The Chocolatier Page 9

  The thought of a grandson also filled his father with pride. While getting a close shave at the barber, Lauro had overheard him telling his friends at the barbiere his father had patronized for years that he had a new grandson. With reluctance, Lauro admitted to himself that the idea seemed to reinvigorate his father. Carmine had even suspended a swing from one of their tallest, stoutest trees on the property. He was never too tired to swing little Marco high into the air, filling them both with forgotten joy.

  Lauro had taken over most of the daily responsibility at the factory, but since Celina arrived, his father had hardly been in the office.

  As far as he was concerned, Celina was not a good influence on his family’s productivity.

  Still, despite his parent’s delight, Lauro couldn’t see Nino in the boy. And he certainly couldn’t excuse Nino’s silence all these years.

  With Nino gone, the first grandchild should have been his child. Lauro shouldered the duty to carry on the family line now, and he had promised himself that one day he would fulfill that responsibility. If only Isabella hadn’t been so fiery and reactive, though that was one of the many things he’d loved about her. To this day, he hadn’t been brave enough to replace her in his heart. And, unlike Nino, he was not one to shirk his duty.

  The children’s quick laughter bubbled through his thoughts. As if feeling his attention on him, Marco looked up at Lauro and grinned, the sunny innocence of the boy’s expression dislodging the tightness he’d felt in his chest since this morning.

  Immediately, Lauro felt guilty for his attitude. Whatever Celina had done in alienating Nino from his family—or had in mind now—the fact remained that this boy had lost his father. If Marco was actually his nephew, shouldn’t he be relieved that Nino had removed the burden of having children from his life?

  Sipping his wine, Lauro studied Celina. He had to admit she was attractive, and he could see why his mother embraced her. Celina’s voice had a unique pitch, a velvety smooth quality that was mesmerizing, and she spoke in a forthright manner that reflected her American upbringing. His mother liked people who expressed themselves. Like Isabella. Yet for someone who said they worked with chocolate, Celina was curiously lean. Svelte, he supposed, was the fashionable word, like a Parisienne. Or an athletic American. Her legs were nicely toned.

  Not that he should notice. He averted his gaze and sipped his wine.

  Sara rapped the table in front of him. “Aren’t you going to offer our guest something to eat?” She angled her head toward the antipasto platter.

  Sheepishly, Lauro slid the platter and bread basket toward Celina.

  Sara shook her head at him. “Would it kill you to serve her? She’s your sister-in-law.”

  Feeling his mother’s eyes on him, he scooped a few olives and artichokes onto a small plate for her. “There’s more if you want it.”

  Inclining her head, Celina took it from him. “Grazie.”

  Those lips turned up again. Was she laughing at him? His mother had admonished him like a child.

  Her call had irritated the family’s still gaping wounds. After the war, he and his parents had held out hope that Nino would soon come home. He’d sent a short letter years ago, telling them he had become an American citizen and was shipping out with the army to the Pacific region. They’d contacted the military in the United States, but their records had been incorrect. They told his father that Nino had been released. If that were true, he would have contacted his family. Perhaps he’d been injured, or imprisoned, or was in the care of a kind Samaritan somewhere. Something was terribly wrong, they were sure of it.

  Miraculous stories of survival were circulating, and if anyone was deserving of a miracle, it was Lauro. Hadn’t he once considered the priesthood? Hadn’t he taken up the causes of those in need, from managing the harvest of a widowed neighbor to taking up arms on behalf of his adopted country?

  Still, Nino was an independent thinker. None of them had imagined that he’d actually move to America or join the army. Nino had changed, that was true. Lauro stroked his chin. Had he really known his brother after all?

  Lauro glanced around the long table of the family who’d endured so much together. Here they were, sending to rest the soul of the brother he’d looked up to his entire life. His parents had insisted on putting up the death announcement posters in town, as was the custom. As a result, a basket in the entryway held condolence telegrams, and flowers and food covered every surface in the kitchen and dining room.

  He noticed that though Celina had accepted his plate of antipasto, she didn’t touch it.

  Their friends and family were curious about Celina, too. Most of them seemed to accept her and dote on Marco, especially his mother’s sisters and Adele.

  Celina was dressed in what Lauro supposed was a modest enough outfit for a funeral, but she could have worn anything and heads would turn. When she thought no one was watching her, she moved gracefully, deliberately, as if in time to a slow tempo adagio. Or a brisk allegro, as when he’d spied her playing outside with her son. Her sylph-like figure gave her an advantage over many, yet she carried her height with confidence.

  For the past few days, she’d worn scarves around her thick, coppery blond hair, which fell in waves to her shoulders, but not today. Twisted at the nape of her neck, her hair was brushed back from her face, revealing strong cheekbones and an angular jawline that gave her a look of determination in contrast to the sometimes faraway look in her eyes.

  Without a doubt, Nino had excellent taste. Lauro brought his wine to his lips and gulped.

  If indeed, she truly had been married to his brother.

  Sure, Celina had all the right documents. He’d examined them with care. But couldn’t she have had those created? Document forgery had been elevated to an art form during the war.

  Lauro couldn’t help wondering, what did she want of them? Support for her son, probably. She seemed cultured—as if she came from a family of some standing, but many in America had lost assets in the stock market crash or during the war.

  Or she was a damned fine actress. How close was San Francisco to Hollywood?

  Too close. Even though she didn’t seem like the type.

  Why had she waited six months to call about Nino’s death? She said she had sent letters, but they’d received nothing.

  However, sometimes letters were lost in international mail.

  As he sat staring at Celina, she seemed to feel his gaze on her. She looked up, her gold-flecked, ambery eyes as luminous and chilling as those of a tiger eyeing its prey. He shifted under her sudden scrutiny.

  “Yes?” She stared, unblinking.

  “Don’t you have to return to work?” At once, Lauro realized the brusque tone of his voice. From the corner of his eye, he saw his mother purse her lips in admonishment. “Or to your home in San Francisco?”

  “I took a leave from my job. But I miss being busy.”

  “We can keep you busy,” Carmine said. Standing behind him, his father clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Lauro, you should take Celina to see the fabbrica di cioccolato.”

  That was easily the last thing he’d want to do with her. “I can’t imagine she’d be interested. Our process is quite different from what is done in America.”

  “Actually, I’d like to see it.”

  Of course you would, he thought to himself.

  She beamed at Sara and Carmine. “I’d like to see more of the area, too.”

  “Why, yes, you should.” Sara clapped her hands. “Lauro, why don’t you take a couple of horses and show her the groves?”

  And that was the second to the last thing he’d want to do with her. Both his parents were looking at him with pleased expectation. As was Celina, with those great, luminous eyes.

  “I don’t have much time,” he began.

  “Don’t be silly, of course you do,” Sara said. “Celina isn’t only our guest, she’s our new family. You must take her out tomorrow. And be nice.”

  Lauro nodded
his assent, though he couldn’t help but feel he was venturing into dangerous territory.

  Chapter 8

  Starting toward the barn, Celina turned to wave at Marco, who stood in the doorway of the villa clutching his nonna Sara’s hand. Her son was eager to spend the day with his new cousins, Adele’s children, Maria and Gino, who were coming over. While she and Lauro were riding, Sara planned to take all the children through the orchard and gardens to pick fruits and vegetables. Celina smiled. She hadn’t seen her son this happy in a long, long time.

  After she’d sold their home in San Francisco, Marco had mourned the loss of his neighborhood playmates, and she’d often wondered if she’d done the right thing. For a boy to lose his father and his friends was difficult. The fault was hers; she couldn’t bear to stay in the house surrounded by the memory of Tony and the love she’d lost.

  Celina watched as Sara knelt and Marco flung his arms around her neck and kissed her cheek. My dear Tony’s mother. Surely he would have changed his mind about visiting if he’d known how happy his son and mother would be. If only he could see this now. Wouldn’t he have changed his mind?

  She swallowed against the sudden constriction in her throat and pressed a knuckle to her lips, stifling the intense feeling of loss that still assailed her, often when she least expected it. If nothing else, the sight of Marco with his nonna made the journey worthwhile.

  This morning, Sara hadn’t forgotten the promise she’d extracted from Lauro yesterday at the memorial.

  Though Lauro had balked at the idea, Sara insisted. “My sons grew up on horses. Are you a horsewoman?”

  “Tony and I used to ride at a friend’s ranch.” Which was true. Her husband had been a good rider, although she’d had no idea that he’d learned as a child. But then, she hadn’t thought to ask him.

  Or had she? Like Marco, she worried that her memory of him was fading. Yet, at other times she still felt his presence, though not as much since she’d sold their home. Alarmed, she’d started writing recollections in a journal so that Marco could read it when he was a little older. Once she’d started writing, her memories poured back, and she couldn’t write fast enough. Soon she’d need another journal.

  Continuing to the stables, the tall leather boots Sara had given her to wear crunched on the gravel path. The riding pants her mother-in-law had loaned her fit just right, too. “Wish I could fit in them,” Sara had lamented, but Celina told her she still looked fit and trim.

  This morning, Celina had brushed her hair back and secured it with a silver clip, though the light morning breeze tugged free a few wisps around her face. She didn’t care much about how she looked today, but she was determined to enjoy herself, even if Lauro was still in a sour mood.

  “Hello?” she called out, wondering where Lauro was. From the stables, two large dogs bounded toward her. She stiffened until she heard their welcoming yaps. Long ears flapped gleefully against their white-and-orange spotted fur.

  “What a welcome,” she said, chuckling. They jumped in front of her, delighted at the sight of a new acquaintance. “Lousy guard dogs, aren’t you?”

  From behind the stables a sharp whistle cut through the air. “Rubino, Bellina! Giu!”

  “Rubino and Bellina, eh?” Celina laughed.

  Trotting astride a sleek black horse, Lauro appeared in the clearing. He swung from his mount and strode toward her. At his command, the dogs ceased jumping and began to circle her, sniffing at her boots. “Seduto!”

  Celina bent to scratch their heads, “Seduto, seduto.” Minding her, the pair of hounds sat at her feet. “They’re so friendly.”

  “Not always,” Lauro said. “But they like you.”

  “What sort of breed are they?” As the smaller one nuzzled her, she ran her hands over its silky ears. “And who is this?”

  “That’s Bellina. She’s a Bracco, an Italian pointer. Her mate here is Rubino.”

  Celina watched as Lauro dropped to one knee to pat the flanks of the large male dog. He seemed to relax with the dogs around.

  “Rubino and Bellina,” she said. “What pretty names. They sound like a pair of Shakespearean lovers.”

  Lauro threw a swift glance in her direction. “In a way, they are. They’re named after a pair of dogs that one of our ancestors owned. Il marchese.”

  Rubino pawed Lauro for more attention.

  “Are these their descendants?”

  “Perhaps. That was more than four hundred years ago, but the Marquis of Mantua, Ludovico Gonzaga, had such a special bond with them that when Rubino died, he buried him in a casket and erected a tomb in his honor. He did the same for Rubino’s mate, Bellina, who died giving birth.”

  “That’s certainly devotion, isn’t it?” Celina watched Lauro’s tense expression dissipate. While scrubbing his hands along Rubino’s neck and relaying the story, he looked as if a heavy cloud had parted in response to a persistent ray of sun.

  “You can still see the tombs on the palace grounds. The Gonzagas bred Braccos for years, and these two are probably direct descendants. My family brought them when they moved to this region from Piemonte.”

  “Why did they move?”

  “My great-grandmother is from Amalfi. After marrying, she grew homesick and suffered from hay fever in the north. The fresh sea air and the juice of lemons helped her. Together they expanded her family’s lemon production by terracing many of the lemon gardens you see now. The groves, where we’ll ride, came later.”

  “And the chocolate factory?”

  “Also moved from Piemonte, though we still have a factory in Torino.”

  Celina ran her hands along the dogs’ coats. This was the most Lauro had said to her since she’d arrived, and though he still wore a slight scowl, he seemed cordial enough. “There’s so much history here,” she said. “Four hundred years ago, America was just a vast, mostly unsettled land. At least, unsettled by Europeans.” After she stopped, Bellina dragged her head across Celina’s shins, begging for more attention. “I’d like to see more of Italy while I’m here.”

  Lauro paused. “You’re still leaving at the end of summer, no?”

  Celina noticed the tightening in his voice again, and the light in his eyes dimmed. “Marco is starting first grade, and I have to return to work.” That seemed to placate him, and the shadow lifted from his face. “Shall we go?”

  Lauro drew up. With a gesture and command, he sent the dogs racing back to the stable.

  Celina followed him to the old stone building, which housed about a dozen horses. The scents of hay, leather, and manure mingled with that of the ocean and hung in the air, giving the stable a fresh, earthy aroma. A groomsman was checking the saddle on a gleaming chestnut mare, while other horses neighed in adjoining stalls.

  “Lei è docile,” the groomsman said, stroking the horse’s neck.

  Lauro turned to her. “I didn’t know how well you rode.”

  She ran a hand down the mare’s strong neck and met her inquisitive gaze. The horse pricked her ears. “She’ll be fine.”

  Lauro gave her a leg up, and they started off. Following Lauro, she picked her way up a steep trail that stretched toward the summit of a hill.

  “You can get a good view from the top,” Lauro said over his shoulder. He’d hardly said a word to her since they’d left the stables, although he’d been murmuring to his horse in Italian the entire way.

  Or maybe he was cursing her under his breath.

  She sighed. Unlike his parents, he couldn’t make it any plainer that her presence was not appreciated.

  Celina clicked her tongue, urging her horse onward. When they reached the crest, she reined her horse in. From this vantage point, she felt as though she were on top of the world. Far below them, the sea hurled itself against ancient rocks worn smooth with time, while on the other side, groves stretched languidly in the summer sun.

  She breathed in the scent of lemon blossoms, inspired by how their citrus sweetness mingled with fresh ocean air. Closing her eyes, s
he ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, tasting a faint saltiness in the moisture laden breeze. She imagined how dark, rich chocolate filled with the brightness of a lemon filling and dusted with chunky sea salt might taste. Delicious, she decided.

  With a start, she realized how much she missed her work in the kitchen, surrounded by the ingredients she used to create chocolate fantasies that brought smiles of delight to others. She snapped her eyes open, just in time to catch Lauro staring at her with an odd expression of interest.

  “What are you doing?” His voice held a faint edge.

  She doubted he cared to know about her, let alone her deepest thoughts. Wordlessly, she urged her horse forward to avoid his direct gaze. With his emotional gauge running cold to at best, lukewarm, he was easily the most vexing man she’d ever met.

  Her horse paused in the shade of an olive tree. Slender, silvery green leaves sprouted from an old gnarled trunk, shading a bounty of smooth green olives hanging from the branches.

  Celina recalled something Tony had once told her. Tony had been particular about his olive oil. Surely that was a safe topic of discussion, although by now, she didn’t much care. Marco and his grandparents were getting on well, and that’s all that mattered to her.

  “Do you make your olive oil from these?” she asked.

  “We grow most of the food that is consumed at the villa.” Lauro jerked a thumb toward the property that spread beneath them. “Olive oil, vegetables.” Turning in his saddle, he gestured toward another barn and added, “Eggs and milk, too. Fruit trees there. And over there, nocciola. We use those in our chocolate.”

  She smiled to herself. At least he was civil when he talked about food.

  “Hazelnuts. So you make a paste, gianduja.” Celina said, referring to the chocolate and hazelnut blend that Italy was known for. “For gianduiotto.”