The Chocolatier Read online

  “I would be happy to help,” Celina said, though she was sure that they would be helping her far more.

  “That’s a start.” Sara beamed. “I understand, but just imagine, isn’t this a beautiful place for your son to grow up? Marco will be near his grandparents, and he’ll have lots of cousins to play with, too. You won’t have to worry about anything.”

  Sara had a point. With Tony’s extended family surrounding them, Marco would no longer be an eight-hour orphan staying with a neighbor. He would have a family vested in his life. People who would grow to love him as one of their own. Didn’t her son deserve that?

  With thoughts racing through her mind, Celina bit her lip. Suddenly, their life in San Francisco seemed so lonely in comparison. But what was she giving up? The country she knew. The familiarity of a culture she knew and understood. And she’d have to improve her Italian.

  Dizzying questions swirled in her mind. Could she grow to love Italy? What kind of opportunities would Marco have here? Would he want to return to the United States when he grew older? Would she?

  Celina passed a hand across her forehead. The future was too much to think about. And if the past had taught her anything, it was that the future often made a mockery of even the best-laid plans. If only Tony... She pushed the thought away. She had to set a course for them, and school was a few weeks away yet. Looking from Sara’s eager face to Carmine’s, Celina committed to as much as she could. “We can stay until the end of summer.”

  “Excellent,” Sara exclaimed. “You’re going to fall in love with Italy, I can just feel it.”

  Lauro returned with a bottle of wine, and Celina couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were rimmed with red as if he’d been crying. Maybe he has a heart after all.

  After removing the cork, he tilted the bottle, and they both watched the velvety red wine swirl into her glass.

  “Grazie,” she said, raising her gaze to his.

  Lauro’s eyes, full of passion, lingered on hers for a moment, then he looked away abruptly to fill his mother’s glass.

  “Did you and Nino have a home in San Francisco?” Sara asked.

  Celina nodded, noticing the way Lauro poured the wine, the flick of his wrist, the way he raised the bottle. Maybe there was a family resemblance in some of their mannerisms after all.

  Turning her attention back to Sara, she said, “We owned a home, but I couldn’t imagine living there without him. I sold it and found a little flat for us to rent right across from the chocolaterie. I went back to work recently.”

  Sara nodded. “You like to stay busy.”

  “I love what I do. Someday I want a little home for us again.” She swirled the wine and lifted it to her nose, inhaling its warm earthiness. As she sipped, she saw Sara and Carmine exchange a glance.

  Lauro placed the bottle on the table and sat across from her, his narrowed eyes assessing everything about her. “Marco must be in school, no?”

  Shifting under his intense scrutiny yet meeting his gaze, Celina lifted her chin and replied, “He’ll start in the fall.”

  Lauro nodded to himself, his lips curving with satisfaction.

  He’s happy about that, she decided. He’ll only have to put up with us for the summer.

  “We have a good school in the village,” Sara said. “He’ll have the summer to learn Italian.” Her face lit. “Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to my niece Adele and her husband Werner, who’s from Germany. They met during the war and fell in love. They were separated for a long time, but love always finds a way. He promised he’d return to her and he did. They married several years ago and have children Marco’s age, so I think you’ll have a lot in common.”

  “I’d like that.”

  As Lauro scowled, Celina let the thought of a future in Italy thread through her mind, measuring and examining it as if it were a length of exotic cloth ready to be fashioned into a new style of coat she could try on to consider. A new life for us. Even with a few loose threads, it had some appeal.

  Yet how would it be, she wondered, with the memory of Tony in his mother’s quick smile and his father’s rich laughter. Though she wasn’t selfish, she was still young; she still had needs. Would she ever be able to move on with her life and marry again, even if she wanted to?

  Or would she forever be cast in the role of the widow Savoia in a small village in Italy?

  Chapter 7

  “This wine that we will enjoy today was harvested by the hand of my brother, the man whose life we honor today.” Standing on the bougainvillea-shaded patio at a long, hand-hewn table worn smooth by the kiss of salted air and years of use, Lauro eased a cork from a well-aged Piedirosso, releasing the musky scent of aged fruit into the air.

  “Antonino Savoia had the finest taste of anyone I’ve ever known.” He poured the robust wine into waiting glasses of family and friends who had gathered on the patio at his family’s estate after the memorial service for Nino, which had been held at the Duomo in the village. Always appreciative of exceptional artistry, Nino had often sketched the cathedral’s old Byzantine tower.

  As the wine swirled into the glasses, Lauro shared his memories of the brother he’d loved, and even, for a while, hated.

  “Nino told me this was the finest Piedirosso vintage from Campania he’d ever tasted,” Lauro said. “He told me that after the wine had a chance to age, it would complement our chocolate. I think all of us can agree that when it came to chocolate, wine, olive oil, and lemons, Nino had a savant-like knowledge, as if he’d inherited the cumulative learnings of our ancestors on this land.”

  Around the table, Nino’s beloved family and friends murmured their approval and brought the glasses to their noses and lips.

  Nino had grown up refining his palate on the agricultural specialties of the region. The vineyard that produced this wine adjoined their property and was owned by a widowed cousin. He’d always made time to help her with the harvest.

  And yet, he’d wanted something different for his life.

  Taking a sip, Lauro nodded to himself. “The wine needs to air to smooth the edges, but Nino was correct. Dark chocolate, indeed.” He slid a glass toward Celina.

  “To Nino,” he said, lifting his glass.

  At the other end of the table, his father’s silver-shot hair gleamed in the slanting sun as he raised his glass.

  “To our beloved son, husband, brother, father, nephew, and cousin,” Carmine said in a thick voice. He touched his wife’s glass and Celina’s, before acknowledging each person there and what they had meant to his son.

  When his father’s voice faltered, Lauro continued. “We are all the better from having known Nino. He was the best brother and the finest friend we all knew. More than that, my brother’s encyclopedic knowledge and quiet persistence elevated our craft.” During his summer breaks from school, he’d introduced daring, unique new flavor combinations with chocolate and improved processes for hand- and machine-molded chocolates. He’d even bred a finer strain of lemon to marry with chocolate and use in limoncello.

  And still, it wasn’t enough for him.

  Around the table, family members responded. “To Nino.”

  Lauro tilted his head heavenward toward the endless skies where he imagined Nino’s soul floated freely, watching the family gathering.

  This mourning felt surreal; it seemed he ought to feel the loss of his brother’s soul more, and be certain of its departure from terra firma, shouldn’t he? He’d heard people say they had known the moment their loved one had died, no matter where they were in the world, and yet, he’d detected nothing. No sudden void, no devastation, not even a twinge. He and Nino had once been so close, but that was before Isabella. This was even more mystifying because he still felt his brother’s presence.

  Now he felt only sadness because the hope of Nino returning was gone. As Lauro had come to regret their parting words, he’d clung to that hope for years.

  After Isabella and Nino had left him, Lauro had felt his reason for being wither
. Besides his parents, the two people he had shared everything with were suddenly gone. Now, he managed the fabbrica di cioccolato for his father, and he was devoted to his parents as he should be, but his life seemed hollow without a family of his own making, as his other friends were doing. Still, he clung to hope that someday that might change.

  Glancing at the faces around the table, at the family and friends he’d known all his life—save two new faces—he could only imagine that Nino’s soul surrounded them. A cacophony of whistles and warbles erupted from the old trees shading the veranda. Even the sparrows and warblers seemed to sing Nino’s praises.

  “What’s that?” Celina shaded her eyes against the sun, smiling. “Oh, robins. Look, Marco, how pretty they are.”

  “Pettirosso,” Lauro said, nodding toward the carnelian red birds that shimmered in the sun under spring green canopies. “He needs to learn Italian.”

  “He is.”

  Celina’s retort held a defensive edge. Wasn’t she even a little embarrassed that Nino’s son could barely speak their language?

  Reaching for bread from the basket in front of him, Lauro tore off a piece, dipped it in olive oil, and offered it to Marco. “Pane e olio?” Marco took it and nibbled, his eyes registering his delight.

  “What do you say?” Celina prompted him.

  “Thank you,” Marco said between bites.

  “Grazie,” Lauro replied, correcting him.

  Marco grinned. “Gra-zee.”

  While the cousins and aunts and uncles reminisced about Nino, Lauro slipped off his dark jacket and helped himself to an antipasto platter brimming with olives and artichokes, as well as a basket of fresh-baked bread that his mother had placed on the table. Tending to last-minute details, he’d only had time for a steady diet of caffè today, and it had put him on edge.

  As he ate, he watched little Marco. Crouched on his knees near his mother’s chair, the boy played in a world of his own, his nimble fingers prying the small wheels from one railway car and switching them to another. Adult conversation swirled around him on the patio, but he seemed intent on renovating the train cars—just as Lauro had recalled doing when he was a boy. Testing the new set of wheels on the stone floor, Marco emitted little engine sounds to accompany the clacking wheels.

  He could have had a son that age. The thought struck him with regret.

  Was this really his nephew? The boy looked nothing like Nino and barely like his mother. Unlike his parents, who saw what they wanted to see, he had a hard time buying the idea that Marco was a blood relative. Fortunately, the boy and his disturbing mother would soon return to the United States, and life would return to normal.

  “Maria, Gino, have you met your new cousin?” Adele, Lauro’s cousin, sent her children to meet Marco. Curious about the new boy, the two children scooted next to him.

  Adele was the firecracker of the family. As children, she’d been the adventurous one, always the first to take her horse into the lead or tackle the steepest snowy incline when their parents had taken their families skiing at their nonno’s chalet in the Alps just north of Torino. Not that he hadn’t quickly gained the lead as he grew older and stronger, but Adele was smart and kept him alert.

  She had new ideas about a woman’s place in the home, too. Adele had opened a fashion boutique near the cathedral catering to tourists who visited Amalfi and locals along the Sorrentino coast.

  Adele’s husband, who was seated next to her with his arm draped around her, seemed proud of her accomplishments, too. Werner was a man who was confident enough to allow his wife the freedom to do what she wanted. He called their marriage a partnership, which sounded quite modern to Lauro, and he liked that. Maybe someday he’d have a relationship like the one they enjoyed.

  “Marco seems like a sweet soul, so much like Nino,” Adele said, smiling at the boy’s easy interaction with her son and daughter.

  A sweet soul like Nino. That much was true, Lauro allowed grudgingly, his gaze trained on the boy. Why would Nino have kept his young family from them? “There the resemblance ends,” he muttered.

  Frowning, Adele poked his side. “What’s the matter with you? Of course Marco looks like his father.”

  At the sound of his name, Marco stood and flung his arms around his mother. “I like Daddy’s home,” he said, an innocent smile lighting his face.

  “Glad you’re having fun, sweetheart.” Celina smoothed her son’s light brown hair. She cast a glance in Lauro’s direction.

  Had she heard his comment? Not that he cared much if she had.

  “We’re playing,” Marco replied, skipping over the toys to return to his new playmates.

  Adele smiled. “Marco, did you know that I used to play with your papa like that?”

  The boy shared a shy smile again and turned his face to Lauro.

  Second cousins, Lauro thought, watching young Maria and Gino playing with the new boy. Marco had light brown hair but so did many of their extended family in the north. As he studied Marco’s face, he noticed the boy did take after his mother.

  Lauro stole a glance at Celina. Her dark lashes and brows were a striking contrast to golden hazel eyes that seemed to glow with mystery.

  Averting his gaze, he reached for more olives. Distracting, that’s what she is. Nino must have fallen hard for those mesmerizing eyes. He’d always liked beautiful women.

  The children turned their attention back to the carved wooden toys that he and Nino had played with as children. While the children played, Adele and Celina worked out that the children were stair steps in age, with Maria a year older than Marco and Gino a year younger.

  “They get along so well,” Adele said to Celina, her face lighting with motherly pride. “We’ll have to spend more time together.”

  “I could take Marco fishing with the kids,” Werner added.

  “He’d like that.” A faint smile lifted Celina’s full lips.

  Adele inclined her head. “Sara tells me you and Marco are welcome to stay here. I hope you will.”

  “We’re trying to convince her,” Sara said, leaning in toward the conversation. “Marco is so much like his father,” she added. “And my uncle Enzo.” She trailed her hand along Marco’s shoulder as he scooted past her on his hands and knees, guiding a trio of train cars beside him.

  Lauro watched as his mother stared happily after Marco. Sara had hardly left the boy’s side since he’d arrived. Seeing how she gravitated toward her new-found grandson—if that’s really who he was—and showered him with love, he felt crushing guilt for not marrying and giving his parents grandchildren before now. Yet even after all these years, Isabella’s laughter still rang in his ears. He swallowed against the lump in his throat that had plagued him all day.

  While Sara watched her grandson play with Adele’s children, her face softened. “Marco is our precious gift from heaven.”

  Lauro swirled his wine, listening. He wasn’t entirely sure where Marco was from. To him, Marco looked like the scrappy young American he was, though his heritage could be Italian. He was puzzled, though. He couldn’t see the Savoia family resemblance or that of his mother’s family.

  His father held out his arms to Marco. “Vieni qui, figlio,” Carmine said. When the boy didn’t respond, Carmine repeated his request in English. “Come here, son. I have something for you.”

  Marco’s face lit with a shy smile, and he hurried to his grandfather.

  Lauro narrowed his eyes, disturbed that the boy didn’t know their language. Leaning forward, he caught Celina’s eye. “Why doesn’t your son speak Italian?”

  His mother shot him a look. “Marco knows some Italian,” Sara said in the boy’s defense. Turning to Celina, she added, “I believe he understands more than he speaks, no?”

  “I think so,” Celina said, casting her gaze toward her son.

  Lauro tapped his fingers on the table. “I’m surprised Nino didn’t make sure his son spoke his family language.”

  “He tried, of course,” Celina said w
ith a slight shrug of a slender shoulder under a closely fitted dark jacket. “But we wanted to make sure he knew his letters and had a head start on reading and writing in English before he began school.” Staring again at the white handkerchief she’d been twisting during church, she added, “We thought we’d have plenty of time. I haven’t kept up his studies as I should have. There’s just been so much to do since...” Her voice trailed off.

  Sara quickly covered Celina’s hand with her own. “We understand. I’m sure Marco will learn Italian just as quickly as Nino learned his languages. He is his father’s son, after all.”

  Celina nodded. “Tony spoke English well. Almost as if he’d been born to it.”

  “And French,” Sara said with pride. “Better than mine.”

  When Celina looked nonplussed, Lauro asked, “How many languages did your Tony speak again? I’ve forgotten.”

  Celina seemed uncertain of his question. “Well, besides English and Italian, he’d learned a little Japanese in the war.”

  “That’s Nino for you.” His father let out a hearty laugh. “Always the modest one of the family. Top of his German class, too, he was.”

  Sara’s expression softened. “He spoke Spanish beautifully as well, didn’t he?”

  “So do I, but we spoke English at home,” Celina said, as her neck and face flushed. “I’m afraid I was to blame.”

  The conversation veered into another direction, and Lauro leaned back, bent on observing Celina’s interactions with his parents and other family members who had returned with them after the priest’s service at the church.

  Lauro could hardly believe how much their lives had changed in the past few weeks—and not for the better. From the moment he’d received that strange telephone call from America and told his parents about Celina Savoia—or whoever she really was—his family’s life has been altered beyond what he could have imagined.

  His mother had prepared the house as if royalty were expected. Bedrooms were aired and painted, old toys were unboxed, and childhood photographs were framed and placed throughout the house. Sara had donned the traditional black clothing in memory of Nino, but her heart was full of anticipation for their newly discovered grandchild.