring me anything,’ she’d scolded her grandson, but she knew Lincoln could see right through her pretend crossness. She’d missed him terribly. ‘And you could have got settled at home first.’

  She felt a stab of homesickness at the word ‘home’, the house she’d bought in town after Ebe had died, when the farm had become too much for her on her own. Now Lincoln lived there on an ad hoc basis between jobs. It suited her, knowing he had a place to come home to. A place not far from her.

  ‘Bit jetlagged,’ he admitted. ‘Didn’t trust myself to drive yet. My head’s still on the other side of the world.’

  ‘I got your email,’ Elsa said. ‘What luck for me that your project finished a bit earlier than expected.’ Her eyes narrowed.

  He sat casually, leaning forward with his arms resting on his thighs and his hands dangling between them. His blue eyes, the iridescent colours of a blue jay’s back—so much like Tom’s, yet alive and engaging where his father’s were dull—drilled into hers. ‘Yes.’

  They regarded each other for a moment. Jenny would be behind this, no doubt.

  ‘I assume you’ve cut your trip short because your sister asked you to,’ Elsa said.

  He hesitated as though trying to decide how much to say. ‘She had reason to be concerned. The nurse, what’s her name, Susan . . . ?’

  ‘Sarah.’

  ‘Yes, Sarah. She’d emailed Jen to say she was worried about you.’

  ‘Did she?’ Elsa felt a flicker of annoyance, but it was extinguished quickly. Her favourite nurse, Sarah, could do no wrong as far as Elsa was concerned.

  ‘She mentioned that Dad had been making things difficult.’

  Lincoln was fishing for information, she could tell. He didn’t know much. But he’d cut his research trip short to come home for her. It was beyond flattering. But then, if someone had to come—and she was too proud to think for a second that they did—it probably would have to be him. Jenny couldn’t travel easily from north Queensland with young Nathan in his wheelchair. As for the rest of the family: Elsa’s eldest son, Matthew, had died in Vietnam; the next son, Jake, had left Australia forty years back for London; and the youngest son, Tom, was the one acting up.

  ‘So how are you, really?’ Lincoln asked, and the seriousness in his voice saddened her. He shouldn’t be worrying about her. He had a life to lead, not to be wasted fretting over an old woman.

  She began to untie the string around the box. ‘ “The Chocolate Apothecary”,’ she said, reading the sepia-coloured sticker. ‘I don’t think I’ve tried these before. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. But don’t change the topic.’

  She swallowed her annoyance. What the young didn’t seem to understand was that no amount of moping or complaining could actually fix anything, so, really, there was just no point dwelling. All you could do was keep busy and strive for new goals, no matter how small. It was okay to keep wanting more, even at her age. Essential, actually. That’s what she told herself anyway whenever she felt that vain thrill run through her at the sight of her name up on the board in the common dining room—Book Club Captain: Elsa van Luc, Wombat Bungalow.

  ‘The physio-terrorist is exceptionally pleased with my work in the pool this week,’ she said cheerfully, giving him some sort of answer in return for his concern. ‘He says my hip range has improved out of sight. I’ll be pole dancing by New Year.’

  ‘That’s a party trick I’d like to see,’ Lincoln said. He was so easy to please.

  She threw the focus back to him. ‘Have you seen your father?’

  ‘I only just got off the plane,’ he said, eyeing her. ‘I’ll go see him when I’ve dealt with the jetlag. You were my priority. I wanted to make sure you were alright.’

  Elsa had the box open and was clucking excitedly over the chocolates. Several had the most delicate floral stencil patterns on top. Some were the shape of a coffee cup, with white chocolate ‘milk’ inside. Some were wrapped not just in coloured foil but with tiny perfect ribbons as well. There were even tiny hand-painted fairies, with sparkling wings. ‘They almost look too good to eat,’ she said. ‘Each one’s a work of art.’

  ‘It’s an amazing little shop,’ he said. ‘It’s run by this woman who’s also a fairy godmother.’

  ‘A fairy godmother?’

  ‘Apparently. I picked up a brochure at the airport.’ He started to pat his pockets, looking for it to give to her, but gave up when he couldn’t find it. ‘Anyway, she’s a professional wish-granter or something like that. People hire her to make dreams or wishes come true for their family and friends. Isn’t that a great idea?’

  Elsa popped a hazelnut praline into her mouth and moaned as the velvety chocolate melted and washed over her tastebuds, the aroma wafting up her nostrils.

  Lincoln smiled. She offered the box to him but he waved it away. Then he yawned.

  ‘Clearly we have much to catch up on,’ she said, running her tongue over her false teeth and sucking from them every last morsel of chocolate. ‘But you obviously need to get home to bed.’ She arched a
thinning eyebrow and gestured in the area of his face. ‘And a shower and shave.’

  He ran a hand through his long rumpled hair and yawned again, his eyes watering with fatigue.

  ‘I want to hear all about the jungle, but don’t tell me now,’ she said. ‘That way you’ll have to come back and see me again. You should get home. That taxi’s meter’s running and it’s getting dark outside.’

  Lincoln reached out his big, roughened hand and placed it on her veiny, knobbly one. ‘I don’t need any excuses to come see my favourite grandmother.’

  ‘Pft. I’m your only grandparent left. But I’ll milk it for all it’s worth. Come back and see me when you’ve found your face under all that fur.’

  He stood and kissed her on the cheek again and she patted his shoulder. ‘You’re a good boy.’

  He grinned and she was speared with the memory of him grinning just like that when he was six, fistfuls of leaves in his hands while helping her in the garden.

  ‘Thanks, Nan. See you soon.’

  With that, he’d lumbered out of the room, leaving behind a gaping hole in her chest.

  Now she was waiting for him again, the opened copy of Twilight once more on her lap, except she couldn’t muster the concentration to read it. Instead she was sitting at the window, watching for his car—her car, actually—to putter up the driveway. Waiting like a faithful hound and wondering if there was something she could do to encourage him to stay this time.

  She hated being this excited about his return. And she felt unbridled guilt that she loved her grandson more than her son. As well as deep shame that, if she were totally honest with herself, she wished he would change his life for her. No more tripping around the world. She wanted him to put down roots. Find a woman and get married and have children. For as much as she adored her grandson, sometimes his laid-back attitude to life reminded her of her husband—though Lincoln was far more generous and reliable than Ebe ever was.

  Not that she wanted him to live his life around her, of course. She wasn’t that selfish. She was an old woman; he was a young man. It was the law of nature.

  But still, if it could all fall into place that way . . .

  Especially with things as they were with Tom right now. Thinking of her youngest son was like being drenched with cold water. Not for the first time she questioned how Lincoln and his father could be so different.

  There must be an answer. Certainly, Lincoln’s globe-trotting would be partly due to his unwillingness to stay in the same place as his father for too long. Those two were made to rub up against each other like pieces of flint. Tom had always been too hard on Lincoln. Anyone could see that. And that was why Lincoln had spent more time at her house than his own as a boy. Tom was a fool and too stubborn to admit he’d been a bad father.

  But she still had a chance with Lincoln. She just had to find a motivation strong enough for him to stay. It was a challenge, like a game of chess, and she loved a good challenge. It would keep her mind buzzing like a busy wee bee in the nightly hours of insomnia, as she lay in her bed with just the red glow of the emergency call buttons around the walls of her bungalow to remind her she wasn’t really alone, that help was only a few metres away in the high-care building.

  She heard the Honda crunching over the driveway and closed her book.

  Challenge accepted.

  •

  To: Christmas Livingstone; Joseph Kennedy; Darla Livingstone

  From: Valerie Kennedy

  Subject: Save the date!

  Hi family,

  It’s finally happened. Archie has popped the question! Actually, that’s a bit dramatic. Basically we decided over fish and chips that after ten years and three kids it was about time we got hitched. So we’ve set the date for 29 July. Simple church wedding and backyard reception, nothing too fancy. Not too much tradition. Although, Dad, if it’s okay I’d like you to walk me down the aisle. Christmas, will you be my bridesmaid? Mum, do you think you can come?

  Val xx

  ————

  To: Valerie Kennedy; Christmas Livingstone; Darla Livingstone

  From: Joseph Kennedy

  Subject: Re: Save the date!

  My darling girl, congratulations to you both. And of course I will walk you down the aisle. It would be my honour. Call me this afternoon.

  Dad xx

  Christmas felt like she’d swallowed a sponge. A big, fat absorbent sponge that was now sucking her dry. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Thank goodness Val had shared this news via email rather than in person.

  She dropped the block of chocolate on the marble bench, took a breath and ran her hands down her apron. She tugged at the lace around the sweetheart neckline of her dress, which was suddenly scratchy.

  She was happy for Val. Of course she was. She and Archie had been together for so long and they seemed solid. And happy. Why shouldn’t they get married? And it was an honour to be bridesmaid. So why did she feel like this?

  It wasn’t that she was losing her sister. Nothing was changing, really. Val and Archie already lived together and had the three boys, so it wasn’t like anything major would come along to disrupt the sisters’ relationship with each other.

  She began to shave the chocolate into a small bowl. An unpleasant sensation spread slowly but unstoppably out from her middle, filling her chest and flowing down her legs.

  Jealousy, she was horrified to realise. She was fiercely, achingly jealous.

  But it wasn’t the wedding.

  It was Joseph.

  To: Joseph Kennedy; Valerie Kennedy; Darla Livingstone

  From: Christmas Livingstone

  Subject: Re: Save the date!

  My Tiny Val is getting married!!! How exciting! Congratulations!! Yes of course I’ll be your bridesmaid. We’ll chat soon!! love xxxx

  ————

  To: Valerie Kennedy; Christmas Livingstone; Joseph Kennedy

  From: Darla Livingstone

  Subject: Re: Save the date!

  Why would you change something that’s not broken? Valerie, I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but honestly, marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. (Tell her, Joseph—you’ve got two failed marriages under your belt.) You and Archie have had a good run. Don’t ruin it now.

  I’m very busy with my work. I was due to be out in western Queensland about that time. But if you insist on going ahead I’ll do my best to be there.

  Mum

  ————

  To: Christmas Livingstone

  From: Valerie Kennedy

  Subject: What the hell is wrong with our mother?!?!?!?

  •

  When Christmas was nine years old, she’d pictured her biological father as the Looney Tunes French skunk, Pepe Le Pew. All her mother had ever told Christmas about her father was that he had been a twenty-year-old travelling juggler from France whom she’d known only ‘briefly’ (whatever that meant). He wasn’t listed on the birth certificate. No father was. And as an adult Christmas was at times highly sceptical that he existed at all, suspecting that Darla had fabricated him to cover the fact that she couldn’t actually remember who the real one was.

  But back then, before those doubts had crept in, Christmas had imagined that her father had black hair with a dramatic white stripe through it, styled with volume. His cheeks were large and expressive, mooshing and squooshing as he pressed them up against the object of his rampant affection—her mother. He clasped Darla’s body to his, cartoon love hearts popping from his chest and stars shooting from his eyes at her outstanding beauty. He was dashing. Overwhelmingly romantic. He serenaded Darla with love songs, a rose between his teeth, and French poetry muttered breathlessly into her ear. Aside from the fact that Pepe Le Pew was actually blatantly sexually harassing the black and white female cat with whom he was smitten, and the fact that he smelled, well, like a skunk, he was every girl’s dream.

  Later, when Christmas was a teenager and Darla had made the shocking revelation that her father�
��s name was Gregoire Lachapelle, Christmas’s image of him had swiftly changed. He now looked like a French film star of the eighties she would watch on movies from her local video store and rewind to watch again. He had desperately soft, jet-black hair that framed his face with delicious curls that just begged to be coiled around your finger. Olive skin. A clean, square jaw. A husky, smoky voice. And eyes that smouldered with passion. She seethed with anger that her mother had carelessly let this man slip through her grasp.

  Even as a mature woman, Christmas’s vision of her father still changed regularly. In her most recent imaginings, his face was aged, lined. He would be retired now, with greying hair and silver whiskers that he kept artfully long, not long enough to constitute a beard but more than a couple of days’ growth. Sometimes she pictured him as a farmer, out in the fields tending his sheep, or perhaps his vines. Sometimes he was an artist in Paris, living in a one-bedroom loft like hers, except he would be in the heart of the city, perhaps amid the cafes of the Latin Quarter. Sometimes she imagined him married, with not only other children but grandchildren too who he chased around in the park on weekends. Sometimes in her imaginings, Gregoire was gay—a lost juggler who’d headed out across the oceans as a young man to explore the world and himself, and her mother had been an experiment.

  Darla was painfully sparse on details. Once, as a teenager, Christmas had asked her if Gregoire really was a juggler, and Darla said, ‘Yes.’ Then she looked off into the distance, her scissors poised above the magazine voucher she was clipping, and said, ‘Or maybe a fruit picker who just happened to juggle his apples?’

  Christmas was furious, raging with teenage angst. ‘Was there more than one?’ she demanded. ‘Could it have been someone else?’ After all, it had been the psychedelic seventies (and surely even Tasmania had been a little touched by the movement), and her mother’s memories were clearly shaky.

  Christmas had hoped Darla would be offended. Angry. Snap, ‘Of course not, don’t be silly.’ But instead she considered it thoughtfully while Christmas waited, her heart threatening to spring out of her chest.