The Chocolatier Page 5

  “The stress of war affects men in different ways,” Sara said to Lauro. Standing and turning to Celina, she said, “Let’s go inside.” Folding Celina’s hand warmly in hers, she added, “You must be hungry and tired from your long journey.”

  Taking Marco by the hand, Celina followed Sara inside. She stepped into a cool, terracotta-tiled foyer, its walls splashed with hues of celestino blue, terra rossa, and pale yellow. Frescoed ceilings soared above, and the scent of yellow roses arranged in a vase on a round antique table filled the air. Beyond the foyer, tall windows framed the panoramic view as a spectacular backdrop to the expansive rooms, which were lavishly, though comfortably, decorated with Italian antiques and patterned textiles.

  “This isn’t the way Nino would have remembered his home,” Sara said, following Celina’s gaze. “We’ve only just finished redecorating this part of the house.”

  “My great-grandfather built Villa Savoia to gather the family for holidays by the sea,” Carmine said. “His wife was born here, too. He started the chocolate business in Torino, but he loved the ocean breezes so much that he moved their business here.”

  “Come with me,” Sara said. “I’ll show you to your rooms so you can relax.”

  Celina and Marco followed Sara through an arched, brick-ceilinged hallway to a pair of connected guest rooms. Lauro trailed with their luggage.

  “I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” Sara said, swinging open the rustic door to a view of the ocean beyond.

  A breeze cooled Celina’s face and lifted the sheer curtains by the windows. She turned to a four-poster bed nestled between marble-topped nightstands. An armoire stood on one side, and doors stood open to a balcony on the other. Lauro deposited the bags and left the room.

  In awe at the sheer beauty of the setting, Celina stepped onto the balcony, which overlooked a terraced garden of fruit trees. “It’s so beautiful here.” She breathed in, catching the scent of fruit trees below. “What type of fruit are you growing?”

  “Mostly lemon,” Sara said. “But also olive, grapefruit, orange, fig, and pomegranate. With our temperate climate, most everything thrives.”

  Celina peered over the balcony’s edge. To one side, a cliff dropped to the sea, while on the other, a terrace sprawled along the hilltop perch. Flaming pink bougainvillea and snowy white jasmine curled around the corners of grapevine-covered archways that framed the shimmering ocean view.

  Breathing in air that had a softer, sweeter quality than that of the San Francisco Bay, Celina admired the stunning view that had probably inspired artists for years.

  How could Tony have left this magical seaside land?

  Sara picked up a silver-framed photograph from a nightstand and flicked specks of dust from it. “You can probably guess who this is,” she said, nostalgia thickening her voice.

  “Tony?” Celina joined Sara in looking at a sepia-toned photo.

  Two young boys stared solemnly into the camera.

  Sara drew her fingers over the glass and nodded. “With Lauro.” Smiling, she traced their faces. “We had such good times then. This is a wonderful place for boys to grow up.” Sara shifted the photo so that Marco could see, and he peered at it with curiosity. “This was your papa, Marco. He grew up here.” She tousled his hair and hugged him to her side. “You remind me so much of him.”

  Celina was touched by Sara’s thoughtfulness in placing Tony’s photo in their room and thanked her.

  “I have more photos to share with you later.” Sara indicated another framed photo on the other side of the bed that stood on a nightstand in the shadows. “That one was taken not long before he left. It was the last time we ever saw him. I thought you might like to have it by your bed while you’re here.”

  Celina slid her hand softly over the other woman’s. “It’s usually by your bed, isn’t it?”

  Sara embraced her. “You’re quite perceptive. And I’m so glad you came.”

  Carmine appeared behind them with a glass of white wine and a plate of homemade bread, olives, and slivers of parmesan cheese. “Thought you might like an apertivo while you relax.”

  “Grazie,” Celina said, gratefully accepting the lightly chilled wine. Inhaling the bouquet, a memory sprang to mind. “I recognize this,” she said, as Carmine and Sara exchanged pleased smiles. “It was one of Tony’s favorites, and mine, too.” He’d sought out a small wine purveyor in the Italian district of San Francisco to find it.

  “It’s our Falanghina wine, a specialty of Campania, our region,” Carmine said with pride. “Light and refreshing on a warm day. Tonight we’ll have the special Piedirosso wine we’ve been saving,” he added with a meaningful glance at his wife.

  Celina caught the look between them and wondered about the significance.

  “And there’s fresh limonata and biscotti for Marco,” Sara added, motioning toward the table.

  “I brought something for you, too,” Celina said, reaching into the bag she carried. She withdrew a box of her best chocolates that she had taken special care to wrap. “Something I made, I thought you might like.”

  “Why, how thoughtful,” Sara said, pressing her cheek to Celina’s. “I’m sure we’ll enjoy it. We’ll let you freshen up now.”

  After Sara and Carmine left, Celina unpacked their clothes and changed Marco into a fresh, checked-cotton shirt and twill trousers. Tony’s parents had kindly furnished the smaller room with toys that must have belonged to their sons, so Marco was busy investigating the trains and cars and wooden blocks.

  While he played, Celina splashed her face with water and brushed her hair. Nibbling on the almond-flavored biscotti, she felt her energy return. As she sipped the wine, she changed from her traveling suit into a dress she’d just finished making from a new Vogue pattern and fabric she’d bought at the opening of Britex Fabrics on Geary Street. Made of navy polished cotton, the dress had a fashionable full skirt and fitted bodice. She slipped on the matching bolero jacket with three-quarter length sleeves and stepped into a pair of peep-toe pumps. Leaning toward the beveled mirror, she nestled her cherished locket into the neckline of the dress.

  As she sipped her wine, she studied the photo that Sara had shown her. Peering closer, she found she could hardly tell the boys apart. Tony and Lauro favored each other, and she guessed that Lauro was just a couple of years younger. Closer to her age, probably. If she didn’t know better, she wouldn’t have seen Tony’s resemblance in this youngster. She smiled, thinking how the skinny young boy had grown into such a solid, stocky man. She replaced the photo and then walked around to see the other photo on the far nightstand.

  “Mommy,” Marco called out. “I’m hungry. When are we eating?”

  “Soon,” she replied. Marco had such an appetite, and he had already polished off the snack Carmine had thoughtfully left for them. Lifting the photo, she peered at the shadowy image.

  “Mommy, can we go now?”

  “Just a moment.” Tracing the frame with her thumb, she thought about how thankful she was that she’d contacted Tony’s family. She loved her husband, even though over the years their marriage had been emotionally complicated, but then, no more so than many others. The war had taken a toll on many men and women. Adjusting to civilian life had been hard on them—Tony included.

  Celina pressed a finger to the corner of her eyes. The warmth of her husband’s love seemed even stronger here in the home where he’d grown up. She sighed and brought the image closer, anxious to see the image of the man she’d known.

  She flicked on a nearby lamp. Her beloved Tony, a man sometimes worried, but always loving, passionate, and well meaning. Her husband, the man who could charm—

  She frowned and drew back. Sinking to the bed, she sipped her wine, shifted the frame, and squinted at the photo in frustration. For the life of her, she couldn’t find the resemblance she’d expected. Trying to see it better, she shifted the photo’s protective glass pane against the glare of the lamp until it came into stark view.

  As an u
nfamiliar image of Tony stared back at her, a hollow, sinking feeling grew inside of her. His appearance had changed drastically, but then, he must have been so young when this photo was taken, she thought. She tried to calculate the years, guessing this might have been taken in 1940. Thirteen years ago. A man could change a lot in that amount of time.

  Couldn’t he? She blinked, intently focused on the black-and-white image. Without the scar that ranged along one temple and cheek, Tony looked so different that she might not have even known this was the same man. As a chill coursed through her, a sudden thought dazed her, and she gasped. The frame slipped from her hand, shattering on the terracotta floor.

  “Mommy, are you okay?” Marco ran into the room.

  “Stop, there’s glass on the floor.” Gathering her full skirt, she knelt to the floor.

  Marco leaned against the doorjamb watching as Celina picked up shards of broken glass and put them into a waste bin.

  “Did you hurt yourself?”

  Flustered, Celina replied, “I’m not hurt.”

  “Then why are you crying, Mommy?”

  “Am I?” She brushed moisture from her cheeks. Confusion roared through her mind, yet she steeled her emotions. “Mommy will be through in a minute. Go play until I’m ready.”

  Marco hesitated, then turned around and returned to the toys in the side room.

  Her hands shaking, Celina wiggled a shard of glass, attempting to dislodge it from the frame. “Ow,” she cried, jerking her hand back.

  Blood dripped from her forefinger onto the photo. “Oh, no,” she murmured, grabbing the inside hem of her dress and dabbing blood from the image, although it left a small, discolored spot on her husband’s neck. Pressing her throbbing finger between her lips, she rocked back and forth in agitation. What had she done?

  Her heart raced as words formed in her mind. For a split second, she’d thought that this man couldn’t possibly be Tony. But that was crazy, wasn’t it? She pushed the picture aside and took a drink of wine to quell her nerves.

  Of course that’s Tony. Her eyes flicked across the photo again. It was how he looked before his injuries.

  How silly of me, she thought, chastising herself. Just when she thought she had reined in her grief, she often lost control again. She shot another glance at the photo. Besides, who else could it be?

  Chapter 4

  “You haven’t told us how you and Antonino met.” With a smile of understanding, Sara passed Celina another fresh napkin for Marco, who was relishing chocolate cake from the tip of his nose to the bottom of his chin, as only a six-year-old can do.

  Carmine chuckled at Marco, while Sara clasped her graceful hands and waited with expectation. Lauro hadn’t changed; he was still quiet and sullen.

  They had just finished supper on the terrace overlooking the ocean. An intermittent breeze filtered the mild evening air, ushering in the scent of jasmine like a sweet digestivo of nature. Candles flickered, illuminating the focused interest on faces of those gathered around the rustic wooden table, over which an azure blue and carnelian red cloth had been draped.

  Awaiting her story, they sipped a rich, ruby-colored Piedirosso, the last wine that Tony had harvested in nearby vineyards with the family. Carmine told her they’d been saving it for his return. It was a fine wine and paired well with the dark chocolate they’d put out. A thought nagged her while she fortified herself. The terraced lemon gardens, the chocolate, the olive oil. Everything they made and exported to countries around the world. Why hadn’t Tony ever mentioned any of this?

  With Sara staring at her expectantly, Celina replied, “I was working in San Francisco, and he came into the shop.”

  Celina dabbed a smear of chocolate from Marco’s chin with a napkin. Though usually finicky, tonight he’d eaten with gusto once he’d begun, devouring the antipasto, ziti, and salad, and he was now working his way through a slice of Torta Caprese, a dark chocolate almond cake with a moist center. The little boy stifled a yawn. It was late for him, and the time change had disrupted his usual schedule. Out of habit, Celina smoothed the chestnut-colored cowlick on his crown and then turned back to Sara.

  “A friend of Tony’s brought him to the shop one day, insisting that he try his favorite chocolaterie in San Francisco.”

  “Cioccolato?” Sara tilted her head with interest. “Professionally? This is what you do?”

  “I tried one of the truffles she gave us,” Carmine said. “It was excellent.”

  “I hope you left some for me,” Sara said.

  Carmine nudged his wife. “You’ll have to find where I hid them first.”

  Celina realized she hadn’t told them much about herself. They’d been sharing stories about Tony—or Nino, as his mother called him—for the benefit of Marco, who seemed intrigued at his father’s escapades as a boy. The tricks he and Lauro had played on each other, the sunrise harvests, the fun they’d had galloping through the countryside. Much to her relief, Sara, Carmine, and Lauro all spoke English well, due to their long-standing business relationships in England.

  “My mother trained me as a chocolatière,” Celina said. “She learned the trade in Paris.”

  “She is French?” Sara seemed to take an avid interest in everything.

  “American, with Italian and French heritage, and a little German. She visited Paris, fell in love with it, and apprenticed there.”

  “And this friend Nino was with,” Lauro interjected. “Who was it?”

  “Just another soldier back from the war.” Celina kept her reply light, though his comment stung her. Lauro had been challenging her throughout supper—on Tony, where they’d lived, what he did, everything. She paused, checking her annoyance in consideration of his grief. “Why?”

  Lauro shot her a frown. “So we can find the truth about why he never contacted us again.”

  “Don’t be rude,” Sara said. “We can talk about that later,” she added, darting her eyes in Marco’s direction.

  Celina didn’t like the tone of Lauro’s voice. He seemed bent on accusing her of something—she had no idea what—but she only had one truth to tell. “I’ll get Marco ready for bed. We can talk afterward.”

  Excusing themselves, Celina took Marco to their suite. Kneeling before her son, she unbuttoned his shirt. “It’s been a long journey for you, my young man. And you met a new part of your family.”

  “I like them a lot,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “They miss Daddy, too. I wish he could still be here. Can we ever visit him in heaven?”

  Celina’s heart clenched. “Someday we’ll all be together again.”

  “When?”

  “Not for a long time. You have an awful lot of growing up and living to do first.” She managed a smile and tapped his nose.

  “I wish I could talk to him again.”

  “I know, sweetie. Me, too.”

  He fidgeted for a moment. “I feel bad. I forgot what his voice sounds like.”

  “Just remember what his love felt like.” Aching at his comments, Celina cradled him in her arms and kissed his cheek. The one thing he yearned for was the one thing she was incapable of providing. Drawing on her reservoir of emotional strength, which had run as low as a trickle, she blinked back her emotion and kissed him on his forehead. “You look sleepy. This bed will feel so good, won’t it?”

  Marco was so exhausted and full from supper that he didn’t fuss at all. She’d hardly managed to put his pajamas on him and brush his teeth before he nodded off. Hefting his deadened weight, she carried him to bed. Marco was long and gangly for his age and already quite a big boy for her to carry, though Tony used to flip him over his shoulder like a flour sack, sending the little boy into a riot of laughter.

  She tucked Marco into her bed, positioning Rocky next to him. Marco flopped an arm across the smiling stuffed monkey. Stroking his back, she thought about leaving him alone in a strange room without her. What if he woke and she wasn’t there?

  As if in answer to her thought, a tap sounded at the door. C
elina covered Marco with the downy duvet and rose to open the door to a portly woman. Her gray hair was wound into a bun, and her face was wreathed with a smile.

  “Buonasera, signora,” the woman said. “Mi chiamo Matilde.”

  With a few words, Celina quickly ascertained that Sara had sent her housekeeper to stay with Marco so she’d feel comfortable leaving him alone. The family had many more questions of her, and she was anxious to share everything she knew, too.

  “Grazie,” Celina said.

  Matilde eased into a chair and tucked a skein of blue yarn onto her lap while Celina finished tucking him in.

  Celina was impressed with Sara’s seemingly effortless household organization. Had she developed that skill out of necessity? In the last decade during the war, many women in the states had stepped into men’s jobs, working in factories and running farms.

  Celina recalled her part-time work for the San Francisco library, raising money to send thousands of books to military personnel overseas. After the final armistice, most women had returned to their roles as housewives and mothers. Celina didn’t have the luxury of choice now, but then, she had always enjoyed working.

  If only other women didn’t make her feel so guilty about it. One new neighbor had even derided her for working and called her son an eight-hour orphan until Lizzie had set her straight about Tony’s death.

  Soon Matilde’s knitting needles were clicking softly to Marco’s rhythmic slumber. Celina bent to kiss him again and then tiptoed from the room.

  The family was still on the terrace, and even before Celina stepped outside to join them, she could hear Lauro thundering on in some sort of diatribe. Not that she could follow such rapid-fire Italian, but when she heard her name uttered, she caught the gist of his displeasure.