‘Oh, sorry. I’ve been jogging,’ Christmas said, still struggling for breath and wiping at sweat beads under her eyes.
‘God, why?’
‘I probably consumed about five kilos of chocolate over the past couple of weeks. Thought I should do something about it.’
Emily grimaced. ‘Fair enough, I suppose.’
Despite the runner’s high—okay, maybe a runner’s lift—she was on, Christmas felt awkward, suddenly feeling a bit needled by the memory of Emily mocking Mim’s letters, and not really sure of Em’s true intentions when she’d put in the scholarship application. How much of it had been to do with Gregoire Lachapelle? She didn’t like feeling out of sorts with Em. She was like a second sister to her, indeed more of a sister in many ways than Val, since they were the same age.
‘They have custard tarts,’ Emily said.
‘For breakfast?’
‘Live a little,’ Emily ordered.
They queued up at the long counter inside the bakery, which had been converted from the 1860s council chambers building and retained the original grand high ceilings and stately tall arched windows. It was warm inside, like most buildings in Tasmania, built to withstand the freezing cold rather than accommodate the few weeks of hot weather they got each year. Emily ordered them both custard tarts and lattes and they returned outside to sit beneath the pretty pale pink roses cascading down the brickwork.
‘So you’re back on the coffee?’ Christmas said, gulping a glass of water.
‘I tried drinking chai, as per your suggestion. Totally awful. Imposter coffee. Bah!’ Emily poked out her tongue and made a face.
‘But how did you feel in that time?’ Christmas prompted.
‘Like complete shite. Migraines. Sugar cravings.’
‘No different then.’
‘Exactly. I’m writing that one off as a terrible experiment that should never be repeated. But I am making one concession: I’ve decided to try to give up sugar in my coffee at least. Commando coffee, I’m calling it.’
‘That’s clever.’
‘I started with “bareback coffee”, but then decided it was a bit rude.’
‘Commando coffee is cute.’
‘I thought so. And it makes me feel all brave and warrior-like. Speaking of warrior types, how’s your mum? Where is she now?’
‘Same as usual. Terse. Impossible. Frustrating. She’s somewhere in central Victoria right now. Her latest job is fieldwork for a PhD student who’s examining the wear and tear on marsupials’ teeth to study their dietary habits, or something like that.’
‘Doesn’t sound too bad.’
‘No. Except that to study dental patterns, the PhD student needs teeth.’
Emily put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh no.’
‘Uh-huh. Mum drives around by herself on lonely roads in the middle of nowhere, decapitating marsupial road kill and storing the heads in the boot of her car until she can deliver them to her employer.’
Emily paled.
‘Apparently the trick is to make sure the marsupials have been dead for some time so they don’t smell.’
‘Can we talk about something else?’
‘Definitely.’ Christmas took a deep breath, releasing the tension that always gripped her body whenever she talked about her mother. Their coffees and tarts arrived and they both leapt on them. ‘Hey, I met an interesting guy last week.’
‘In Evandale?’ Emily said through a mouthful of tart.
‘I know, shocking, isn’t it? He just got off a plane from Ecuador, where he’s been working. He’s a botanist but comes from Tasmania. He’s staying around here for a while.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Tall. A bit scruffy. Interesting.’
Emily raised her eyebrows, which were in need of a trim. ‘That sounds promising. But also a bit suspicious. Why isn’t he married?’
‘I don’t know,’ Christmas said.
‘You better find out. If he’s not gay or horribly dysfunctional—a little dysfunctional is okay, we’re all a bit dysfunctional—then it could be good.’
Christmas bit into her own tart, thinking she’d have to go and run another block now to work it off, and talked through a mouthful. ‘You know I’m not interested.’
‘Oh, please. Look at you. You’re totally interested!’ Emily laughed. ‘You’re jogging, for God’s sake!’
‘That’s just . . . good sense!’ Christmas protested. I’m not interested, am I? ‘And you know it’s not allowed.’
‘Yes. The rules. I know,’ Emily said, with a bit of an effort to be nice, Christmas thought. She watched Emily for a moment as she scraped up crumbs with her spoon. Was there something going on between them that wasn’t explicit? And if so, should it be brought out into the open? She was loath to ignite any latent friction. But it was bothering her.
She took a deep breath. ‘Is there something . . . ?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Well, do you think I should be trying to look for my father while I’m in France? Is that the real reason you put in the application?’
Emily took her time to lick her spoon and sip on her latte, and it was so uncharacteristic of her to think before she spoke that Christmas knew there was something going on.
‘Yes,’ Emily said at last.
‘Wow. I didn’t actually expect you to just come out and say it.’
‘Well, why not? You’ve only moaned for the past thirty years—’
Moaned?
‘—about how you don’t know him and how irresponsible your mother was for not helping you to know him and how there’s this missing piece of your life. I’ve never understood why you don’t just go to France and try to meet him instead of obsessing about the country and making up stories about him and building a little mini France all around you at home and in your shop!’
That stung.
‘Shit, sorry,’ Emily said, sighing and rubbing her forehead. ‘You know I didn’t mean it like that.’ She looked stricken. ‘I was trying to be a good friend. I knew you’d love the chance to do the scholarship course and it just seemed like the perfect opportunity to, I don’t know, exorcise some ghosts of the past or something.’
Had Emily been a good friend in getting Christmas over to France? Or had she been motivated by something else? Was she—and this was a horrible thought—fed up with Christmas’s moaning, as she’d put it, and felt Christmas had become self-indulgent, obsessed, whiny and addicted to this little family drama she kept playing out in her head?
And, mortifyingly, might Emily actually be right if she had thought all those things?
Christmas swallowed more water, uncomfortable. Guilty. Like she’d done something really mean and was now ashamed but unable to say sorry even though she knew she should.
Her chest was tightening in on itself. She knew this feeling and what was to follow—the heavy tethering weight of unidentifiable gloom. Depression. A lesson learned in the laps of her mother and grandmother. It was this very feeling she worked so hard to keep at bay. She was determined not to follow in their footsteps. The genetics might be there but that just gave her knowledge and the power to control the variables.
The rules for happiness were there precisely because of this. And it was exactly for this reason that she couldn’t be interested in Lincoln and she couldn’t look for Gregoire. The unknown was just too dangerous.
‘You know why not, Em,’ she said.
But Emily shook her head slowly. ‘Once upon a time I might have accepted that.’ She reached out and took Christmas’s hand. ‘But I don’t anymore. You’ve come a long way since those days hiding in your room in Sydney. You’re stronger now.’
Christmas couldn’t answer.
‘Look, I don’t want to fight about this,’ Emily said, releasing Christmas’s hand and pushing her plate away and leaning back from the table. ‘You’ve got yourself a free holiday and a week-long course with a master chocolatier. That’s good, right?’
‘Yes, and I’m gra
teful, I really am. I can’t thank you enough. It’s the most incredible—’
Emily held up a hand. ‘Just think about the rest, okay? Will you do that? Just give it some thought?’
‘Alright. I will think about it.’
Christmas checked the time. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, partly pleased they’d cleared the air and partly annoyed she had to leave now when there was still some lingering unease. She hugged Emily goodbye and just hoped time would smooth out the ruffles in their relationship that had been stirred up in the past week.
7
To: Evandale Fairy Godmother
From: Veronika Lambert
Subject: Re: Questions
I know you didn’t ask, but I feel I need to explain about the many children.
The first one was a teenage pregnancy when I was 17. The second was an error in calculation, if you get what I mean, when I was 19. Then I went on the pill and I SWEAR I took everything just as I should, but I guess fate had other ideas because at 22 I found myself pregnant again, this time with TWINS!!! The next one was a bottle of scotch and a night out with my husband for the first time in six years (same father to all of them, by the way, and by this time we were married). And this latest one . . . sigh . . . well, let’s just say a steamy romance novel in the middle of the day, too much visualising of Ryan Gosling, and your husband popping home unexpectedly early . . . and that afternoon delight quickly turns into afternoon de’fright!
Needless to say, we’ve taken care of this little problem for good now.
Sam is a park ranger in Cradle Mountain and I’m a full-time mum. We’ve been through a rough patch lately. Anything you could do to help would be GREATLY appreciated. Thanks for taking the time to consider my request. I know you must be inundated with pleas for help.
Veronika
————
To: Evandale Fairy Godmother
From: Dennis Chamberlain
Subject: Re: Questions
Godmother Livingstone—Juliette and I are in our forties. She’s a widow, so yes, she has been married before. I haven’t. I’m no good at love. Juliette likes jazz music, wine, foreign films, spicy food, good chocolate, and cats. We both like staying in by the fire and touring wineries and gourmet food festivals. She doesn’t like heights, water, having her feet touched or crowds. Yes, I think she’ll say yes.
•
The old bell over the shop’s door had been going all day, so constantly that Christmas was almost tempted to take it down. She was bunkered down in the kitchen madly crafting chocolates.
Cheyenne was serving at the counter again, cheery as ever, and looking every bit the jolly sales assistant with her orange ringlets and her neat but curvy frame, which filled a frilly apron perfectly.
‘I think you’ve missed your calling,’ Christmas said, bumping into her at the coffee machine as she went to get some ground coffee to add to a ganache.
‘Oh no. I’m sure I was actually a princess swapped at birth.’ Cheyenne giggled in a way that should have been far too girlish for someone in her forties but from her was delightful. ‘I’m still waiting for Prince Charming.’
‘Well, you’re doing a fine job of getting on with things while you’re waiting.’
‘Once I’m a princess, and I sell the rights to my memoir, I’ll need to have some ordinary times to write about so people can relate to me,’ Cheyenne said, setting more coffee beans to grind.
Abigail was working extra hours too, serving on the floor, though not quite as cheerfully, checking her watch frequently.
Christmas’s hands were busy but her mind was elsewhere, deep in the process of creating possible new potions for Lien, who’d gone back to school this week after an extended break at home. She was coping okay physically but was struggling to concentrate through the brain fog from the medications.
‘It’s like being hung-over,’ Lien had explained one afternoon when Christmas was visiting. She was propped up to do her homework next to the fireplace in the family’s cottage up on the hill behind Launceston, trying to focus on a science textbook while Tu peeled potatoes in the kitchen nearby.
‘You don’t know what being hung-over feels like,’ Tu said, popping a potato into a sinkful of water. ‘I hope.’
Lien let go of her pen and stretched her fingers. ‘I read,’ she countered, and Christmas smiled. Lien was a voracious reader and was never without a book, though Christmas sometimes suspected it was because it gave her a buffer against unwanted sympathy or, unthinkably, bullying. It was acceptable to be quiet and still while reading.
Since then, Christmas had been working on different chocolate recipes that included potent blends of the essential oils of basil, lime, lemon, peppermint and spearmint—all of which were uplifting and offered clarity and focus to the tired mind. She could do it easily enough. But she was hoping she’d stumble on something even more powerful.
Right now, though, she had work to do. She was setting bars of dark chocolate from Trinitario beans, harvested from an estate located in the Gran Couva area of Tobago, fermented and dried there before being sold to her newest supplier in America, who then roasted them and shipped the bags to her in Tasmania, where she ground them into powder. She was, as Lincoln had so grandly put it, an important part in the long journey of a tiny seed to fulfil its true potential in the world.
There were so many ways to wreck cacao beans—so many steps along the way in the beans’ harvesting, drying, fermenting, packing and transporting where things could go wrong. But if a farmer worked hard and got the beans to her supplier in good condition, and her supplier did a perfect job of roasting them, then that just left her with the final responsibility to see it through to make marvellous chocolate. So many hands touched that one bean on its way to the consumer. Hers were just one pair.
She ladled out giant spoonfuls of gorgeously tempered chocolate from the tank and poured it into the moulds, removed the excess with the large steel scraper, and rattled the moulds seesaw-fashion, banging each end on the white marble slab on top of the workbench to remove the air bubbles, which rose to the surface and popped like tiny volcanoes.
The chocolate that came from this special region of ‘the chocolate soils’ in Tobago was highly prized, and rightly so; the next time she scooped up a ladle of thick brown liquid heaven, she let it cascade back into the tank just to see it fall. A shine on the surface. Ripples in the pool of chocolate below. The intense aroma.
The thermostat on the tempering tank clicked off and the sound reminded her she was working to the clock. She stirred the tank again, feeling the weight of the chocolate against the spoon, smoothing out the lumps that always formed the second the lid was removed and air met its simmering volume. Christmas had learned to keep her hands busy while her mind worked. It was like keeping a perturbed friend company while they talked. Her mind serpentined around the ghostly image of her father while her hands soothed—everything will be okay; you just have to ignore it.
It was challenging to separate the trip to France from the nagging notion of ancestral research. Now more than ever, she had to know what her priorities were. Studying with Master Le Coutre in France was the chance of a lifetime to blossom as a chocolate artisan. Well, possibly, depending on what his chosen itinerary held for that week. But even without Master Le Coutre, France was the hub of exciting and enriching food experiences. It wouldn’t be possible to go there and not come away with a whole new vision for her future creations. And it would mean spending time in Provence in the French summer. Her mouth actually watered at the thought. If there was any tiny doubt left as to whether she would go, it vanished in that moment.
It was really very simple: Gregoire Lachapelle didn’t matter.
She could absolutely separate her biological father from this trip. The two were not intertwined. They were different things. She wouldn’t give one more minute to agonising over whether she should do something about finding him. She shouldn’t. That was perfectly clear. She was going to France for this
fantastic chocolate opportunity and nothing more.
The shop bell rang again as she turned her attention to the heart-shaped moulds, polished with cotton wool till they were shiny from the oils embedded in the fibres. She held the tray over the tank and spooned the melted chocolate into each heart. Scraped the excess back into the tank. Clattered plastic on marble.
With the bubbles popped, it was back to the tank, where she tipped most of the chocolate out of the mould and scraped the surface once more, leaving just a smooth thin coating inside each heart. She tipped the tray onto its side so the air would snap-dry the chocolate into shells, which she would fill tomorrow morning with strawberry liqueur ganache.
Abigail appeared, her dark fringe almost in her eyes. ‘There’s a guy out there asking for you. He was here the other day too, having lunch,’ she said. ‘I told him you were busy but he seems pretty keen to talk.’
Christmas considered her chocolate-covered pink pig apron, spattered arms and gently bubbling chocolate tank, drying at the edges. She clicked her tongue, irritated. ‘Send him back here so I can keep going.’ She didn’t have time to stop.
She picked up a new shiny mould tray and dipped her ladle once more as the swing door puffed open and Lincoln walked in.
‘Oh, hi.’ All her irritation was gone. She was instantly pleased she’d invited him back here.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, then inhaled deeply. ‘Wow, it smells fantastic in here.’
‘You get used to it after a while,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit sad really. There’s nothing like that great rush of cocoa to the brain.’
He took a step towards her, a big, casual, easy-as-you-please step.
‘Wait!’ She held up her ladle.
He froze.
‘You can’t come over here near the chocolate with all that . . . hair.’
‘Oh, of course. Sorry.’ His eyes snapped up to the fetching snood currently plastering her hair to her scalp like a bathing cap.
He fished in the long pocket of his pants and retrieved a saggy leather wallet, flipped it open and pulled out a business card. She motioned that she couldn’t take it as both hands were full and he took a single stride towards the bench, holding up his hands in a I’m not going to hurt the chocolate gesture, leaned forward gingerly and fully extended his arm, then placed the card on the edge of the bench where she could see it, before he retreated once more.
The Chocolate Promise Page 7
