And now she’d have the name that meant everything.
And always would.
Where Dreams Taste Like Chocolate
Chapter 1
“Madonna Mother of God!” Tony Bosco would have had the crown of his head smacked with a wooden spoon by Grandma for saying it, but he couldn’t help himself.
His cousin Vic looked up from where he’d been sliding the latest tray of dark chocolate orange truffles into the display case. Together they stared out the large plate-glass window that faced onto the Madison Street sidewalk, at the east edge of Seattle.
“Oh, yes. She is something, isn’t she?”
Something? Tony couldn’t even speak. He hadn’t prayed in years but he wanted to drop to his knees on the linoleum and beg God himself to make her turn in at their chocolate shop’s door. He’d been back in Seattle for only three hours and he had just seen a goddess—unlike any woman he’d found in his entire five years in Europe.
When she did indeed turn toward him, he considered maybe Grandma was right and he should start going back to church.
With a bright tinkle of the bells on the back of the door, she breezed in. Five-ten of statuesque redhead in a flirty dress—the shade of beaten copper that clung to her like a dusting of sugar—strolled into the shop. The calf-high boots and accompanying short hem on the dress didn’t imply a thing; the combo shouted, “Amazing legs!”
“I need two of your finest, Vic. It’s a beautiful Friday.”
Tony couldn’t have said it better himself.
Vic already had a pair of his ginger caramel dark chocolates in a tiny sack. He exchanged them for the six dollars she already had out in her hand, her long graceful hand.
With a cheery, “Ciao!” she was gone out the door and Tony was left listening to the ringing bell rather than that silky voice, American English, but seasoned with Italian. Gone so fast he didn’t even have an eye color for her, though an impression of bright blue existed somewhere in his head.
“What the heck was that?” He still didn’t have his breath back.
Vic laughed, “Don’t worry. You’ll never get used to her. But every Friday, if she’s had a good week, she comes and buys two dark chocolate ginger caramels. Won’t buy anything else, so I make sure to never run out on a Friday.”
“And if she’s had a bad week?”
“Don’t see her, but thankfully that doesn’t happen so much. I do so look forward to these days.”
“Couldn’t you have, like, slowed her down for a moment?” Tony knew he hadn’t blinked, and still there hadn’t been a chance to look at her clearly. Too many first impressions and too little time to sort through them. He sniffed the air, but could find not one hint of her. Only the rich smell of fine chocolate remained in the shop.
“Can’t be done.”
“Because you haven’t tried.”
“Tried plenty, Cuz. Not happening.”
Tony rolled his eyes at his cousin. Vic had always been a lame-o when it came to meeting girls. Actually, he’d been stellar at it, as long as Tony wasn’t around. Tony always managed first choice, which he never complained about and only lorded over his cousin at every other opportunity, not wanting to be too obnoxious.
His cousin laughed at him, “Okay, Mr. Hotshot European Chocolatier. Next week, I’ll keep my big mouth shut, you go ahead and try. Not a thing on this planet is gonna slow that woman down.”
He didn’t want her to slow down, he certainly never did that himself. He just wanted to move down the same path for a length or two, long enough for a wild affair. Tony turned back to the chocolate-making work counter and looked down at what Vic had given him on his return to the States just hours before.
His cousin had taken over the shop and the family recipes when their shared grandparents had retired and gone RVing. He’d never thought they were the sort, impossible to imagine them not in this shop. But they were off to tour every scenic byway in the country.
He’d never really thought he’d be back here. He’d worked in some of Europe’s premier chocolateries, been trained by master chefs, but the old shop felt comfortable. It was the right size. A cozy front area for customers to stare into the large glass display cases, small enough for a friendly jostling of elbows as they picked and chose, but not cramped or crowded. The kitchen was behind, with no door to hide it away from the curious who wanted to peek over the cabinets. Light streamed in, bright through the front glass, dappled by trees through the high, kitchen windows in back.
This shop is where the two boys had spent every summer as kids. Once Vic had taken over, he’d increased business to the point where he could either manage the shop or make the chocolates, but not both. Seattle loved chocolate treats, and had plenty of companies catering to that craving. But even with competition, Granddad’s recipes were making a name for The Chocolaterie Bosco.
Tony had been at his usual loose ends when Vic called. He’d been hanging in Milan where his latest girlfriend had dumped him. Normally it worked the other way, but when the captain of the winning Italian team of the Tour de France swept her up, he knew he’d been totally outclassed. They’d been close to done anyway.
Il Cioccolato Bello only needed him for pick up work. He’d learned all he was going to at Oui Chocolat in Chartres outside of Paris. He’d plumbed the depths of Die Schokolade Maestro in Hamburg. And even thinking of the head chocolatiers at Kāko in New Zealand or Callebaut in Belgium made him exhausted, he was so not excited about “going back to school.”
So, Vic had given him an excuse to move once more half around the world and come make chocolate for a small but enthusiastic clientele. Just the two of them and a part-time clerk on the weekend, closed Mondays and Tuesdays.
He leaned on the work counter and stared down at the dozens of hand-scribed index cards laid out across the cool marble slab. Vic had set them out for him. Granddad’s sloppy handwriting was faded on some to near illegibility, partially lost behind chocolate smears on others, but there was a voice here. A voice Tony had seen and loved, but perhaps never really heard.
He picked up one that he thought might entice la belle signora.
“I’ll start here,” he held up the card.
“Courvoisier-brandied cherry,” Vic nodded his approval. They shared a smile. They both remembered the trouble they’d earned for dropping a pair of them down the back of Vic’s older sister’s dress one summer then smacking them so that they burst, just moments before her date arrived. The long red stains had never come out and they’d both learned an appreciation—over many, many tedious unpaid hours of manual labor at the shop—just how much fine girl clothes cost.
Chapter 2
Raquel Wells sat in Madison Park, counting an extra blessing that her favorite bench was open. It sat at the edge of the park, under the shade of a tall maple tree and faced Lake Washington. As she opened the paper bag she looked out at the lake: twenty miles long and three wide, it had halted the eastward expansion of Seattle a century before. Most of the park was fronted by a sandy beach and a very popular swimming area. Her favorite stretch was perched above a rocky rip-rap and nestled under friendly maple trees close by the shore.
From here, downtown Seattle was a comforting four miles behind her and the broad lake masked any thoughts of Bellevue on the far shore. Here is where she did her best thinking. Here is where she ate the best chocolate she’d ever found.
Vic Bosco’s Ginger Caramel, the dark chocolate sheen ever so lightly dusted with sea salt, slayed her every time. This is what heaven was like: a sunny day, a beautiful view, and a multi-layered treat for her palate.
As an extra treat today, her outfit had totally gobsmacked Vic’s new assistant. The guy looked as if he’d been paralyzed. Having an outfit that actually made a man’s jaw drop, well, that was a definite bonus. He was six foot of terribly handsome and appeared to be one of those guys completely willing to wield it as a woman-slayer. Absolutely not her type.
Her dress was just one of the many benefits
of working at Perrin’s Glorious Garb. Four years ago she’d taken over as store manager on a wing, a prayer, and at the sharp prodding of two of Perrin’s best friends. Perrin had been barely scraping by and Raquel had been doing no better as an underling in the corporate mayhem of Seattle. Perrin had offered her straight commission and a ten percent share in the company if it survived.
Many times it had been close, but Perrin’s talent couldn’t be stopped. Now, with Perrin’s recent successes and Melanie Harper signing aboard as CEO, the company had gained global attention.
Raquel had kept the operation going, taken night classes for an MBA (Stage One of her Personal Life Plan), and scrabbled like a madwoman for four years. And at a very fine luncheon this afternoon, Perrin and Melanie had presented her with a brand new business card; it read “CFO.” There had been champagne, there had been tears, and there had been many smiles of well-deserved satisfaction. Soon, if the five-year business plan that she herself had written came even close to being accurate, they were all going to be very wealthy women.
That was completely worthy of two of Vic Bosco’s ginger caramels.
She’d promoted her clerk to store manager and was now free to focus on the on-line retail side of the business. Part of it was straightforward; Perrin’s unusual designs built to stock. But Perrin’s trademark was custom clothing matched to the individual. Turning that into an electronic platform was proving to be a fun challenge and a potentially lucrative one.
It was all running smoothly, or as smoothly as such things did. A lot of hard work lay ahead for all of them. But thankfully it was no longer about survival, rather it was about creating a stable success. That was Stage Two.
So, now it was time to focus on the next Stage Three of her Personal Life Plan: find a suitable partner. That too promised to be a great deal of fun and, if all went well, that too would have life-changing results.
She bit into sweet, salt, and ginger and let her eyes drift shut to fully appreciate the chocolate flavors.
Chapter 3
The very first thing that Tony changed was how Vic was making the chocolate itself.
“Only the Criollo beans, buddy. Forastero is for wimps and Trinitario is only for wannabes and second raters.”
“But—”
“Deal with it. Sell your stock off to some other shop. I won’t be using it.”
They had always mixed and ground their own nibs. The process of separating the cocoa solids and the cocoa butter was slow but worth the quality control it provided. Then they remixed them in precise portions with sugar, milk for the milk chocolate, and sometimes other flavorings. Granddad had always taught them to conch the chocolate for a full twenty-four hours. Chocolate was tenaciously gritty until it was ground with metal beads to break it down. Tony jumped the twenty-four hours to three full days—for mouthfeel, a trade secret he’d learned while sleeping with a pretty little Swedish chocolatier named Rosalie.
He forced Vic to buy a second conching machine so that they could run dark and milk chocolate batches at the same time. Vic went totally lame and bought a small machine without consulting him.
Tony dug into his savings and bought a large capacity machine for the dark chocolate. He’d never been a fan of white chocolate, so the small machine that Vic had bought got demoted to that role. Granddad’s old homebuilt could run the milk chocolate.
“It’s Friday, buddy. You ready, mi cugino?” Vic elbowed him sharply enough in the ribs to knock the air out of him.
“Not an idiot, my cousin,” Tony waited until Vic’s guard was down and slipped an ice cube down the back of his shirt. He’d been thinking about the Madonna Lady all week. How was it that his idiot cousin hadn’t even learned her name.
It was a beautiful June day. What would she be wearing on this bright, breezy day by the lake?
The answer once again took his breath away. Parisians so proud of their fashion sense didn’t have an inch of advantage on this woman. She breezed into the shop. A matching diaphanous lavender skirt that swirled about her knees and a matching leather vest, one of the sleeveless ones never intended to close, simply to enhance—a duty it performed admirably well because after all, it had a lot to work with. The luminous blue of her blouse matched her sapphire eyes.
She was looking at him with a single arched eyebrow, six dollars already in her fine-fingered hands.
Speak! Tony shouted at himself. “Greetings, Madonna Lady. How may I help you?”
“She—”
Tony cut Vic off with a scathing look. He knew what she wanted, that wasn’t the point. The point was to get her talking.
Vic winced. His cousin knew he’d botched the play.
Raquel was smiling at him. Okay, he’d have to kill Vic later for making him look a fool, even if it had been his own fault.
“Two of your dark chocolate ginger caramels.”
He offered her a small sample plate of chocolates, “Would you like to try my granddad’s brandied cherries?”
“No thank you. Just my two dark caramels.”
In moments the door was closing with its cheery bell and six dollars rested beside the register.
“Gone…” he couldn’t believe that she’d slipped away so easily. Not correcting his “Madonna Lady.” Not offering her name in its stead. And turning down the chocolate he’d made especially for her, as good a treat as Granddad had ever concocted.
“Told ya. No slowing her down.” Vic slapped him on the back hard enough to really sting and turned to greet a mother-daughter pair who entered the shop.
Her departing wave had been offhand, too perfectly casual. Tony knew when the gauntlet had been thrown down and he wasn’t a man to leave that challenge unanswered.
Chapter 4
Raquel sat on her park bench and bit into the caramel. The chocolate slid over her tongue. It didn’t simply melt in her mouth, it hesitated to play there a while, thick with teasing flavors she’d never noticed before. She tilted her head to one side, watching a sailboat skim along the lake while appreciating. The cocoa taste built and lasted, like a sweet, pure chord from a harp.
Perhaps she was extra sensitive today because she was launching Stage Three of her Personal Life Plan tonight. In two hours she’d be having dinner with Steven Tu. He was one of the partners of the law firm that Perrin used when her friend Jo was too busy. He was hugely successful and quite handsome. They’d met at business functions a few times. His sense of humor was a little weak, but his intelligence and taste more than compensated.
Raquel had always worked hard, unlike either of her parents. They came from money and were well on their way to losing it all through benign neglect. She was going the opposite direction and had been since she was seven. Her net worth had always been known to the penny and ruthlessly budgeted. She had started with hand sewing doll dresses for sale at Saturday markets; even working by flashlight under the covers until her fingers were poked to bleeding. Making clothes for junior high and high school friends, at least the ones who cared more about looks than designer labels, had given her a good training. She’d also learned that while she’d never be a designer, she could copy a name brand and knew how to reshape it to a body. She’d put herself through college working three jobs and still had been doing that when she’d joined Perrin.
Now after two decades, she was twenty-seven and all of that work was paying off. Raquel Wells was about to collect her rewards. Not that achieving her goals had ever slowed her down; she’d just set new ones and continue charging upward. Financially stable at twenty-seven. Next on the list was happily married by thirty. She’d allotted three years to make sure it was the right man for her, though she only expected to use six months of that time. True financial success and solid personal stability by thirty-two, plenty of time for a child at thirty-five.
When Raquel began considering which man she might choose to build that future with, Steven Tu’s gentle manners and impeccable taste came easily to mind.
She had come up with a list of three i
nitial candidates and hoped that one of them would be the answer she was looking for.
Another rustle of the bag, and the second caramel was gone before she managed to slow herself down enough to assess what was actually occurring.
The chocolate was different.
She didn’t like that. Vic Bosco’s chocolate was comfortable, familiar, it fit into her life. For the last year, since she first felt she could afford the splurge, it had been both exceptional and completely consistent. You could plan on exactly what you were going to get there.
This must be the doing of the one playing games at the counter, the one fishing for her name with “Madonna Lady.”
She should go back and tell Vic to change it back, or get rid of the new man. But then Raquel realized that she was still tasting other aspects of the chocolate, though the treat was long gone. The flavors were different, but they were also lusher and richer. They continued to open and unfold despite how greedily she’d eaten both candies.
Maybe she wouldn’t be complaining to Vic. Somehow it felt disloyal to Vic to even think that. But it was…better.
Rising from her bench, she smoothed the chocolatier’s bag, folded it in half, and slipped it into her skirt pocket. Time to go change for Steven.
Chapter 5
Tony was losing his mind.
Three weeks. No joy.
She’d refused a Habañero Mango Crème. She’d scoffed at his Pear Brandy Truffle. And now she’d even turned down his taste of Christmas in Summertime Strawberry Eggnog with just a hint of nutmeg.
He’d tried slipping the treat into the bag with her invariant ginger caramels, but she’d caught him the first time.
The second time, he had placed it into the bag before she came in. She had actually brought that bag back after she was done eating her two caramels.
The Complete Where Dreams Page 103
