The Chocolatier Page 3

  With the shop’s location near Union Square, there were plenty of men, but Celina knew that most of the young men who still wore their sailor whites or dress uniforms were just passing through, waiting to take trains home to loved ones.

  Celina glanced up from behind the glass case, where she was arranging freshly made chocolates on lacy paper doilies. Business had been brisk due to returning troops from the Pacific theater pouring in through the San Francisco harbor. Boxes containing decorative gift tins were stacked to the ceiling in the back of the shop, waiting to be filled with gifts of chocolates for reunited lovers and families.

  The scents of chocolate and other rich ingredients filled the air. Vanilla, sugar...raspberry, apricots...almonds, pistachios, pecans...cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, cayenne. Celina breathed in. She loved the aromas of her artistry.

  This job was everything she had ever dreamed of, and it would have made her mother proud. Stella Romano had taught her daughter everything she’d learned about making exquisitely flavored and formed chocolates while studying in Paris before she’d married. Celina had all of her old recipes, and she’d also crafted many new versions.

  “Celina, you wait on them,” Marge whispered, tucking strands of gray-shot brown hair into her bun. “That tall one is terribly attractive. Distinguished. A professor, maybe.”

  Marge liked to guess people’s vocations. “He comes for the chocolates.”

  “Oh, please. Every day?” Marge rolled her eyes as if Celina were naive.

  Celina waved her off. Most people were naive compared to Marge, who used to work as a waitress at an all-night diner near the docks. She’d often start a story, saying, I got one that’ll roast your ears.

  “Bet he asks you out today. Look here, he’s brought a friend for courage.”

  He didn’t strike her as the kind of man who needed anyone’s moral support to ask a girl to dinner. Or coffee. She wouldn’t say no to either, though she didn’t even know his name. Once he’d spent an entire hour in the shop, asking her about her favorite fillings and flavors, how she tempered the chocolate, and all sorts of details most people didn’t give a hoot about.

  She guessed he’d been a chef or teacher, maybe a pastry chef, or even a fellow chocolatier before the war, but he never offered any information about himself. Still, the way he looked at her was almost eerie. Intimate, but not sexual, as if he’d known her before. Or maybe he was an artist analyzing her features.

  The bell on the shop door jingled as Marge disappeared behind a pair of short swinging doors into the kitchen, where Celina spent most of her time. Two weeks ago when the man had started asking questions about Celina’s truffles, Marge had seized on a matchmaking opportunity and brought her out of the kitchen to meet him.

  Since then, this courtly man with the kind eyes had been visiting the chocolaterie almost every day. Celina smiled at him. Maybe today was the day. “Good afternoon.”

  “Buongiorno,” he said, his deep voice filling the shop and reverberating off the tiled walls and floors, reminding her of a magnificent singer she’d once heard at the opera house with her mother. The man turned to his friend. “This young woman makes the finest chocolates in all of San Francisco. She has the soul of a true chocolatière and knows to use only the finest chocolate.”

  Celina felt her face warm. One day he’d quizzed her on her knowledge of ingredients, and they’d discussed the merits of different varieties of cocoa beans from Central and South America. His favorites were from Venezuela, but he also loved those from Ecuador, and he spoke with reverence about cacao from a particular part of Peru.

  “I’ve been experimenting with a new raspberry truffle recipe.” She plucked two perfectly hand-rolled truffles from the case, placed them on a white doily on a small silver tray, and offered them to the two men. “Would you like to try one?”

  “Raspberry, yes?” the tall man asked, hesitating. “Not strawberry?”

  “That’s right,” Celina said.

  The man’s stocky friend quickly accepted her offering. “Grazie.” A warm, engaging grin creased his face, though it didn’t quite reach his weary eyes. Despite the angry red scars that ran from temple to jawline, he’d been handsome, and there was still something intriguing about him. She returned his quick smile. Many men and women had returned with physically lingering signs of service to their country.

  As the man’s friend tasted a morsel, his dark-lashed eyes lit with delight, and he seemed to transform in front of her as if her chocolate held a magical ingredient. Slinging an arm around the taller man, he grinned. “You were right, Doc. Best truffle I’ve ever had. And the prettiest chocolate maker.”

  “I’m not a chocolate maker, I’m a chocolatière.”

  A grin played on the stocky man’s face. “What’s the difference?”

  “Chocolate makers process cacao into chocolate through fermentation,” Celina said. “Chocolatiers are the artisans who use the processed chocolate to create molded and hand-formed sweets.” As she spoke, Celina glanced shyly at the taller man. Doc. The nickname suited him. He certainly had the gentle manner of a physician. She wondered if he’d been called for duty, or if he practiced medicine here in the city. Both, perhaps.

  “Smart young lady.” The stocky man laughed with admiration. “You sure showed me.”

  Celina couldn’t help but smile along with his infectious laughter.

  “Don’t test her, Tony,” Doc said, admonishing his friend with a chuckle. “She knows what she’s doing.”

  Doc tasted the truffle, thoughtfully measuring the texture and flavor. Celina held her breath, waiting for his opinion. He was so knowledgeable about her craft, and she trusted his judgment. Finally, he brought his fingers together and touched his lips. “Magnificent. This is your masterpiece.” He smiled. “So far. But you will achieve so much more.”

  Celina’s cheeks burned, though she tried to hide her great pleasure. “Thank you. I’m working on another recipe today. Perhaps you’d like to try it tomorrow.”

  “I cannot stay here.” Doc shook his head, and his eyes were filled with sorrow. He took her hand in his—the first time he’d ever done that. “I’m leaving San Francisco in the morning.”

  His touch was magnetic, and Celina felt a chill course through her, almost like a vision. Blinking, she reminded herself that like so many other people who streamed through the shop, he was also on his way elsewhere. Nothing more than a tourist. No, he was not the man who would change her life as Marge imagined. How silly to think he could. She cleared the thickness she felt in her throat. “I’m glad you found our chocolaterie. It’s been a real pleasure meeting you.”

  “I’ll be coming back,” Tony said with a broad grin, vying for her attention. “I’ll buy a box of your best.” Looking hungrily at the chocolates in the glass case, he asked her to select her finest assortment, and Doc asked for the same to take with him.

  While Celina wrapped up the selections, adding satin ribbons and finishing each with a deft bow, Doc’s friend leaned on the glass top, watching her every movement. Glancing at him, she saw that he wore a silver medallion around his neck of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers.

  “Sorry for testing you,” Tony said in a rich, gravelly voice. “I have a real appreciation for chocolate, too.”

  “Really now?” she asked as Marge bustled from the kitchen with more gift tins. She must have overheard the conversation because now she was inspecting Tony. Celina stifled a laugh. She’d even applied pink lipstick and smoothed her hair. Marge didn’t waste any time zeroing in on another potential suitor for her.

  “Absolutely,” Tony replied, trying to catch her eye while she packaged their chocolates. “I recognize and appreciate quality.”

  Marge quickly cut in. “Then you’ll come back tomorrow to sample Celina’s new truffle recipe, won’t you?”

  After the two men had gone, Celina smacked Marge’s shoulder with a towel, playfully chastising her. “You’re awfully bold.”

  “And
why not? You’re young, talented, and beautiful, and there are scads of men flowing through here.” Leaning on the counter, Marge folded her hands under her chin and gazed after them. “Take it from me. Doc’s leaving. When one door closes, yank open another door. Blink, and ten years pass.”

  “I don’t know if Tony is my type.”

  “I bet he’s a lot of fun. Don’t you remember how to have fun? Ah, if I were twenty years younger, you wouldn’t stand a chance with him,” she said, fluttering her lashes. “That man has a kind face, I can tell. That’s what counts. Handsome, too. Look past the scars, sweetheart. Most young women won’t.”

  “Scars don’t bother me.”

  With a wink, Marge elbowed her in the ribs. “Makes him look dangerous. Sexy, even. Shows he can handle himself and survive.”

  Celina felt her face warm. Resting an elbow on the case next to Marge, she cupped her chin in thought. “I think every scar and every wrinkle tells a story. But I don’t know if he’s my type.”

  Still, there was something about his lively dark eyes and the intense way he looked at her, just like she remembered her father looking at her mother. Despite her disappointment over Doc’s departure, she found herself hoping she might see Tony again.

  Chapter 3

  Naples, 1953

  “Napoli Centrale,” a train attendant called out as the train slowed to a stop in the bustling city. Weary from the arduous journey that had taken them from the airport in Rome to the southwestern region of Italy, Celina slid her leather handbag over the sleeve of her light gray traveling suit and adjusted a chic crimson scarf Lizzie had given her. With care, she hooked a bag containing a box of chocolates over her arm. She’d made her best truffles for Tony’s parents.

  She gripped Marco’s shoulder, determined in her mission, and stepped off the train. Passing through the crowded station, the smell of roasted espresso and sweet sfogliatelle teased her nose, accompanied by the whirring clatter of grinding beans. The flow of the crowd carried them outside onto the sidewalk, where she glanced around, looking for the person who would be meeting them.

  With a gloved hand, she secured her hat against an early summer breeze, hardly believing they were here. She’d taken leave from her job and sublet the apartment to a pair of actress friends of Lizzie’s who were hoping to find theater parts in San Francisco.

  Just two weeks ago, she could never have imagined this. The flight over the Atlantic Ocean had been scary at times due to frightening turbulence, but the stewardess attending them had put Marco at ease by giving him a small replica of the Boeing 377 Stratocruiser airplane they flew. He’d been enamored with it until he fell asleep after a dinner served on fine china with real silverware. Only then had Celina allowed herself a glass of wine to take the edge off her anxiety.

  Screwing his face against the sunshine, Marco stumbled on a cracked cobblestone and let out a wail. He clutched a worn gray monkey Celina had stitched together from knitted socks. The crimson heels formed a wide mouth in a perpetual grin.

  “You’re all right,” Celina said, kneeling to hug him and brush off his dusty trousers. “Be sure to hold onto Rocky. He’d be so sad if you lost him.”

  She’d woken him from a deadened sleep. Despite the clacking rails and her thrill over the awe-inspiring countryside from Vesuvius to the shoreline rushing past, she’d also been lulled to sleep by the rhythmic movement. After the turbulence of the air flight, she was relieved to touch her feet to solid ground once again.

  Their fellow passengers bustled past and melodic strains of the Italian language rose around them, flowing forth with the energy of the tumbling sea. “Ciao! Come stai?” People hugged and pressed their cheeks to each other, trading multiple kisses. “Benissimo! Che piacere!”

  Celina kissed Marco’s cheek. “Listen. Hear it? There’s happiness in the air.”

  Marco stopped crying, and the edges of his mouth curved upward.

  To Celina’s relief, a tentative smile grew on Marco’s face. Gazing around with saucer-round eyes, Marco was enchanted. She had to admit she was, too. From the fresh sea air to the warmth of expressions bubbling around them, Naples was already sunlight to her soul.

  Then, biting her lip, she thought of Tony, and how she’d always wanted to visit Italy with her husband. He’d never wanted to see his family again—yet they were family, and she couldn’t imagine how he could turn his back on them. As a spirited teenager, she’d sometimes argued with her parents, but she would never have thought of breaking off relations with them. Tony seldom spoke of his parents, and he’d always found an excuse not to visit Italy—any part of the country.

  Taking in the beauty of her surroundings, Celina regretted that they’d missed experiencing the land of her husband’s birth together.

  If only she’d been more insistent, perhaps Tony would have relented. How would she explain this to his parents? She swallowed against a lump that rose in her throat. She would do the best she could, though apologies would hardly absolve her of fault to a family robbed of their son and the chance to see him one last time.

  Yet, maybe they were the ones who should be apologizing. Had the kind words in the telegram been a veneer over a scarred and ugly past? During the trip, it seemed the closer they got, the more nervous she’d become. Would his parents blame her? If she learned a dark family secret, would she wish she’d never come?

  A train attendant placed their leather bags beside them.

  “Grazie,” Celina said. She’d learned a spattering of Italian from Tony, but they’d mostly spoken English, although now she was glad that Tony had started teaching Marco a few phrases.

  At least Tony’s parents would have the joy of seeing their grandchild. Despite what had transpired between Tony and his parents, she knew this was the right thing to do. She couldn’t help but wonder if Tony would have acted differently if he had known his time would be cut short.

  Neither of them could have foreseen the events of that foggy evening that stole Tony’s life. Or that the last words they’d uttered to each other would have been so sharp—his so full of vitriol, and hers so full of accusation. She had lain awake at night in regret, but no amount of midnight prayers begging for forgiveness could erase the last words they’d spoken in anger. She’d wanted him to stay in and kiss her at midnight of the New Year, not charge out into the night after a mysterious telephone call.

  Now that seemed such a trivial matter.

  She let out a small sigh. Her mother had always told her that even the best marriages were complicated. Now she understood. Or at least, she was trying to.

  After his death, she’d committed herself to remember only his generosity, his gregarious nature, and the good times they’d shared, but the truth was that when he had been in one of his dark moods, his fury frightened her, and his scathing comments sliced off slivers of her confidence and burrowed into the marrow of her bones.

  As the distance in years from the war increased, his darkness had lifted, but she’d always felt he was concealing a part of himself that he could trust with no other soul. Not even his wife. She assumed this secrecy had to do with his military service, so she let it be. She wasn’t the only person whose spouse shielded loved ones from nightmarish memories. Maybe if he had unburdened himself… She swept away the questioning thoughts that could drive her mad if she let them.

  Blinking, Celina shaded her eyes from the sun, growing worried that no one might meet them, yet she had to keep her wits about her. As thoughtful as Tony’s parents’ gesture seemed, this visit could be a disaster. At least she would know she had tried to do the right thing. And someday, Marco would understand that she had not kept him from his father’s family.

  Celina knelt and wrapped her arms around Marco. When Tony was feeling good and in fine form, few could outshine his charm or his devotion to his little family. She’d never doubted his love for her or Marco.

  Was his family like that?

  To one side, a well-dressed man stood staring at her.

 
“Scusami, Signora Savoia?”

  Angling her face toward the voice, Celina rose and tented her hand against her forehead. The sun framed the man who stood before her. “I’m Celina Savoia.”

  “Buonasera.” He furrowed his brow and stared at her for a moment as if he recognized her. Then, remembering his manners, he quickly removed his hat, revealing sleekly groomed, ebony hair. “I am Lauro.” He glanced at the small boy who clutched her hand. “Your son?”

  “And Tony’s. This is Marco. Your nephew.” She turned slightly from the sun to see Lauro more clearly, and as she did, she was startled, though not at his resemblance to Tony, but rather, at the lack thereof.

  Wearing a fitted, dark charcoal suit, Lauro was as broad-shouldered as Tony, but there the likeness stopped. He was taller, and where Tony had a proud face, high forehead, and thick features, Lauro had a classically chiseled profile and well-proportioned features. Strong cheekbones balanced an aquiline nose and a full lower lip that undoubtedly drew women’s attention.

  Lauro was undeniably attractive, but more than that, he stood comfortably in his space, exuding quiet self-assurance. Tony’s usual stance had been with his chest thrust out in forced confidence, daring to take on the world—or defend it. She could only surmise that they took after different branches of their family tree.

  Celina smiled and held out her hand in greeting.

  Though Lauro took her proffered hand, he also leaned in respectfully, kissing first one cheek and then the other in a traditional Italian greeting Celina knew well. The warmth emanating from his neck and his spicy, sandalwood scent drew her in. She was surprised to find that his closeness was pleasant. He was proper enough, though sadness rimmed his olive green eyes and he seemed aloof.