He folded himself down to the ground, not fluidly as a young person might, but nonetheless with grace and dignity, and began patting one of the arms of his cable-knit jumper as though stroking the long hair of a woman, and cooing gently to it in French poetry. Or maybe it wasn’t poetry. Practically everything said in French sounded like poetry to her ears.
But, oh boy. If this was what dance lessons would be like, what on earth would the lessons on lovemaking involve?
Unsurprisingly, her thoughts turned to Lincoln. And that kiss.
She trembled. But whether it was from the thought of lessons in lovemaking, or simply a lack of food, she wasn’t sure.
•
It was time for some truth telling.
Elsa heard Lincoln’s car pull up outside and straightened her spine. She had to motivate him into action. He’d always needed a push here and there. He had been a dreamy, thoughtful child who often spent his days perched up in the apple tree. He was happy to help out with chores and liked to feel useful. But he was, unfortunately, rather passive. He took life as it came and had never really planned too far ahead. Look at that disastrous pseudo-marriage in his twenties: he clearly hadn’t thought too much about that, just agreed to go along with the idea when the girl had suggested it. Gosh, what was her name? Elsa rubbed at her temple.
So now, with Lincoln here, she laid it out for him. ‘Lincoln, you are a lovely, sweet and kind boy. And I know I’m not supposed to have favourites, but you are my favourite grandchild.’
He twisted his foot on the floor then, like an awkward teenager under a gush of unwanted emotion, and reached for the dog’s ears for something to do with his hands.
‘But you’re a bit lazy.’
His head jerked up, his jaw a little loose. ‘What?’
‘You’re forty-two years old and you’re still cruising through life. Do you know what you’re doing next year?’ Elsa raised her eyebrows.
‘No,’ he said, with a note of resentment in his voice.
‘Do you know what you’re doing next month?’
‘No.’ Firmly this time. Challenging.
‘How about next week?’
‘Nan, what is this about?’ Crossing his arms now.
‘I want you to stay here.’ The words were out, finally. They’d been sitting in her chest since the moment he’d arrived back from Ecuador—hairy, delivering chocolate, wearing that relaxed smile he always had when he came back from a trip.
Her eyeballs stung. She had no right in the world to say it. But she didn’t care if things could be fixed with Tom. Not really. She was pragmatic enough to know that she and her son were so very different and there was so much water under the bridge that things between them would never be okay. Lincoln was the one she wanted. She’d transferred her affection from her son to her grandson long ago. The reality was that Tom never stood a chance in her heart once Lincoln lay in her arms.
Was that so bad?
Yes. It was.
But could she help it?
Apparently not.
Lincoln’s eyes held hers gently. Too gently. She looked away in disgust and tried to slow the beating of her heart.
‘And what else?’ he said. ‘What else do you want?’
In for a penny, in for a pound, Ebe always said.
‘Alright, then. I want you to get married. Have children. Stay here in Tasmania. Bring them to visit me after school.’ Then she realised she probably wouldn’t be around when they were at school. She rubbed her slippered toe against Caesar’s chest. ‘I think I might even want this dog to visit me.’
Lincoln took a deep breath and whistled slowly through his teeth. ‘So a chocolate basket won’t do?’
‘Well, I would like some more of Christmas Livingstone’s chocolates.’ She smacked her lips. ‘But I need more than that.’
He scratched absently at his head till his hair stuck up like a cockatoo’s tuft at the back. She wanted to lick her hand and smooth it down the way she had when he was a boy and had just woken up, sitting at the kitchen table and waiting for his boiled eggs and toast soldiers.
It was like it was yesterday. How could time spin around like that? Time wasn’t linear as everyone assumed. It couldn’t be. It must twist like a tornado and you sat inside the funnel and every now and then you could catch a gust as it came rushing past and ride it for a bit before dropping back into the funnel.
‘You’ve always supported my work and travel plans,’ he said, sounding slightly aggrieved. ‘What’s changed?’
‘I’m old now.’
‘No you’re not,’ he said automatically, though she saw the fear in his eyes. ‘You’ve got plenty of time.’
‘No. I don’t. And neither do you. You’re halfway through your life and you’ve never really committed to anything.’
Benita! That was his ex-wife’s name.
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Perhaps. But I’m too old for fair. At times in my life I’ve been fair when I shouldn’t have been. Now I want to be unreasonable and selfish. Let someone else have a turn at being fair. It’s time for you to grow up, Lincoln. It’s the way the world works and you’re no exception to the billions of other people who share it.’
‘I’m committed to my job.’
‘You’re committed to short-term contracts.’
‘And as for marriage and kids, I just haven’t found the right person. Would you have me marry just for the sake of it?’
‘Of course not, don’t be daft. But I don’t believe there is only one right person out there for us. It’s more about you being in the right frame of mind.’
Lincoln got up and started to pace the room, then stopped to look out the cheap louvres at the driveway, where Rita Blumberg’s daughter and her two children had just pulled up and were racing into the main building, so excited to see their gran.
Elsa was on a roll now. ‘What about Christmas Livingstone?’
He grunted under his bearded breath. ‘I told you, she’s not interested.’ The audible sting in his voice wounded her heart a little. Love was such a complicated beast. Perhaps Rita had been right and Christmas wasn’t the one after all. But Elsa had been so sure.
She sighed, resigned. ‘Well then, what about her friend, Emily?’
‘She’s been sick,’ he muttered grumpily.
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And have you been around with chicken soup?’
He laughed and scrunched his fists against his eyes in frustration. ‘I’m not a housewife who calls on the neighbours.’
‘That’s very narrow-minded of you, Lincoln. Aren’t you a new age yoga type?’
‘What?’
‘I just mean don’t underestimate the power of chicken soup, dear. Didn’t someone write a book about that?’
‘You can be very pushy sometimes, Nan.’
‘Good.’
They eyed each other until the sound of an ambulance’s siren diverted their attention. They watched out the window for a bit until they realised what had happened and Elsa reached for Lincoln’s arm.
Rita’s family had been rushing not because they were so excited to see her but because it was an emergency. Now, Elsa’s new and treasured friend, Rita, was being packed into the ambulance before her very eyes.
•
It was early in the morning and Christmas sat in the corner of her hotel room, a modern affair with luxe furnishings and two separate balconies that were drenched in morning sunlight and overlooked the city of Aix. Here, closest to one of the balconies with its round cafe table and climbing vine up the wall, she could access the complimentary wi-fi. It was a beautiful room. One thing people couldn’t say about Master Le Coutre was that he was cheap.
Her stomach was rumbling again, anticipating a big breakfast of croissants and berry yoghurt, but she wanted to see if Val was logged onto Skype so she could tell her about the mad Master Le Coutre and his plans for dancing and lovemaking lessons. It was almost time for school pick-u
p, but she might just catch her.
She opened Skype. Val’s photo appeared with a green tick to show she was online. Christmas was just about to type her a message when another online contact popped up: Lincoln.
Her fingers froze over the keyboard. Her nerves quickstepped.
After Master Le Coutre’s dancing last night, and the memory of that kiss, she’d been unable to sleep for a long while. Her mind had kept imagining things, things about Lincoln. She’d tried to push the thoughts away but they kept coming back. She’d tossed and turned but her imagination was an obstinate mule refusing to think of anything else except what life might be like with Lincoln in it.
And now a chat message had arrived.
Hi. You online?
Was she online? Well, clearly her Skype status said she was. But did she want to be online for him? She typed tentatively, wondering where this would go after his last, cryptic message. Maybe. But she wanted to talk to him.
Yes. Hi. What are you up to?
Caesar and I are having afternoon tea and a chat about philosophy.
That’s cute.
Also, it’s been a bit of a rough day.
What happened?
My nan and I had a ‘chat’ and she told me what she thought about a few things.
What do you mean? What about?
It doesn’t matter. But I saw you were online and I wanted to touch base with you. The last couple of times we’ve spoken have been kind of messy.
It’s my fault.
Well, let’s just say we’re friends again, okay?
Absolutely
But enough of that. How’s the land of frogs?
Paris was great. Amazing great! I’m in Provence now and have met the other winners of the scholarship and the famous Master Le Coutre, who is a little eccentric to say the least!
There was a long pause, then:
That sounds great.
And then, nothing.
It was impossible to read tone and emotion properly through cyberspace, but she was certain she could feel some sort of sadness. She typed quickly.
Are you okay? You seem a bit down.
Another long pause.
I guess.
Now it was her turn to hesitate. What could she say in a chat box that would possibly cheer him up? She suddenly wished she was with him so she could pat him on the arm, or make him a coffee, or feed him some of her Kahlua-laced hot chocolate. Or hold his hand and kiss him till he smiled again.
But she couldn’t do any of that from the other side of the world.
Do you want to play a game?
She stalled for a moment before hitting the enter key, then sent it off into the ether and held her breath for several painful moments before he replied.
Okay.
She smiled, relieved.
This is a game Val and Emily and I play when we’ve had a few drinks. It’s called Twisted Title. You take a movie or book title and change it around so it sounds like the original but has a new meaning. So, I’ll start with ‘Schindler’s Wrist’, the story of a brave physiotherapist who saved people from carpal tunnel syndrome. Get it? Your turn.
A very long pause in which Christmas got the giggles just waiting to see what he’d come back with. Finally, the little pen symbol popped up to show that Lincoln was typing at his end. A warm summer breeze blew in the doorway from her balcony.
‘Legally Frond’, a happy but ditzy fern overcomes prejudice in the rainforest community.
Christmas hooted with laughter.
Hey, you’re a natural! And bonus points for making it botanically related. Okay, my turn . . . umm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Oh! ‘Love Practically’, the touching story of ten tradesmen who find love on the work site.
Good one! Alright . . . ‘Gnarly and Me’, the story of a guy and his surfboard.
‘Madame Ovary’—memoirs of an ageing hen.
‘Silence of the Clams’.
What’s that about???
Just an underwater shot of a bunch of clams sitting around doing nothing. Admittedly, it didn’t do very well at the box office, but it was a cult hit among insomniacs.
Christmas was having so much fun and found herself laughing so hard she ignored a notification about a message from her sister. This was too good to stop now.
Her turn again.
‘101 Palpitations’—the agony and ecstasy of being in love.
And she’d hit enter before she could think twice about it.
•
The agony and ecstasy of being in love.
Lincoln leaned back in his computer chair. Why would she write that? Was it a coded message? A slip of the typing fingers?
He tapped the keys, wondering what to say in return. He didn’t want to stuff it up now that they’d just begun to get back to how good things were before the kiss. And if she was admitting her true feelings for him then that was brave and he wanted to be equally brave in return. Suddenly, the whole sidestep he’d taken towards Emily reeked of childishness. Christmas had hurt him so he’d wanted to hurt her back.
But now he wanted nothing more than to be with her again.
I can’t top that, he wrote. But I know exactly what you mean.
20
Later that morning, Christmas found herself dancing in Jackson Kent’s strong arms. Clearly a stickler for the rules, the policeman was taking the lesson very seriously. Philomena was dancing with Henry, who had cast off his cane for the moment and was waltzing slowly and smoothly, as though he’d been doing it for decades. Tibbie Tottie was waltzing with Master Le Coutre.
‘Hand on my shoulder,’ Jackson said, shrugging his deltoid to indicate that Christmas had let her hand slip.
‘Sorry.’ Then, ‘Oops!’ She trod on his foot again. Rather incongruously, they were waltzing to Céline Dion’s ‘Only One Road’. Céline was singing in French, but Christmas knew the lyrics well. ‘It’s like the whole of France has set out to torture me with love songs and poetry,’ she said, her heart still aflutter from Lincoln’s declaration.
‘What’s that?’ Jackson said, sweating now as he guided her once more around the room, the same space at the back of the restaurant where they’d met the night before.
‘Nothing.’ She smiled brightly, puffing a little herself.
Master Le Coutre addressed them over Tibbie Tottie’s shoulder. ‘Remember why you are dancing,’ he commanded. ‘You are looking for synchronicity, the blending of bodies and minds to move as one, for one purpose and one connection. Effortless communication. Spiritual union. Sumptuous delight.’
Christmas rolled her eyes and Jackson broke rank for a moment.
‘Did you just laugh?’ she whispered.
‘Certainly not.’ But his eyes flashed glee.
As his dance partner, gazing into his eyes was something she was supposed to be doing a lot of but she’d felt far too self-conscious to do so. Now their eyes locked and she got a fit of giggles, waves and waves of them, which quickly spread to Jackson, who made small puffing noises from his wide nostrils that she could recognise as giggles because the corners of his eyes had crinkled. For a few moments, they sailed around the room in unison, awkwardness and tension gone, somehow having reached a perfect point of connection.
A hot gust of wind blew in through the open shutter, bringing with it the sound of a bicycle bell and a waft of bread baking in the wood-fired oven in the kitchen. Christmas had to admit that it was quite nice being held in the steady arms of a man who wasn’t bad looking. That scar on his nose actually added a good deal of mystery and character. His square chin was more like a boxer’s than she would normally go for. But it was nice to move around the room in his arms. If she didn’t count that one embrace with Lincoln, it had been years since she’d been held by a man. By Simon, to be exact. A man with a weak chin, she thought now, upon reflection.
Thinking of Simon made her lose concentration and she tripped and fell against Jackson’s chest. He caught her effortlessly. ‘Never mind,’
he said kindly, helping her regain balance.
She smoothed the hem of her shirt, which attracted Jackson’s gaze for a second before he resumed his impenetrable expression.
‘Thanks. Sorry.’
‘It’s no concern,’ he said, taking her hand.
As they continued to dance, Céline Dion’s voice filled her mind, urging her on to feel more than she’d permitted herself to for a long time. After she’d lost the baby, after she’d grieved messily and unexpectedly deeply, after she’d said goodbye to Simon and a relationship she’d known was never right but which had still been important, she’d carefully packed her heart in bubble wrap, trussed it with rope and clicked a padlock into place.
Her feet moved. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three . . . She tried to concentrate on counting the waltz steps, but Céline wouldn’t shut up. Love found and lost. Paths chosen. Lives connected. A thunderbolt of passion. A sensuous love affair.
Shut up!
But it was too late. Between the beat of the music and the steps of the waltz, Christmas heard the tiniest ping of a lock clicking open beneath her breastbone.
And the idea that Lincoln just might feel the same way scared and excited her in equal measure.
•
To: Christmas Livingstone
From: Abigail Hurst
Subject: Shop Update
Hi Christmas—I hope you’re going well and having a great time in Paris. I just wanted to give you an update on the shop. One week down, two to go. So far, so good. Massages have dropped off but that’s pretty typical for winter. Hot chocolate is doing a roaring trade. People have missed your handmade pieces but a few have ventured into trying imported bars, nothing exotic though. Thanks to some snowfalls, sales of throw rugs, knitted socks and scarves have increased. I haven’t seen Cheyenne this week so the flower stand is bare. I tried calling her yesterday but got no answer. Would you like me to try to find some flowers somewhere else?
The Chocolate Promise Page 22
