The Chocolatier Read online

  Blinking back memories, she clipped the twine.

  Mrs. McCloskey cleared her throat. “Those are the missus’ favorites, so I’ll need them on Tuesday and Friday until she gets on to another flavor.”

  “Of course,” Celina said, shifting her attention back to her customer.

  The woman crossed her arms across her ample bosom. “My missus turns her dainty nose up at my fine meals and then calls for tea and chocolates. I swear she lives on champagne and sweets. Trying to get into the clothes she wore afore the baby. Won’t do no good, I tell her. Once you lose your teeny waistline, it ain’t never coming back.” She pointed the frightful, carved monkey head of an umbrella she’d probably bought in Chinatown toward Celina. “You’ll see someday.”

  Celina swept a cordial smile onto her face but offered no reply. After Tony’s death, her lingering baby weight had swiftly fallen off as she’d lost interest in food, cooking only to keep Marco fed and healthy—not that he’d had much appetite either. Though according to her boss, divulging such personal information to customers like Mrs. McCloskey was strictly interdit—verboten, forbidden. Pleasantries, oui. Personal details or gossip, non. Which was fine by her. She placed a finger on the rough twine, double knotting the bow for protection. Most people took her for younger than her years, but these days she felt every bit of her three decades and more.

  Celina tucked the box into a bag with care. She truly loved her work. Except when her co-worker Marge was off, or the owner had an engagement, as Monsieur Jean-Jacques did today, she spent most days in the kitchen behind the shop creating new chocolate fantasies and beloved favorites for their clientele. Fine Criollo or Porcelana chocolate made from cacao beans sourced from Venezuela and the more robust Trinitario chocolate sourced from Peru had to be melted slowly to just the right temperature, poured into molds, and decorated by hand.

  Some might think the attention to labor tedious, but it appealed to her artistic sense. And she loved seeing the pure delight on faces when people tasted her creations. To share chocolate was to share love; each bon-bon held a piece of her heart.

  Besides playing with her son, this was one of the few activities in which she could lose herself. While she worked, images flickered through her mind, and she could hear her mother’s admonitions as clearly as she had as a young girl. Watch it closely, my love. The higher the fat content, the faster it melts. Celina recalled her instruction about the white discoloration that sometimes developed on chocolate—unsightly, though harmless. Careful, covering a cold center will create fat bloom. Too much moisture in the air, you’ll risk sugar bloom. Making truffles was as much a science as an art. Celina missed her mother more these last six months than in the decade since her death during the war.

  “Here’s your package, Mrs. McCloskey. Try not to jostle it.” Celina plucked a dark chocolate praliné filled with buttercream she’d made just that morning from the case and placed it on a lacy paper doily. “And something special for you,” she added, challenged to obtain the rare smile from Mrs. McCloskey.

  The cook accepted the offering and popped it into her mouth. A strangled expression Celina took to be as close to pleasure as Mrs. McCloskey ever experienced crossed the woman’s face. As the cook pushed her way out, the bell on the door tinkled. Celina pursed her lips. She’d win that woman over yet.

  Through the window, Celina noticed the telegram boy pacing as he waited, impatient to be on his way, and she idly wondered who his message was for. Certainly not for her. After the war, she had no family left, save her little boy. Maybe it was for Lizzie LeClerc, the flamboyant young actress who lived across the hall from her and currently had a supporting role in a new stage play at the Geary Theater. If so, Celina was sure she’d hear all about it. At least Lizzie could make her laugh from time to time.

  She picked up a cloth to clean smudges from the glass. The door tinkled again, and a young couple stopped to admire a display, exclaiming over the chocolate flights of fancy.

  In honor of the beginning of summer, Celina had cut out large shapes of palm trees and sailboats from cardboard and painted them in vivid hues of pink, yellow, and blue to showcase her ornately embellished chocolate eggs fashioned after Richard Cadbury’s original Victorian chocolate egg designs in England. Coral rosebuds, trailing green vines, tiny bluebirds, palm trees, starfish, and sailboats. Similar eggs had been popular at Easter, but these had themes of summer in San Francisco. She had even created a large, molded chocolate Golden Gate Bridge for one party.

  Beyond them, she could see the Western Union boy talking to Lizzie. The platinum-blond actress was flirting with the boy and pointing across the street to the chocolaterie. Celina was curious, but she refocused her attention on the couple.

  “Imagine these on the table for our party,” the woman said, grasping her husband’s hand. “The children would love them.”

  Tipping his hat at Celina, the man said, “Good day. We want to order a dozen of these.”

  “Can you create a special presentation?” the woman asked.

  “I can put them in a picnic basket lined with checked cloth.” When they agreed, Celina said, “I’ll write up the order for you. When would you like to pick them up?” While she took down their names, the door jangled open.

  “Mrs. Savoia?” The Western Union boy clutched a thin envelope.

  “That’s right.” Celina signed for the telegram and withdrew a couple of coins from her apron pocket for the boy, who then rushed out. After finishing the couple’s order, she slid onto a stool beside the counter and picked up the telegram. She’d saved the condolence cards she’d received. The wording was always so similar. Deepest sympathy. Our thoughts and prayers. She’d received several late cards from people who had just learned of his death. Bracing herself, she opened the thin envelope.

  As she scanned the few typewritten lines stretched across the page, her lips parted in surprise.

  We send you our deepest regrets. Parents anxious to meet you. Please come to our home in Amalfi with your son. You are family and welcome here. Will arrange air tickets to Italy. Details to follow. - Lauro Savoia

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and Celina crushed the telegram to her chest with joy. Never had she imagined such a response. And now, they’d invited her to Italy to visit. On an airplane, no less. Her heart thudded with excitement. What did she have to stay for here? Nothing. Dabbing her cheeks, she made her decision. She and Marco would go.

  Springing from the stool, her mind began to buzz with thoughts of packing and traveling. She wondered how soon they could be off. Pressing her hand to her chest, she broke into a broad smile. Not since Tony had died had she felt such excitement. That’s what she and Marco needed now—a change of scenery, even the chance for happiness again someday. Her son deserved that.

  She stopped and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, frowning at the gaunt woman whose wavy blond hair was scraped into a bun. Her face was pale and devoid of makeup. Maybe Lizzie could help her freshen her look before she left.

  And then a darker thought assailed her as she recalled what Tony had said about his parents. Cold as fish. Full of themselves. Can’t trust them. Although she’d tried to get him to talk more about them, he had stubbornly refused. Were they as mysterious as her husband had been? Only today and tomorrow matter, he’d often said.

  Tracing the scars on his skin, she’d understood why some stories were difficult to share. He’d seldom spoken of his U.S. Army service, mainly because he’d worked in military intelligence and his activities were classified as secret, he said. But family was different. Family was forever, or so she’d desperately wanted to believe. As it turned out, their forever had been cut short.

  Should I be worried? She reread the telegram. You are family and welcome here. It was sent by Lauro Savoia, the brother Tony had never mentioned. Why hadn’t he? Who was Lauro and what had happened between them?

  The thin paper wavered in her hand as trepidation seeped into her mind.

  Celina steppe
d back from the small mirror she’d balanced on the bureau, bobbing up and down to take in the full effect. She’d put on a dark navy wool suit to travel in, along with sensible heels. Next to the mirror were the tickets the Savoia family had sent her, and tomorrow morning, she and Marco would board a transatlantic flight bound for Rome.

  Even now, she could hardly believe they were going. Squinting at her reflection, she turned to the side to see her profile. The skirt hung on her. She poked a safety pin through the fabric to take in the fullness.

  It will have to do. She drew in a nervous breath. Soon she would meet Tony’s parents and his brother, reopening tender scabs over wounds of grief she felt would never fully heal. She was worried about Marco and concerned about how reliving the funeral would affect him.

  Pressing a hand against her pounding heart, she tried to focus on the positive aspect of the journey—Marco would meet his only living grandparents. She hoped they would be kind to him, though she couldn’t help wondering how they would feel about meeting them so long after they should have.

  Footsteps tapped behind her, and Lizzie plopped onto the cotton quilt, lacing her fingers behind her platinum waves. Deep, matte red lipstick outlined full pouty lips. “You’re going to Italy looking like that?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing, if you’re going to a funeral.”

  Celina shot her neighbor a look across her shoulder and sighed.

  Lizzie clamped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry, was that ...?

  Smoothing a hand over a sleeve, she said, “Actually, I got married in this suit, too. With a white embroidered eyelet blouse and a bouquet of red roses.” So many memories were woven into this cloth.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Celina slid a look of consternation toward her neighbor. Lizzie was just twenty-one years old and had been raised on a farm in Iowa. What a difference the decade between them made sometimes. “Rationing was in effect then. It was considered unpatriotic to wear reams of silk, not that we could get it anyway.”

  “A flour sack would have been a happier prospect.”

  Celina made a face, concealing her emotions. Shrugging out of the fitted jacket, she hung it in the narrow closet next to a light gray suit, then eased the slim skirt over her full slip. She ran her hand over the dark worsted wool, lowering her eyes to blink back hot tears that threatened to slip over her lashes. The last time she’d worn this suit she’d watched the love of her life being lowered into the cold January earth. After that, she’d never wanted to wear it again, but now she would have to go through the mourning process again in honor to his parents.

  Lizzie sat up, hugging her knees through black tights. She’d just come from theater practice and wore a leotard with a dance skirt topped with a black leather jacket. “Don’t you have anything in there that’ll razz their berries?”

  “This isn’t a holiday,” Celina said, feeling a little dowdy in comparison. Still, she couldn’t help but smile through her sadness at Lizzie, imagining what it would be like to be that carefree age again. Actors, artists, musicians—Lizzie’s flat was a haven to free-thinkers who had different outlooks on life and unique ways of expressing themselves.

  “You should at least try to have some fun after... Why, where I grew up, we had old-fashioned wakes that went on until sunrise. And the drama between all the kin was more than you can imagine.” As if struck by inspiration, Lizzie pushed off the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

  Celina watched her rush out. Lizzie was like the younger sister she’d never had. Her friend had never known Tony or his extravagant laughter and generous smile, so Lizzie couldn’t possibly understand the depth of her loss.

  Marge was the only one Celina could confide in, after all, Marge had liked Tony from the beginning when they’d met at La Petite Maison du Chocolat, but even a good friend grew tired of misery. Grief was a perpetual yoke to the past, and she was worn out, too.

  Stepping out of her shoes and sliding an embroidered robe she’d bought in Chinatown over her slip, she padded down the hallway to check on Marco, who was being awfully quiet in his room. He loved to draw, and she had implored Tony to buy him art supplies for Christmas. His Santa Claus gift was a shiny bicycle, and on Christmas Day Tony had helped Marco onto the bike, trotting alongside him on the lane in front of their old home.

  She still recalled everything about those last happy days. After basting the turkey, mashing the potatoes, and making individual chocolate pot de crème for their holiday supper, she’d changed into the emerald green silk dress Tony had surprised her with and stood in the doorway watching, just as she was now, never imagining it would be one of the last times she’d see the two of them together and full of joy.

  Marco looked up from the small pine desk Tony had made for him. She crossed the room and peered over his shoulder. He’d been drawing the three of them again. Daddy was in every picture, and it broke her heart each time he showed her his artwork.

  She paused, swallowing a sudden surge of emotion. Every day she pushed aside her feelings in an effort to function, superficially, like everyone else. “That’s really nice, honey.”

  Sucking in his lower lip in doubt, he looked up at her. “Daddy’s eyes were blue, weren’t they?”

  “Like yours.”

  “I’m forgetting what he looked like.”

  Another stab to the heart. She hugged Marco and rocked him, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her neck. “You don’t have to have a picture to remember his love for you.”

  Though visual mementos would have helped, that much she knew. How she wished she’d insisted on taking photos with Tony. But he’d always ducked away from cameras.

  How could such a self-possessed man be so sensitive to photographs of himself? Tony’s scars were part of who he was, not what she saw when she looked at him.

  “Get a load of these,” Lizzie hollered as she burst through the hallway. “And look who I found coming up the stairs.”

  Celina kissed Marco’s cheek and released him to continue his drawing. As she stepped into the hallway, she saw Marge huffing toward her.

  “I swear, that girl has enough energy for the two of us,” Marge said.

  Pushing her wispy, gray-shot brown hair from her forehead, Marge plopped a weathered brown leather suitcase onto the bed and opened it. She still wore a dark blue cotton dress, her uniform at La Petite Maison du Chocolat, but she’d removed the crisp white apron.

  “You might as well have this suitcase,” Marge said. “It needs to get out and travel, do what it’s meant to do. Lord knows I ain’t going anywhere any time soon.”

  “Thank you,” Celina said, embracing the older woman who had been like a mother to her. “We’ll only be gone a couple of weeks.”

  “Just bring me back something Italian, like a handsome man.” Marge sighed. “But chocolates will do.”

  “Promise I will.”

  Lizzie crowded into the small bedroom, and in her arms was a riot of colorful satins and silks. “The party has arrived.”

  “Gracious,” Celina exclaimed. “What on earth is all this?

  “The costume mistress was cleaning out the old costumes.” Lizzie flung a white feather boa into the air. “Get a load of these. Bound to be something here you can wear to liven things up. It’s Italy, after all.”

  “Lizzie, I can’t possibly...” Celina began, but she had to admit some of the dresses were stunning.

  A flaming red flapper dress, a sleek black dress with full, satin purple sleeves and a matching flounce, a summery cotton frock with a cheerful red poppy print, and a musketeer’s gold-trimmed jacket tumbled out of the pile of clothing. A mound of scarves fluttered onto the bed.

  Marge fingered the frayed, tasseled edge of a silk jacquard scarf in shades of amethyst and emerald green. “This is lovely. It’s easily mended.”

  “Perfect for her.” Lizzie tossed it around Celina’s shoulders. The fringe added drama, sweeping almost to the floor. “Vo
ila!”

  “That’s a showstopper,” Marge said, her eyes growing wide as Lizzie swept Celina’s hair high onto her head.

  “You’re a star,” Lizzie said. “Start acting like one.”

  “Listen to you. You’ll be a director in no time.” Glancing at herself in the mirror, Celina burst out laughing at the sight of herself in a Chinese robe and a scarf that could only be called theatrical.

  Marge and Lizzie joined in, and soon the three friends were chuckling together.

  It was the first time Celina could recall laughing since last New Year’s.

  “I haven’t room in that suitcase for much,” she said as Lizzie folded a couple of garments and whipped the scarf from her neck. “Where would I wear that?”

  “You could take the train and go sightseeing with Marco,” Marge said. “Italian women are very stylish.”

  “The men, too,” Lizzie added, pursing her lips. “Maybe you’ll come home with a handsome fella.”

  “I’ve got first dibs on the fella,” Marge said.

  “Wow, you have to take this.” Lizzie reached into the closet for an emerald green silk dress.

  “But not the boa.” Celina plucked the feathery mound from the open suitcase.

  “Why, this color is beautiful,” Marge said, running her hand over the rich silk fabric with reverence. “You must take it. I’ll fold it for you.”

  Celina grew quiet, watching as Marge carefully folded the dress Tony had given her, and she’d worn only that one day. She didn’t protest.

  It’s what Tony would have wanted. He would have liked her wearing his last gift to her to meet his parents.

  Or would he?

  She couldn’t help the uneasy feeling that threaded through her, stretching her nerves taut with apprehension.

  Chapter 2

  San Francisco, 1945

  “Here comes your Italian man,” Marge said, turning up the radio to sing to the latest Andrews Sisters’ harmony, which she did whenever Monsieur Jean-Jacques was away. The older woman had been working at La Petite Maison du Chocolat since Monsieur had opened it ten years ago, and after Celina’s mother died, she’d taken it upon herself to match Celina with every handsome man who passed through the door.