The Chocolatier Page 14

  “Of course not, dear. Just so we understand each other.” Sara patted her cheek. “Whatever the reason, I’m glad you came, and you are welcome to stay as long as you wish. Which I hope will be forever.” With that, Sara hugged her again.

  Later that evening as Celina made her way back to her bedroom, she thought about the strange conversation, its undertones, and what Sara could have possibly meant. Whatever might happen…always think of us as your family.

  What indeed, might happen? Celina couldn’t imagine what she meant, or why she chose tonight to have this odd discussion.

  Too tired to think about it anymore, Celina decided this must be another Savoia family secret of some sort. Would she ever piece them all together?

  Chapter 13

  The next day, Carmine and Sara drove Celina and Marco to the headquarters of Cioccolata Savoia, the main factory in Naples where Lauro worked. She enjoyed seeing the morning sun sparkle on the sea and light the mountains that rose around them.

  “The old Bourbon palace was built two hundred years ago,” Carmine said as they passed a massive, dusty red-colored structure under renovation. Framed with palm trees and flanked by park-like grounds, the two-story building had rows of long windows and seemed to stretch on forever. “It’s being repurposed into a world-class art museum, which will showcase Italian art and our fine porcelain production. There is an entire room decorated in porcelain.”

  Celina had marveled over the exquisite, intricately painted Capodimonte porcelain at their home—lamps, teapots and teacups, urns.

  “There should be one dedicated to chocolate, too,” Sara said, laughing. “The Savoias supplied chocolate to the royal family for many years. That’s why the factory is located nearby.”

  Carmine drove past the old palace and stopped at a similar, smaller building nestled among palm trees. Instead of a nondescript brick factory building, this petite palace could have been a grand old home on Nob Hill. A sea breeze cooled the elevated area, and workers on break were lounging and laughing under sunny skies. The pristine two-story building and its verdant, rolling grounds dotted with crimson-petal waterfalls of bougainvillea and voluptuous, pink-and-blue mounds of flowering hydrangeas looked nothing like the factories in San Francisco.

  As Carmine eased the car to a stop in front of a wide stone entryway, a man in a trim suit hurried down the front stairs to greet them. He assisted Sara from the car, while Celina stepped out, pausing on the running board as she drank in the beauty of the grounds and structure. The man hurried to offer his hand to her. She stepped down.

  “Signora,” the man said, greeting Celina with warmth. “Buongiorno. I am Alberto. We have been preparing for your visit.” He bestowed respectful kisses on Sara’s cheeks and then leaned in to greet Celina in a similar manner.

  Inhaling, Celina closed her eyes. The rich scent of chocolate wafted from the building, along with vanilla, fruits, nuts, and spices that jumbled together in an aroma that she instantly recognized and loved. This was the fragrance of her childhood, of her mother’s kitchen when she came from school, of her first job at La Petite Maison du Chocolat, of the art she lost herself in—for love, for joy, for solitude, for healing. She smiled at the recognition and opened her eyes.

  She had known that Savoia chocolates were sold outside of Italy, of course, but this operation was far more extensive than she had imagined. No wonder Lauro had doubts about her claim; the family had much to lose.

  A sickening thought struck her. Had other women made claims like hers before? Although Tony had been alive then, no one here would have known that. Or, had Tony kept in touch with someone here? Maybe a distant member of the family or a friend…She had to find out more.

  Blinking, she pulled herself back to the moment and helped Marco from the car. She turned to Carmine. “This is a long way to drive to work every day.”

  “I check in once a week,” Carmine said. “This is Lauro’s domain now. And it’s only one of our businesses. We also have another factory that produces olive oil and other Italian staples. For Italy and for export.” Hesitating, he added quietly. “We had always planned for Nino to run the fabbrica di cioccolato.”

  “But it was not what Nino wanted,” Sara interjected, casting a gentle reprimand at her husband.

  “He might have changed his mind someday.” Carmine lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “Actually, we distribute a lot of food products to North America.” His eyes lit up. “If you shopped the Italian grocers in San Francisco, you’ve seen our brands.”

  “Nino must have brought them home,” Sara said. “He loved the apricot and fig preserves. It was my husband’s great grandmother’s recipe, in fact. Several generations of our family have enjoyed that recipe.”

  “And the next one is, too,” Carmine said, rubbing Marco’s shoulder.

  Embarrassed, Celina simply smiled at Marco. Tony had never said a word about any of that. He’d never brought home a single chocolate from Cioccolata Savoia. Why not? She took in the pastoral oasis surrounded by the bustling city of Naples, his beaming family flanking her. Again she wondered what had happened here that had been so horrible that he’d sliced off his former life with such precision.

  Not only that, he seemed to have changed or suppressed almost everything about himself, from the languages he spoke and the interests he had, to the foods he had once loved.

  Whatever had happened had caused a deep rift in his psyche. Maybe he’d suffered a brain injury, too.

  Glancing up, she saw that Carmine and Sara were staring at her with such pleasant, hopeful expectation, silently urging her to share a story of how Tony might have continued to enjoy their culinary specialties so far from home, never having forgotten his family. Even if he had never told them the story of his family, he might have relished his ancestor’s recipe, a beloved taste of home that he would share with them. But she couldn’t lie. She drew a slow breath.

  “After his injuries—”

  “Mom, watch this!” Marco took off across the lawn, spinning out-of-control cartwheels until he landed with a hard thunk on his back. He lay motionless in the grass.

  Alarmed, Celina raced toward him. When she reached him, she saw that he was winded, but thankfully not hurt. Gathering him into her arms, she hugged him.

  “Did you see that?” Marco grinned. Maria and Gino had been teaching him how to tumble and turn cartwheels.

  “Sure did, silly.” Celina kissed his cheek and brushed grass from his clothes, not caring about her white cotton gloves. Slightly winded yet relieved, she led him back to the steps, clutching his little hand.

  “Stay with us, son,” Carmine said. “You’re going to see many sweet treats here that you can’t touch, but if you are well behaved, I’ll have a special box of chocolates for you when you finish your tour.”

  Carmine offered Sara his arm, and she slid a gloved hand into the crook of his elbow. “Here’s Lauro now.”

  Celina tented her hand against the sun. Lauro stood at the top of the grand stone stairway watching them. He was dressed as he had been the first day she’d seen him, in an elegant dark suit cut to fit his broad torso and long legs. A warm sensation raced through her again, and she tried to ignore it. This was her husband’s brother, for Pete’s sake. What was she thinking?

  That was just it. She wasn’t thinking. This feeling emanated from some primal part of her, deep inside. Pursing her lips, she tamped it down. No, it would never do.

  Celina took Marco’s hand and started up the steps. As they neared the top, Marco skipped up the last steps, pulling Celina off balance.

  “Oh,” she cried, teetering backward. The cotton frock that Lizzie had given her caught the breeze and fluttered, exposing her thighs.

  In a flash, Lauro was beside her, breaking her fall with one arm and sweeping Marco into the other.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, smoothing the fluttery skirt of her dress over her knees.

  Celina felt her face flush—as red as the poppies on her dress, she imagined. H
is thoughtful gesture surprised her.

  “Marco’s all right, too. Aren’t you, buddy?” Lauro set the boy down and slung an arm around his shoulder.

  “Thank you.” That was all she could manage without making an even grander fool of herself. The strength of Lauro’s embrace steadied her. The thought of Lizzie and her theatrical training and what she would have done in this situation made her smile.

  “Beautiful dress,” Lauro said. “You wear it well.”

  “Thank you.” Was that all she could think of to say? “A friend gave it to me. An actress. I mean, it wasn’t exactly hers, it was a costume from the theater, from San Francisco. The night I was packing. She came over, and she thought it might—” Oh, dear God, why am I babbling? Everyone was staring at them.

  A smile flickered on Lauro’s face. “I liked the one from Adele’s boutique, too.” He let her go and bent to Marco’s level. “Ready for the tour, little man?”

  “I’m not little,” Marco said, indignant. “I’m six. I’m a big boy now.”

  “That’s true,” Lauro replied thoughtfully. “And I’ve seen that you take good care of your mother.”

  Marco beamed up at him, pleased that Lauro recognized his worth. Watching them, Celina’s throat tightened. Tony used to say the same thing to him. Brothers were alike that way, she supposed.

  Brothers. She straightened, reminding herself that this was Tony’s brother. Marco’s uncle. Family.

  “I can’t wait to see inside,” she said, arranging a smile on her face to hide the strange nervousness that seemed to be plaguing her whenever she was near Lauro. If only he hadn’t expressed his thoughts of her so, well, so eloquently at Adele’s boutique. Your soul glows from within, illuminating all around you. You cannot blame me for falling into your beauty. Not that she had remembered what he said on purpose, but such lovely words were difficult to forget.

  Sara came up behind her and touched her elbow. “I think you’ll see a lot that pleases you,” she said. “Come with me.”

  Holding Marco’s hand, Lauro opened the door for them.

  Celina walked inside. The delicious scent she’d detected outside intensified, and for the first time since she’d arrived, she felt as if she were home. She could almost feel her mother’s reassuring presence.

  Lauro led the way, talking about their process and specialties. Marco seemed engrossed, but only a fraction of what came out of Lauro’s handsome, full lips actually registered in her brain. Instead, it was the melodic sound of his rich baritone and the nearness of him that resonated most with her.

  As they walked into one room, the scent of roasting nuts permeated the air. Celina inhaled. “Hazelnuts. You’re making gianduiotto.”

  “One of our main products,” Lauro said with pride. He turned to Marco. “The roaster is over there, but careful, it’s hot. One hundred twenty degrees.”

  Marco started to explore.

  Lauro stepped in front of him. “That’s centigrade, Marco. Extremely hot in Fahrenheit.”

  The boy snapped back and shuddered. Laughing, Lauro mussed his hair and went on.

  “Then we crush the roasted nuts, add sugar, milk and the cocoa. It makes a paste, gianduja, which we mix with cocoa butter.”

  Carmine spoke up. “Every year, we add more machinery to further mechanize the process. This is the fastest growing part of the company.”

  An assistant held out a plate of gianduiotto to them. After removing her gloves and depositing them into her purse, she took samples for her and her son.

  “Delicious,” she said, admiring the flavor.

  In another room, a woman ran a broad spatula across a wide plateau of dark chocolate ganache, smoothing the silky substance in graceful, expert swaths.

  “Of course, we still make some chocolates by hand.” Lauro directed his explanation toward Marco. “Once the ganache—the smoothest of chocolate—cools, it will be ready for the next step.”

  “Enrobing,” Celina said automatically. “For truffles.” Lifting her nose to the air, she detected the aroma of licorice. “Anisette, isn’t it?”

  With the edges of Lauro’s lips twitching upward, he nodded. “You have a good nose.”

  “Have you tried Amaretto?” With her imagination piqued, the scent of bitter almonds, sweetened in liqueur, swirled in her mind.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Perhaps in a creamy caramel center.”

  Lauro met her faraway gaze and held it, two minds whirring with creativity.

  “Dark or milk chocolate?” he asked.

  “Dark…this time. With zest of orange as a finishing touch.”

  “A little apricot?”

  “Oh, yes…”

  She could taste it on her lips.

  Marco, Carmine, and Sara looked between them, transfixed by their connection.

  “And next,” she continued in a dream-like state. “The tempering for the most exquisite dress, the couverature. Caraque chocolate—Criollo—cooled to twenty-nine degrees, then slowly warmed. Centigrade temperature, that is. To form crystals, just so…”

  “Avoiding the white bloom,” Lauro finished, mesmerized. “I should introduce you to our chef. I’m but a novice.” His lips tugged upward again.

  “He’s too modest,” Carmine said, breaking the spell by clapping Lauro on the back. “My son runs this operation better than I ever did.”

  Lauro led them into another room where a stainless steel mechanical marvel measured out the exact amount of chocolate to cover small orbs of ganache. A conveyor belt swooshed along carrying perfect truffles with fresh coats of glistening chocolate.

  “That machine is called an enrober,” Celina said to Marco, who was watching the process with wide eyes. “Watch how it drizzles the smooth tempered chocolate over the ganache heart of the truffles.”

  Marco turned to her with a pleading look. “Can I have one?”

  “May I, you mean?”

  Lauro chuckled. “Don’t worry, we’ll make an entire box of sweet treats for you soon.”

  “But you must not eat them all at once, or you’ll make yourself sick,” Carmine added. “They’re awfully rich.”

  Pressing a finger to his lips to signal a secret, Lauro plucked one from the end of the production line, winking at the worker who was placing cooled ones onto a large stainless steel platter. “No telling the boss,” he said, angling his head toward Carmine.

  “Gee, thanks,” Marco said, clapping his hand with glee. He shoved the entire truffle into his mouth. His expression was one of pure bliss. “Mmm, cherry,” he mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate. “Mom brings these home from the shop when I’m good.”

  They all laughed. Celina didn’t mention that it had been one of the ways she’d tried to keep his depression at bay after Tony’s death. While chocolates wouldn’t take away her son’s grief, they provided a sweet respite as she spun tales about how each flavor was made, where it came from, and the stories behind them. Even if she had to make up a lot of stories. Smiling to herself, she recalled their quiet evenings after dinner and before bedtime—so different from the rambunctious play times he’d had with his father, who had tickled and laughed and tossed the boy into the air. Of course Marco missed him. She could never replace that part of Tony’s bond with Marco.

  Her heart twisted when she saw Marco slip his chocolately hand into Lauro’s. “What else is there to see?” he asked, eager to explore.

  She had observed that simple, trusting movement so many times when Tony had been alive, and it had always brought a smile to her face. Lauro threw a happy look over his shoulder.

  Carmine joined them, and the three generations of Savoias walked ahead toward the next prep room while Celina and Sara followed.

  Sara chuckled at the sight. “Reminds me of when Carmine used to bring Nino and Lauro here when they were boys. We have a home here in Naples, too. In Vomero. We used to spend a lot of time here in the summer so they could see their father more often.”

  “Your family is qui
te hard working.”

  “So are you, I think.” Sara inclined her head. “Adele tells me you’re thinking of opening a cioccolateria in Amalfi. Her boutique does a good business with the tourist trade. You would, too, I imagine.” She paused and turned to Celina. “We’d love for you to stay.”

  Celina nibbled on her lip. “It’s a big decision.”

  “Do you have any family in San Francisco?”

  “No one.”

  “You seem to have a lonely life there. You’ll have a lot of help here with Marco.”

  A lonely life. Her family had always been small. But here, with all the aunts and uncles and cousins, every gathering seemed to be bursting with people. After Marco went to bed, Sara and Adele often urged her to stay up with them and enjoy a glass of wine or amaretto or limoncello. They talked and laughed on the terrace on warm evenings, the stars twinkling above and the ocean caressing the shoreline beneath them.

  What a seductive life this was.

  She inhaled again, the aroma of chocolate teasing her nose.

  Sara touched her shoulder. “If it’s the cost of opening a shop that concerns you, I want you to know that we could help. After all, you’re Nino’s widow. It would be our pleasure, and that’s the way he would want it.”

  “I appreciate that,” Celina said, grateful for the offer, but hesitant to accept. “I wouldn’t feel right about accepting money from you.”

  Sara looked perplexed. “I’ve heard that Americans have strange beliefs of independence. Here we believe in family helping each other.”

  “I wish I were part of your beautiful family.”

  “But you are, tesoro. And Marco, why, he’s our only grandchild. If it makes you feel better, accept our help on his behalf.”

  Celina smoothed a hand over Sara’s forearm. “You’re too kind. I will definitely keep it in mind, then, on those terms. Still, I have some money from the sale of our home. I plan to use that.” Even though it had been weeks ago, Lauro’s accusation still rang in her ears.

  Sara shook her head. “My husband would call you stubborn, but I think it’s your pride, isn’t it? And I mean that as a compliment.”