The Chocolate Promise

by Josephine Moon

  ‘Of course not. You just haven’t found the right person.’

  ‘Then what’s the difference?’ Her voice was regrettably a bit shrill.

  Tony, a veteran of life with fiery females, took a deep breath and stopped what he was doing to think before he next spoke. ‘You know, you’re right.’

  Emily laughed. ‘You’re well trained, you know that?’

  He smiled. ‘Maybe. But now that I think about it, no one ever asks “What’s wrong with her?” when they’re talking about a single woman. It’s all pity and sympathy for the dearth of good men out there. But as soon as we hear about a single man over the age of, I don’t know, thirty, we think there must be something wrong with him. It’s terribly sexist, isn’t it?’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I really don’t know how you put up with these double standards. You think we’ve come so far and then a Neanderthal like me opens his mouth and you realise you’re basically still in the fifties.’

  Emily flicked him with the tea towel.

  There was a thunder of feet down the hallway and some incoherent screeching and two small girls exploded into the dining room.

  ‘What have you two been doing?’ Tony asked suspiciously. Then, catching sight of Rose, ‘What on earth is on your face?’

  Imogen giggled. ‘She wanted to dress up for dinner.’

  Rose batted her eyelids and fluffed her hair, which had been combed and sprayed into rock-star frizz. And they’d had a very good time in their mother’s makeup bag by the looks of it, with blue eye shadow and red lipstick and orange blush applied all over, apparently at random.

  ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ Imogen said, with such warmth and genuine pride that it shot straight through Emily’s heart, as it did Tony’s, if his misty face was anything to go by.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ he said gravely. ‘Rose, you look just like your mother.’

  They took their places at the table and Tony poured the grown-ups wine while the girls had Ribena. He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to good men and great women.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Emily said.

  ‘Go get the botanist, Em. What’ve you got to lose?’

  Hmm. Well, possibly my best friend.

  •

  Lincoln’s attention span for writing this chapter was being challenged by both Caesar’s pacing and his own thoughts of Christmas, who was waiting for the file so she could edit and rewrite and enflourish it, a word she’d made up to describe her role. The word made him laugh, but he loved it. It sounded racy, somehow.

  Their work together had taken on a new, assured rhythm. Their ideas came together easily now, any early hesitation gone, their words and thoughts merging and flowing in a natural dance, like the drummers and dancers of Ghana, where he’d spent time on a research station a couple of years ago. For them, there was only one word for both drumming and dancing; it was simply one action. He’d thought of this at lunchtime, having a bacon sandwich and a beer in the back garden with Caesar as they monitored the neighbour carrying his wooden planks around, measuring and sawing and sanding.

  But Christmas was avoiding him, he was sure. He’d felt her cooling off after their ‘almost moment’ in the shop kitchen. Since then, she’d brushed off his attempts to catch up for coffee, and suggested they work separately for now, and send through chapters over email, because she was too busy in the lead up to France. There was the shop, with supplies and rosters to organise, she’d said. There were bills to pay before she went away and there was her work as a fairy godmother, not to mention organising the hundred little things you needed to do before going overseas—copies of your passport, locks for your bag, travel pillows and eye masks, credit cards, new shoes, a medicine kit, she should really get a flu shot, and surely she didn’t need vaccinations to go to France, did she? No, it was a first-world country. But perhaps she should check with her doctor?

  It was all smoke, he knew. It was a polite and reasonable way of keeping him at a distance. Of keeping him included, keeping their conversation going, but efficiently avoiding intimacy or awkwardness. She didn’t want to jeopardise the book. That was all. She needed him, but only for his mind.

  Caesar whined at the back door again.

  ‘You just came back in. I promise you nothing major’s happened out there in the last five minutes.’ But Lincoln got up to let the old boy out anyway. Caesar was obsessed with watching the sea captain’s activity. It was as though he didn’t trust him. And really why would you, when the latest message on his blackboard on the footpath was Keep calm and carry guns.

  Each time Lincoln let him out, Caesar would trot up and down the fence line between the properties, decide it was safe for now, return to the door and whine to be let back into the house. A few minutes later, the captain would drop a plank or pick up a hammer and Caesar was back on his feet, worrying about what was going on.

  This time, Lincoln decided to just wait by the back door for the dog to finish his latest inspection. As he stood there he surveyed the backyard and realised he needed to do some work. There was an overhanging branch that should be cut back, weeds growing between the pavers leading to the rotary clothesline, and paint flaking off the wooden toolshed by the back fence. He didn’t mind doing it; he was grateful to be able to stay in his nan’s place rent free. But it was all so domestic and he’d already started to feel the drag of unwelcome responsibility.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, a comfortable gesture, and the fingers of his right hand touched the corner of a card. He pulled it out: Emily Bathurst’s mobile phone number. Call me, she’d said, under the guise of a professional meeting, but he’d felt it might have been a bit more than that.

  But Emily was Christmas’s best friend. If there was a skerrick of a chance left with Christmas it would be blown to smithereens if he called Emily. He folded the card in his palm.

  Caesar’s attention was diverted from the neighbour’s activities by leaves floating along and he leapt towards them, his jaws snapping, though there wasn’t a lot of determination in it. More like a preprogrammed gesture—leaves, snap, leaves, snap. Lincoln smiled. He really did like the dog. He had such gusto for each day. It was a shame he couldn’t keep him.

  But Lincoln’s life wasn’t like that. He wasn’t the suburban type with a wife, two kids and a dog in the backyard. He was a botanist who travelled the world on research grants and lived off an inconsistent cash flow, and he liked that just fine. He liked being able to pack up his bag and leave at a minute’s notice. The world was a fantastically rich and diverse place and he had only one life to live. He wanted to take any opportunity that came his way. No regrets.

  He smoothed out Emily’s business card once more. Here was an opportunity in the palm of his hand right now.

  The only problem was that he’d already fallen for Christmas.

  •

  To: Christmas Livingstone

  From: Miriam Deschamps

  Subject: Bonjour mon amie!

  Dear Christmas,

  I can’t believe it! I was so delighted to receive your card. My parents moved out of their house but my brother bought it off them as an investment and rented it out for years but has recently started his own family and decided to move back there.

  He passed your letter on to me.

  How are you? What do you do now? Are you married? Kids?

  I can’t tell you how excited I am that you’re coming to Paris!!! When? How long will you be here? You must give me all the details. And you must come stay with us if you haven’t already booked a hotel. I’m married to Hank Banks. Seriously, can you believe his parents named him ‘Hank Banks’??? What were they thinking? He’s American, of course, no one else in the world is called Hank, surely? We have one daughter, Margot. She’s fifteen and awfully scary but I’ll try to protect you from her. She was born in America, actually. I blame that for everything. I worked in the States for a few years and my last job was as Hank’s receptionist. He’s a dentist. Now I’m his practice manager here in Neuilly-sur-Seine. We se
t up a new clinic a short walk from our place and go back to see Hank’s family once a year. We’re going this year in July. Which is great timing because I’ll just get to see you before we go.

  I can’t wait to catch up. Tell me everything!!!

  Gros bisous!

  Mim

  •

  ‘My spirit is vexed.’

  Poor Rosemary McCaw’s spirit was more vexed than a diabetes educator at an all-you-can-eat chocolate buffet.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Christmas said, ushering her to the stool at the counter and taking her bulky handbag, out of which poked the tip of what looked to be a metal piccolo and the brim of a straw hat. Rosemary did look a little off, actually. One pencilled eyebrow was a little awry and the clasp of her brooch was hanging open. Christmas reached across and gently fixed it for her.

  ‘Oh, thank you, dear.’

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ Christmas asked, moving towards the espresso machine.

  ‘Very much.’

  When Christmas returned with the coffee, Rosemary had reached under the glass dome on the counter next to her and helped herself to some rosewater coconut ice. Her heart must be hurting for her to be drawn to rose.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Christmas said, placing the coffee in front of her. She took her place on her consulting stool opposite and opened her notebook, pulling a pen from the pocket of her cherry-patterned apron.

  ‘It’s too horrible to speak of.’

  ‘Is it your family? Is everyone alright?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Have you had some bad news?’ Christmas asked carefully.

  To her horror, tears sprang to Rosemary’s eyes. But she sniffed them back valiantly. Raised her chin and set her jaw. ‘I’ve been insulted in the most grievous way.’

  ‘Insulted? By who?’

  ‘By whom,’ Rosemary corrected her automatically. ‘By a hack from Melbourne.’

  Christmas shook her head to indicate that she didn’t know who he was.

  ‘It’s almost too awful to say out loud.’

  ‘Rosemary, please tell me what’s happened before I die from anticipation.’ There was something about Rosemary that brought out the correspondingly dramatic in Christmas.

  Rosemary’s eyes darkened. ‘He rejected me. It was a foolish, foolish idea, I see that now. I don’t know what I was thinking to subject myself to such humiliation.’

  ‘You fancied him?’

  ‘Heavens, no. I auditioned for a role in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at the community theatre. That man, barely out of nappies, what, he must be all of twelve years old, said thank you so very much but he envisioned someone not quite so mature for the role.’

  ‘Oh, Rosemary.’

  ‘Old. That’s what he meant to say. Old. Haggard. No place for an old broiler like me.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I fled. I should have told him he was a pathetic pimply dimwit who’d die a virgin clutching his pretentious visions in his cold and lonely hand and walked out with my head held high, smiling with relief that I’d escaped the colossal disaster that sham of a play would become.’ She grimaced. ‘But instead I scurried out of there like a frightened mouse.’

  Christmas poured thick vanilla-laced cream into Rosemary’s mug. She hurt for her. It was outrageous that a professional actress of her calibre and generosity would be turned down so callously. That director had no idea what he’d let slip through his fingers or of how much he’d hurt Rosemary’s feelings.

  ‘Youth is wasted on the young,’ Christmas said.

  Rosemary gave a deep hearty laugh. ‘Oh, my dear, you’re hardly over the hill.’

  Christmas raised an eyebrow. ‘Nearly forty.’

  ‘Piffle. That’s nothing. You’re in the prime of your life.’ Rosemary sipped at the creamy coffee and murmured in appreciation. Her shoulders were already relaxing, her face softening. ‘When I was forty I took up hip hop.’

  Christmas laughed. ‘Maybe you could teach me.’

  ‘When are you off to France?’

  Christmas’s heart fluttered and she reached for a piece of the rosewater coconut ice. ‘Tuesday.’

  ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Nearly. Abigail is on holiday from uni and will be looking after the shop while I’m away, and because I won’t be here to make handmade pieces I’ve just got to make sure all the extra orders and supplies are sorted so she doesn’t have to do any of that and can just concentrate on customer care. Lots of fiddly things like that. I want it to be really easy for her. Three weeks is a long time.’

  ‘Indeed. Are you sure Abigail is the right person?’ Rosemary said doubtfully. ‘She’s not overly, how shall we say, inspiring.’

  ‘I don’t have a lot of options; Cheyenne has another job and two children to look after. I could close the shop entirely, of course, but it’s so important in a small town to keep the doors open or people start to not bother coming at all. And all the businesses in town rely on each other to create a bit of bustle. I do trust Abigail to do an efficient job.’ If not an overly enthusiastic one. ‘We’ll cut down the days and hours so she’s not overwhelmed. And Cheyenne will help out, of course. I have to make temporary signs for the door, change the website, email reply, phone message, all those sorts of things.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ Rosemary asked hopefully, wanting to be useful and needed.

  ‘You know, it would be great if you could email me while I’m away, let me know how things are going here?’

  Rosemary’s eyes sparkled with intrigue. ‘Spy on the Abigail girl?’

  ‘No! Nothing like that. But you’re a good friend and you know the shop well. You’d notice if something was amiss, and it would make me feel better knowing there’s another set of eyes and ears keeping watch.’

  ‘It would be my honour.’ Rosemary sipped her mocha then asked, ‘And how are things going with the lovely botanist?’

  Christmas was shocked. She had no idea Rosemary even knew who Lincoln was. Was her attraction to him so obvious that the whole town was talking about it?

  ‘There’s no need to blush,’ Rosemary said. ‘It’s plain as day.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Your eyes light up when he’s in the room and you have an extra bounce in your step.’

  ‘Gosh.’ Christmas took a deep breath. ‘Well, it’s complicated.’

  Rosemary cast her eye around the shop. Bert and Ernie were the only other customers at the moment, seated at the distant end of the long wooden table, companionably engaged in completing a crossword together. ‘We have time.’

  Suddenly, Rosemary seemed like the perfect person to confide in. Christmas made herself comfortable and talked about the rules, about her considered approach to risking her heart, and about the crazy feelings she had when she was with Lincoln, the ones that told her to abandon all caution and just follow her desire.

  By the time she’d finished, she and Rosemary had consumed two coffees each and enough coconut ice to give them that sickly over-sugared feeling. In the meantime, Bert and Ernie had packed up their crossword and waved a farewell, Abigail had arrived and taken in her first massage client, and Cynthia Heather had popped in to buy a birthday gift of macarons for one of her kids’ teachers.

  Rosemary said little until Christmas was spent, with no more words to be spoken.

  ‘May I offer some advice, from an old woman?’

  ‘Stop it. You’re not old.’

  ‘You cannot control when or with whom you fall in love—and that applies to a man, a new friend, an Italian cheese, or a puppy. Your only job is to embrace each opportunity as it arises. Go and kiss this Lincoln van Luc.’

  Christmas recoiled. ‘No, no . . .’

  Rosemary held up her hand. ‘Go and kiss him. That is my prescription for you. Then you will know whether there is anything more to it than a passing attraction. If not, you can go on your merry way to France without giving him another thought. It will free your mind.’

  Christm
as leaned across the table and spoke quietly. ‘And what if there is something there?’

  ‘Let us cross that bridge when we come to it.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Yes. I think maybe you need a fairy godmother of your own.’

  ‘You may be right on that count,’ Christmas said. ‘But I’m definitely not kissing him.’

  15

  It was Sunday and there were only two days to go until she left for Paris, so Christmas organised to have dinner with Val and the boys, leaving her half-filled suitcase and baskets of clothes in various states of laundering lined up in the kitchenette in her loft. She arrived at the Kennedy–Bowen household bearing a basket of ingredients, much to everyone’s delight. Mealtimes were a bit of a sore point in the house. Val really was a dreadful cook and had only mastered spaghetti bolognaise and pasta with pre-prepared sauce; Archie wasn’t much better, and relied on throwing frozen fish fingers, pizzas and potato gems into the oven.

  Poor Nate was actually very keen to learn to cook and had aspirations of making it onto Junior MasterChef. But Christmas feared that with his parents he was truly behind the eight ball. As she was gathering the ingredients she had realised with a stab of guilt that she should have taken him under her wing by now and started coaching him. She spent all this time helping children and adults realise their dreams through her fairy godmother work yet here was a sensitive, anxious child—her own nephew, no less—right under her nose whose dreams she could help with right now. She resolved to begin tutoring him at her shop as soon as she came back from France. She’d find him an apprentice’s apron and hat.

  Nate’s whoops when she unpacked her basket weren’t solely elicited by the thought of helping her in the kitchen, however. And it wasn’t just that she was making BLTs, either, though bacon was a huge favourite with all three boys and with Archie regardless of how it was served. (Val appreciated that this way the boys would at least get some lettuce and tomato in for the day, and Christmas whispered that she’d sneak in some avocado slices too.) And the whoops of joy weren’t for her presence, though all three boys threw their arms around her and leaned in to allow her to kiss their grubby cheeks. No, the excitement was because she’d brought a one-litre jar filled with chocolate balsamic glaze that would be poured onto the BLTs and, she assured Val, could be used on almost any vegetable, making it instantly appealing to her children who, Val feared, must surely be about to fall victim to scurvy.