The Chocolatier Page 6

  Hesitating at the doorway, she felt her doubts rushing back at her in a force equal to his anger. A chill licked through her veins. Trembling, she pressed her fingers against her temples.

  Tony was right. This is why he’d tried to shield me. A thought dawned on her. Maybe the problem hadn’t been his parents, but his brother. She was stepping back into the shadows when Sara spied her.

  Lauro’s mother made a sharp hand gesture toward him. Abruptly, he stopped speaking.

  Carmine waved for her to join them. “Perdonalo, scusaci,” he said, rising from his chair to pull hers out for her. As she joined them and sat down, he added, “It’s a tragedy to lose a brother. Please forgive our son.”

  Lauro crossed his arms and fell against the back of his chair.

  Celina perched on the edge of her chair, poised to take flight should Lauro explode like Vesuvius—as Tony sometimes had. What a shame, Lauro might have been handsome if not for his attitude. No wonder he didn’t have a wife. She’d had enough of that ugly behavior from Tony, mostly right after they’d married—and mainly attributed to his military service—but she would not stand for it from a man she hardly knew. Any man now, in fact. She tilted her chin up at him. “Go on. I might as well hear it.”

  “My son is in pain.” Sara folded one of Celina’s hands between hers. Her eyes sought conciliation in Celina’s. “He doesn’t understand our desire for you to join our family.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” Celina said.

  Sara’s eyes gleamed. “If you want, we would love for you to stay here and truly become part of us.”

  This offer deeply touched Celina. “Why, that’s so generous of you—”

  Lauro cut her off with a snorting sound. “How do we know she is who she says she is?”

  Feeling her chest tighten, Celina rose from her chair and marched back to her room.

  Chapter 5

  Santa Monica, 1945

  “Isn’t the sunshine wonderful?” Celina tossed her head back in the convertible, letting the breeze blow through her hair, which she’d secured with a paisley print scarf tied just so at the nape of her neck as her mother had taught her to do.

  Beyond the glistening beach, the ocean roared onto the shoreline. Pelican and cormorants dove into the white-tipped waves for fish, while smaller shorebirds skittered across the sand in peripatetic paths.

  “Feels good to have a full tank of gas and be out on the open road again,” Tony said. With one arm stretched across the back of the bench seat, he drove along the Pacific Coast road, his other hand resting on the Chevrolet’s large steering wheel, the engine rumbling beneath the long hood. “I knew you’d love this trip,” he added, stroking her shoulder over her white cotton eyelet blouse.

  “Oh, I do,” she said, smiling at his light touch. The warmth of his fingers sent a thrill through her. After Doc had left, Tony had come to see her at the shop the next day and asked her out for a malt at the diner around the corner. And after that, he stopped by to see her every day. A month later, when he’d asked her to go to Santa Monica with him, she hadn’t intended on going, but Marge had pushed her.

  “He’s your boyfriend now,” Marge had insisted, although she made Tony swear he’d pay for a separate room for her.

  My boyfriend, Celina thought, turning the phrase over in her mind. She supposed it was true; she had grown quite fond of Tony. He’d found a job in construction that paid him in cash, so he started work at dawn. After a long day, he cleaned up and met her almost every day after work to take her out for supper at an Italian restaurant in North Beach or a restaurant at the docks to get fresh-caught seafood. They feasted on crab sautéed in garlic and olive oil, hot clam chowder and fresh sourdough bread, and raw oysters shucked right off the boats at the pier.

  As they shared meals, she laughed at his frequent barrage of silly jokes, and he wanted to know everything about her. He had great ambition, too, and often talked about starting a firm to build houses on the city’s outskirts where new families were settling. He seemed like an educated man, and when she pressed him, he said he’d studied to be a pharmacist, but that he’d lost his enthusiasm for that type of work.

  All week, Celina had worked long hours to make the inventory they’d need while she was gone. Now, as they drove, she studied Tony’s profile, the side that had fewer scars than the other, and ticked off a mental list. Good-looking, kind, considerate. A good provider. Her heart thumped. Her boyfriend. He had promised Marge he’d be a gentleman on the trip, and Celina trusted him. But was he the one?

  Celina circled her forefinger against a suddenly throbbing temple. Marge had pressed her, saying it was time Celina thought about getting married and starting a family. Did she love Tony? How would she know? She wished her mother were still living to give her the advice she so desperately missed and needed.

  Once they had cleared the foggy chill of the San Francisco bay and the sun had peeked from the clouds, Tony had pulled over in Carmel to fold down the beige ragtop.

  “This baby is a Special DeLuxe, 1942,” he said, proudly running his hand along the shiny paint. “Ensign Blue. What a beauty.” Gasoline rationing had been lifted, and Tony told her he had waited in a long line yesterday to get the tank of his car filled for the trip.

  They’d been driving since sunrise, and Celina loved everything she’d seen along the way, from the windblown cypress trees of the Monterrey peninsula to the wild craggy cliffs that eventually gave way to smooth sandy beaches. Her stomach rumbled, and she placed a hand across the top of her powder pink skirt. They’d stopped at a small seaside restaurant and eaten shrimp scampi at wooden picnic tables under sprawling mimosa trees, but that had been hours ago.

  “Almost there.” She ran her finger along the folded paper map she held. They had driven through the village of Malibu and were almost to Santa Monica. He’d put her in charge of directions, but she hadn’t the heart to tell him she had never read a road map before. She had grown up in the city. As a girl, she and her parents had usually walked or taken the cable cars or taxis wherever they needed to go. Her dad had an old Ford pick-up truck he sometimes drove and liked to tinker with, but her mother had sold it after he died, saying it was more trouble than it was worth. Still, she’d managed to be a reasonably good navigator and had only gotten them lost once.

  “Would you look at that mansion?” Tony pointed to a sprawling, white beachfront estate. “That’s Ocean Beach. Belongs to Marion Davies. Hearst, the millionaire newspaper magnate, built it for her. And our inn is just down the beach. We might even see some movie stars.”

  “I’ve heard about that place,” Celina said. “Marge follows Marion Davies in the Hollywood magazines, but I’ve never seen any of her films.”

  “Must be lots of big parties there.”

  She could hardly believe she was here with Tony. She shivered a little from a tingly feeling that had started to creep into her, unlike anything she’d ever known before.

  Their little inn was nothing like Ocean Beach. The Sunset Poppy Inn was a neat, white clapboard house that had been converted to a guesthouse. Yellow daisies, pink hydrangea, and purple lantana bloomed along the bleached stone walkway, and a brass wind chime tinkled in the sea breeze. Stepping inside, Celina couldn’t help but smile. Wherever she looked, colorful paintings and crisp cotton floral prints jostled for attention.

  Tony stepped to the reception desk, which was painted with orange poppies. “I have a reservation for Savoia,” he began, clasping Celina’s hand.

  The thin, middle-aged woman behind the desk folded her hands over the registration book and looked them over, her eyes falling on Celina’s left hand. “Perhaps,” she replied haughtily. “For you and your wife?”

  “I called about two rooms,” Tony added quickly, coloring slightly.

  Celina gazed around the room. A painting of a skull with flowers caused her to suck in her breath.

  Ignoring Tony, the spirited, gray-haired woman focused on Celina. “A Mexican artist by
the name of Frida Kahlo painted the picture you’re admiring. I’m an artist, and I collect paintings by other female artists.” She indicated another vivid painting of a vase of lilacs. “Mary Cassatt painted that. One of her few still lifes.” The woman lifted her chin and eyed her through narrowed eyes. “And what do you do? You have a profession, I hope.”

  “I’m a chocolatière.” From the corner of her eye, Celina could see Tony, who stood by wearing a bemused expression. From what she knew of his quick wit and outgoing manner, he was accustomed to being the center of attention. Not that she minded, because she was more thoughtful. “My mother studied as a chocolatière in Paris and Brussels. She taught me, and I work in a chocolaterie in San Francisco.”

  As if a ray of sun had warmed her face, the woman’s stern expression broke into an approving smile. “Then you’re an artist of food. Welcome.” Having determined they were worthy of her attention, she opened her registry book.

  “I bought this cottage after my husband left me,” the woman said as they signed their names in the book. “It’s my home, and I only entertain interesting people.” She paused, reading their signatures. “Savoia. Any relation to the Savoia chocolatiers in Italy?”

  Tony hesitated, as if he were being discreet, then he puffed out his chest. “Yeah, sure we are. My folks own it. But I don’t talk about it much.”

  Celina gazed up at him. “I can hardly even dream of working on that scale.”

  “Celina’s not that ambitious,” Tony said.

  Celina snapped her head around. “Why would you think that?”

  “Don’t most women your age want to get married and have babies?” Tony gave her a knowing smile.

  “Maybe the ones you date.” When Celina saw his face fall in disappointment, she added, “I didn’t say I never want children. Just not right away. I really love what I do.”

  The woman was watching the exchange between them. “No reason you can’t do both, dear.” She slid two keys across the reception desk. “Sounds like you two have a lot to talk about.”

  “We sure do.” Tony grinned sheepishly at the woman and paid for their rooms in cash.

  Tony opened the door for Celina. Retrieving their small bags, he hefted them both in one hand as easily as if they were empty.

  Her suitcase certainly wasn’t. She couldn’t decide what to wear, so she’d crammed in several dresses and shoes. She hooked her makeup case over her wrist, and Tony caught her other hand. They started down a garden path to their rooms.

  Tony cleared his throat, something she’d noticed was a nervous habit he had. She found it endearing. How could such a powerfully built man have anything to be nervous about?

  “Hope you’re having a good time,” he said.

  “The best,” she replied.

  “I wanted this trip to be special.”

  “It already is, Tony. I’m with you.”

  “You’ll tell me if there’s anything you want.” He gazed down at her, his dark brows drawn together with concern.

  She laughed lightly. “Promise.”

  Sand crunched beneath her beige espadrilles as they walked, and she breathed in the briny smell of the ocean. The beach was different than those in San Francisco. Golden sand stretched out for miles, just like in the movies that were filmed here, and the sun warmed her face and shoulders. San Francisco could be cool and overcast even in the summer.

  Celina liked the feel of her hand in his. Hers felt small and narrow in his large, roughened hand, yet he clasped hers with a gentleness that surprised her. His touch radiated care and assurance.

  Not since her mother had died had she felt such a sense of belonging with someone, and it was surprisingly comforting. Standing next to him, connected to the vitality that surged through him, she felt that all was right with the world. Her mother would’ve liked him, she decided. Marge certainly did.

  Celina glanced up at Tony with a shy smile. He responded by sliding his arm around her shoulder and hugging her next to him. His heartbeat was strong and quick, and so, she realized, was hers.

  They came to her room first. It was a tiny single room splashed with shades of marine blue and white paint. Blue poppies arched over the bed, and daises loomed around the dresser mirror. “I love it,” she breathed.

  “You get settled and freshen up. I mean, not that you need to,” he added quickly. “I’m going to change my threads.”

  After she had unpacked her few things in her cozy room and changed into a polished cotton dress with a sweetheart neckline, Celina heard a tap on the door. She crossed the pine floor past the bed draped with a chenille coverlet and hand-painted floral pillows.

  Tony’s surprise was evident on his face. “Wow, you look beautiful, even more gorgeous than usual. Like a real Hollywood movie star.”

  His comment pleased her. She’d stayed up late to finish sewing her new dress, trying it on half a dozen times to make sure it fit just so. The lightweight, ivory cotton fabric caught the highlights in her hair and skimmed her hips in a flattering manner. Experimenting with a Butterick pattern, she’d substituted handmade lace her grandmother had made for the fitted sleeves, shortened the hem, and added a belt.

  Weight had slipped off after her mother died, and she’d lost the appetite to gain it back, even working around chocolate every day. Marge insisted her newly svelte figure suited her, making her look like a fashion model. To prove her point, Marge had taken her to Woolworth’s to buy some cosmetics.

  Celina felt her face grow warm at Tony’s compliment. She caught a glance of herself in the small beveled mirror by the door. Red lipstick and pink cream rouge brought color to her face, and the cake mascara she’d carefully applied with a little brush framed her tawny eyes.

  “You look really nice, too,” Celina said.

  “Except for these, right?” He drew a finger along one angry red scar on his face.

  “Why, no, not at all.” His attitude surprised her. He was a handsome man, there was no denying that, and the more time she spent around him, the less she noticed his scars. Maybe he was as nervous as she was.

  Tony beamed and leaned against the doorjamb. He’d changed into a pressed shirt and slicked back his hair. Cologne wafted from his neck, reminding her of her father.

  “I thought we would eat at the pier,” he said.

  “I’d like that.”

  They held hands on the short walk down the beach, where a long wooden pier loomed, lined with tourist shops and food stands. A roller coaster rose behind them. Cars full of riders hurled around the track, and screams of joy could be heard above the surf.

  Celina was glad they were going there. There would be plenty to do there if she ran out of conversation. They’d played the radio on the way from San Francisco. When they could find a station, that is. Except for tiny San Luis Obispo, there hadn’t been many music stations after Carmel on the long coastal route until they came to Santa Barbara.

  Catching her hand again, Tony led the way. The warmth of his sure clasp sparked through her, calming her quivering insides. As they strolled toward the pier, they saw a band setting up to play music.

  “Do you like to dance?” Celina realized how little she knew about him.

  With a grimace, he tapped a knee. “I did, but now...”

  “Oh,” she cried. “I didn’t know, I’m so sorry.” How could she have been so thoughtless?

  He screwed up his face. “I don’t want pity from people, especially not you. Lots of guys worse off than me.”

  She bit her lip. Now what should she say? Feeling self-conscious, she angled her face toward the swift surf.

  With a finger on her chin, he turned her face back to him. Seeing her concern, he swiftly changed his expression. “Hey blondie, it’s okay. I’m over feeling sorry for myself.”

  Those words were easier to say than to feel, Celina knew, though she nodded her agreement. Most of the returning troops put up a good front, but she knew better.

  Friends had expressed their condolences after her mo
ther died, but after a few weeks, their lives went on. They forgot about her, or maybe they felt uncomfortable around her, reminded of their mortality. After Dad died, her mother had once said that Americans weren’t good at grief. She squeezed Tony’s hand. “I understand.”

  His broad smile lit a slender fuse of hope in her.

  “This is my second chance at life,” he said, running his hand up her arm to rest on her shoulder. “Maybe for both of us.”

  She heard a yearning in his voice. “Is your family in San Francisco?”

  Tony shook his head.

  “Where then?”

  He gazed at her as though choosing his response with care. “Italy.”

  “Do you ever see them?”

  Lowering his eyes, he said, “No, it’s complicated.”

  “When was the last time you saw them?” She couldn’t imagine being estranged from her family.

  “Sweetheart, that’s the one subject I don’t like to talk about. There’s no changing the past.” Scowling, he quickened his pace.

  Celina kept up with him, and by the time they reached the pier, his dark mood had passed.

  Tony spied a hot dog vendor’s cart. “Would you look at that? Just like we had in New York. Want one?”

  “Sure. You lived in New York?”

  He hooked his arm in hers. “Yeah, for a while.” Tony’s eyes lit up at the sight of a carousel. “Hey, look at that. Let’s do that next. Come on, let’s go.”

  As they strolled along the pier, watching people and listening to music, vendors called out to them. Tony was like a big kid, giving her a leg up on a carousel horse, slathering mustard on hot dogs, and engaging everyone around them with jokes and laughter. Celina couldn’t remember when she’d had such a fun, carefree evening.

  “Get your fresh hand-churned ice cream, right here,” a vendor called out.

  “What’s your favorite flavor?” Tony asked.

  “Guess.”

  Laughing, Tony smacked himself on the forehead. “Chocolate, right?”