by Teri Wilson
Who was he really kidding, though? He wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself. He was actually hoping to spot Juliet—preferably alone, although he could deal with Alegra if the situation required—across the street at Arabella Chocolate Boutique.
She wasn’t there. The windows were dark, the parking lot empty. She was probably at home with Cocoa, running her graceful fingers through the sweet dog’s fur. He’d seen to it that the bill at the emergency animal hospital had been paid. Knowing all too well what Juliet’s reaction would be if he tried to pay the balance with her knowledge, he’d stopped by the clinic on the way to his scheduled drinks with Marco. She’d had a rough week. It was the least he could do to help, seeing as he’d played a rather big part in the tumultuous situation.
But enough of Juliet Arabella.
He’d been victorious today, but next week all anyone would care about was the Napa Valley Chocolate Fair. And as Uncle Joe had told him countless times, Juliet was the reigning champion. The undefeated reigning champ. Leo would wager his degree from Le Cordon Bleu that there wouldn’t be a single soggy strawberry in sight next Saturday.
He flipped on the lights in the kitchen of Mezzanotte Chocolates and slipped his arms into his chef coat. So long as he was here, he may as well get some actual work done. He didn’t want to think about what it would mean if he left and went home simply because Juliet wasn’t around. He might have had one too many beers tonight, and he might be suffering from a serious case of unrequited lust, but he wasn’t quite ready to confess that he’d become that pathetic.
He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a dozen eggs. Then he thought for a minute and reached inside for a dozen more. He’d planned on making macarons. Genuine Parisian macarons, like the ones that sold for four euros apiece at Ladurée on the Champs-élysées. Dark chocolate, filled with a creamy orange blossom ganache. White-on-white chocolate, dusted with sea salt and rosemary, the perfect, unexpected blend of sweet and savory. A bittersweet chocolate-coffee blend, filled with sweet cream and topped with espresso powder. And Leo’s personal favorite—rich, decadent cocoa with a key lime filling so tart that it bordered on bitter but, when combined with the delicate cocoa cakes that made up the outside pieces of the macarons, was the epitome of French culinary perfection.
He wasn’t sure when he’d begun to have doubts, only that they’d taken root somewhere around the time Juliet had thrown down the gauntlet.
You’re going down next weekend at the Napa Valley Chocolate Fair. I’m going to murder you. Consider yourself warned.
It was sexy as hell.
It had also made him more determined than ever to win.
Leo separated the eggs and whipped the whites with a dash of salt until they were foamy. Then he flipped the speed on the standing mixer to high for exactly fifty-six seconds before folding in the almonds and sugar with a well-rehearsed twirl of his spatula. He piped the batter into disks with a pastry bag and tried not to obsess over them while they sat at room temperature, waiting for soft skins to form over the outer layer.
They were beautiful. Even less than halfway through the process, they were still magnificent. Elegant and refined in their simplicity.
But did elegant and refined win trophies? He needed to somehow transform them into an eye-catching attraction. Something spectacular that even non-foodies who’d never before laid eyes on a macaron could appreciate. Something along the lines of the extravagant window displays of Ladurée.
That’s it.
He let out a laugh as he slid the macarons into the oven, leaving the oven door slightly ajar. He would take the macarons and make a showpiece out of them. The windows of the Paris tea shops were always fitted with towering macaron towers or colorful, sculpted macaron trees. He would do something along those lines. It would be tricky—doubly tricky as simply making the perfect chocolate macaron, since he’d also be constructing what amounted to a food sculpture—but if it worked, it would sure as hell be memorable.
And it would work. Because it had to.
An hour later, satisfied with his plan, he locked up the shop. His test batch had turned out to be acceptable. A crack here and there. Perhaps the pied, the notoriously temperamental ruffle at the base of the cookies, could have been a bit more voluminous. But the flavors had been dead-on. Once he invested in a portable dehumidifier for the store, he’d be golden.
Even though it was so far into the wee hours that the dramatic lights of the Night Glow had begun to grow dim and there was still no sign of Juliet across the street, Leo felt downright triumphant as he drove home. He could win this thing. And if the powers that be at The French Laundry were at all excited about his chocolat chaud, they would turn backflips over a prize-winning tower made up of four varieties of Parisian chocolate macarons.
The thought of his arrangement with George Alcott and The French Laundry brought with it a stab of guilt to his consciousness as he pulled into his driveway.
It’s not personal. It’s business.
Juliet sure didn’t seem to agree.
He slammed his car door shut more forcefully than necessary. If the shoe had been on the other foot, she would have done the same thing. He’d done nothing wrong. She’d get over it. She couldn’t very well hold it against him forever.
His foot bumped against something bulky and solid on the porch as he slid his key into the front door. He bent to pick the mysterious object up, but couldn’t tell what it was in the dark. Once inside, he switched on the lights and saw it was an envelope. Even though it was held closed with a rubber band, the thick manila paper of the envelope strained at the seams.
His teeth ground together as he pulled off the rubber band. Surely this wasn’t what he thought it was.
Oh, but it was.
An avalanche of dollar bills fell to floor. All ones. Leo didn’t count them. He didn’t have to. He knew precisely how many there were—1,232 of them. The sum total of Cocoa Arabella’s veterinary bill.
Leo’s headache returned with unparalleled vengeance.
She’d get over it. She couldn’t very well hold it against him forever.
And yet he suddenly found himself with 1,232 new reasons to believe she could.
* * *
For the second Sunday in a row, the thought of the weekly Arabella family breakfast filled Juliet with a sense of dread. But she showed up right on time, just like the dutiful daughter she’d always been. Up until a week ago, at least.
“Here goes nothing,” she muttered to Cocoa as she opened the front door of her childhood home and walked inside.
The scent of bacon and freshly brewed coffee immediately invaded her senses. So there was actual food being prepared this time? That was certainly an improvement over last week. At least if she was going to be confronted with an intervention again, there would be snacks. And caffeine. She still wasn’t fully caught up on her sleep. Although in the grand scheme of things, sleep deprivation was the least of her problems.
The family was all there—Alegra, Nico, Dad. And of course, Mom, who stood at the stove wearing a pink ruffled Arabella Chocolate Boutique apron. It looked as if she was stirring eggs, which was somewhat of a relief. Juliet had half expected to be force-fed the leftover strawberries for breakfast.
“Hey there, sis,” Nico said around the slice of bacon hanging from his mouth as he poured himself a cup of coffee. The last cup, apparently. He held the coffeepot upside down until the last drop landed in his mug.
“Morning.” Juliet wasted no time heading for the pantry for a new filter and the bag of Lavazza Classico blend her mother always kept on hand.
“Juliet, I have something for you.” Her mother turned to face her. “Dio mio! What happened to Cocoa?”
Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at the dog. Cocoa, who loved any occasion in which she was the center of attention, wagged her tail.
It beat against Juliet’s legs.
“She looks like a bag of bones.” Juliet’s mother jammed her hands on her hips. “Have you stopped feeding her?”
Juliet rested a protective hand on Cocoa’s shaggy head. “Oh, she’s eating. She’s eating plenty. In fact, she got into some chocolate and had to have her stomach evacuated.”
“Evacuated?” Nico frowned around his bacon. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Trust me. You don’t want to know. But the end result was that they got all the chocolate out of her system.” The fact that it had been Mezzanotte chocolate was a detail Juliet didn’t feel the need to share.
She glanced at Alegra, but Alegra’s eyes were glued on her new iPad. Juliet wondered when Leo had managed to find time to purchase the thing, much less deliver it to Alegra. He sure managed to get around.
Well, if he was busy throwing his money all over Napa Valley, that was fine. The less time that man spent in the kitchen, the better.
“Since when does Cocoa get into the chocolate?” Her mother frowned and gave the omelet on the stove a flip.
Alegra glanced up. Finally. But she managed to keep her mouth shut.
“Believe me, I was as surprised as you are. She’s doing okay, though. Aren’t you, girl?” Juliet ran her fingers through Cocoa’s fur and prayed no one noticed the nervous tremor in her hands.
Juliet’s mother snatched the slice of bacon hanging from Nico’s mouth. He yelled in protest. “Hey!”
Their mother swatted him with her spatula. “Nico, don’t be selfish. Share that bacon with Cocoa. The poor dog is at death’s door.”
She tossed the bacon at Cocoa, who threw her newly slimmed-down frame in the air and lunged at it, proving that bacon apparently was a cure for lethargy. Juliet would have to remember that in case she lost to Leo at the chocolate fair and needed something to pull herself out of the deep depression she was sure to succumb to in the event of another crushing defeat.
She snagged the bacon out of reach in the nick of time and tossed it in her own mouth instead. Mmm. Crunchy. “She’s not at death’s door. She’s just lost a little weight. But she can’t eat bacon, or anything else we’re having. The vet put her on a special diet for a few days.”
Her mother rolled her eyes. “Nonsense. Dom, get the bag of meatballs out of the freezer.”
Her father obeyed.
Juliet didn’t bother trying to tell him otherwise. Her mother had spoken. Juliet would simply have to somehow intercept those meatballs. Besides, so long as everyone was focused on Cocoa’s scrawny state instead of the disaster at the balloon festival, she could breathe somewhat easy.
Her relief was predictably short-lived.
“I stopped by the Nuovo Winery yesterday, Juliet, but you weren’t at the booth.” Her mother picked up a knife to slice some bell peppers that were spread out on the cutting board. At least that’s what Juliet hoped it was for. “I thought I spotted you when I first arrived, but I must have been mistaken. Alegra said you were networking.”
Networking. So that’s what the kids were calling it nowadays? “Yes. I had a nice chat with one of the other vendors.”
Technically, it wasn’t a lie. Leo was a vendor. And they had chatted.
“I’m sorry I missed you, Mom.” Now that was a lie. “And I’m sorry about the strawberries. The sea salt maple bacon hearts were a hit, though.”
An awkward silence fell over the kitchen. Juliet’s brother, father and even Alegra seemed to look everywhere but at Juliet. She cleared her throat. “And I’m already working on plans for the chocolate fair this weekend.”
Her mother stopped slicing the peppers and set the knife down on the cutting board. Then she wiped her hands on her apron with excruciating slowness. Every move she made caused Juliet’s heart to beat with increased anxiety. She couldn’t ever remember wishing her mother would say something, anything, but she wished that very much right now. The waiting was almost unbearable.
Finally, her mother finished wiping her hands. She smoothed down the front of her apron, looked straight at Juliet and then walked right out of the kitchen.
Juliet exchanged glances with Alegra, then Nico and her dad. Alegra and Nico, obviously as much in the dark as she was, simply shrugged.
Her father held up a hand and nodded. “Be patient. Your mother has something up her sleeve. I’m sure she’ll be right back.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
Where had she gone? In search of Juliet’s pink slip?
Apparently not. She returned to the kitchen with a book resting delicately in the palms of her hands. It was an old book with a worn leather cover that was peeling back at the edges. The spine was cracked in numerous places, making it look as though it might fall apart if someone opened it.
Juliet tilted her head, and a feeling of vague recognition washed over her. The book looked familiar. She could almost remember seeing it long ago, when most of the books she’d read had titles like Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are.
She glanced at Nico out of the corner of her eye. He shrugged. Clueless as usual.
“Do you know what this is?” her mother asked, still holding the book as though it were a treasure on par with the Gutenberg Bible.
Juliet shook her head. “Not really. No. It does look sort of familiar, though.”
“This is your grandmother’s recipe book.” Her mother’s eyes misted over.
Juliet might have remembered seeing that book, but she’d never once seen her mother cry. Ever. Her own throat grew instantly tight. “Grandma’s recipes. Wow.”
“Yes, and I want you to have them.” Her mother offered the book to her.
Juliet stared down at it, almost afraid to lay a finger on it. “I don’t understand. Why?”
It wasn’t as though the recipes were top secret. Not anymore. The Mezzanottes had sold those very recipes years ago. What was she supposed to do with them now?
“Just take the book.” Her mother thrust it toward her again.
Juliet took it from her hands as gingerly as possible, certain it would crumble the moment she touched it.
“Promise me you’ll read it.” Her mother crossed her arms. “Now.”
“Now? As in right this minute?” She still hadn’t had a drop of coffee, much less breakfast.
“Yes. You can read while you eat. This is important, Juliet. There’s more to this than a few lists of ingredients and baking instructions. You’ll see.” Her mother tapped the cover of the book with her pointer finger. It was a subtle gesture, yet somehow still eerily ominous.
Juliet gripped the book more tightly. “Okay, I will.”
Of course she would. She’d expected to be chastised again, and instead she’d been asked to read her grandmother’s recipe book. She would have done so without prompting. In her hands was the foundation for everything she’d ever held dear. These recipes were what had started it all. Even though they’d been stolen, their secrets mass-produced and packaged in cheap paper and foil and sold to the public for less than a cup of Starbucks coffee, they still represented her family’s history. In a way, they were like an inheritance.
But why now?
“All right. It’s settled, then.” Juliet’s mother cast a fleeting look at her father. And that one glance spoke volumes.
He nodded ever so slightly in return.
Juliet watched their exchange with mounting curiosity. She’d spent a lot of time with her parents over the years. And they still worked together, side by side, nearly every day. Juliet had witnessed similar silent communications before.
Her mother’s eyelashes fluttered, and for a cryptic, fleeting moment, her lips curved into a satisfied smile. If Juliet had blinked, she would have missed it—the unmistakable look of triumph on her mother’s face. It had been quick and oh-so-subtle, bu
t very much there.
Her father began to whistle and went about setting the table for breakfast.
No doubt about it. They were up to something.
And whatever it was had everything to do with the book in Juliet’s hands.
She flipped open the book’s cover, and the spine creaked. Juliet suppressed a shiver and told herself she was being ridiculously overdramatic. It was a recipe book, for goodness’ sake. She’d probably only get a glimpse of her grandmother’s attempts at creating the perfect chocolate candy.
She got far more than she bargained for as her eyes skimmed the yellowed pages. The book wasn’t simply a collection of family recipes. The dates and notations scribbled in the margins chronicled her grandmother’s struggles, both culinary and nonculinary alike. Those faint, penciled-in notes recorded every detail of her friendship with Donnatella Mezzanotte, along with the crushing loss of that friendship and the pain of Donnatella’s betrayal.
Page one: May 10, 1938, Donnatella and I opened the shop today. Our dream has finally come true!
Then later, scribbled next to a recipe for a rich Mexican chocolate sheet cake that Juliet remembered learning how to make on her tenth birthday: August 1, 1939, Donnatella has been so quiet of late. Baking her favorite chocolate cake as a surprise.
August 15, 1939, above step-by-step instructions for orange ginger white chocolate disks, Worried about my dear friend.
A few pages later, beside the step-by-step instructions for dark cappuccino chocolate candy, now a Mezzanotte Chocolates bestseller: September 10, 1939, Donnatella thinks we should sell our recipes to a candy bar company. Thinking of giving away everything we’ve worked so hard for hurts my heart.
And on and on it went, until the final page: I don’t know which pain cuts deeper—the loss of these recipes I’ve been working on for years, or my closest friend. She was like una sorella to me.
Una sorella.
A sister.
There was no recipe on that page, or any of the blank sheets of paper that followed.
