To: Evandale Fairy Godmother
From: Veronika Lambert
Subject: Re: Questions
I know you didn’t ask, but I feel I need to explain about the many children.
The first one was a teenage pregnancy when I was 17. The second was an error in calculation, if you get what I mean, when I was 19. Then I went on the pill and I SWEAR I took everything just as I should, but I guess fate had other ideas because at 22 I found myself pregnant again, this time with TWINS!!! The next one was a bottle of scotch and a night out with my husband for the first time in six years (same father to all of them, by the way, and by this time we were married). And this latest one . . . sigh . . . well, let’s just say a steamy romance novel in the middle of the day, too much visualising of Ryan Gosling, and your husband popping home unexpectedly early . . . and that afternoon delight quickly turns into afternoon de’fright!
Needless to say, we’ve taken care of this little problem for good now.
Sam is a park ranger in Cradle Mountain and I’m a full-time mum. We’ve been through a rough patch lately. Anything you could do to help would be GREATLY appreciated. Thanks for taking the time to consider my request. I know you must be inundated with pleas for help.
Veronika
————
To: Evandale Fairy Godmother
From: Dennis Chamberlain
Subject: Re: Questions
Godmother Livingstone—Juliette and I are in our forties. She’s a widow, so yes, she has been married before. I haven’t. I’m no good at love. Juliette likes jazz music, wine, foreign films, spicy food, good chocolate, and cats. We both like staying in by the fire and touring wineries and gourmet food festivals. She doesn’t like heights, water, having her feet touched or crowds. Yes, I think she’ll say yes.
•
The old bell over the shop’s door had been going all day, so constantly that Christmas was almost tempted to take it down. She was bunkered down in the kitchen madly crafting chocolates.
Cheyenne was serving at the counter again, cheery as ever, and looking every bit the jolly sales assistant with her orange ringlets and her neat but curvy frame, which filled a frilly apron perfectly.
‘I think you’ve missed your calling,’ Christmas said, bumping into her at the coffee machine as she went to get some ground coffee to add to a ganache.
‘Oh no. I’m sure I was actually a princess swapped at birth.’ Cheyenne giggled in a way that should have been far too girlish for someone in her forties but from her was delightful. ‘I’m still waiting for Prince Charming.’
‘Well, you’re doing a fine job of getting on with things while you’re waiting.’
‘Once I’m a princess, and I sell the rights to my memoir, I’ll need to have some ordinary times to write about so people can relate to me,’ Cheyenne said, setting more coffee beans to grind.
Abigail was working extra hours too, serving on the floor, though not quite as cheerfully, checking her watch frequently.
Christmas’s hands were busy but her mind was elsewhere, deep in the process of creating possible new potions for Lien, who’d gone back to school this week after an extended break at home. She was coping okay physically but was struggling to concentrate through the brain fog from the medications.
‘It’s like being hung-over,’ Lien had explained one afternoon when Christmas was visiting. She was propped up to do her homework next to the fireplace in the family’s cottage up on the hill behind Launceston, trying to focus on a science textbook while Tu peeled potatoes in the kitchen nearby.
‘You don’t know what being hung-over feels like,’ Tu said, popping a potato into a sinkful of water. ‘I hope.’
Lien let go of her pen and stretched her fingers. ‘I read,’ she countered, and Christmas smiled. Lien was a voracious reader and was never without a book, though Christmas sometimes suspected it was because it gave her a buffer against unwanted sympathy or, unthinkably, bullying. It was acceptable to be quiet and still while reading.
Since then, Christmas had been working on different chocolate recipes that included potent blends of the essential oils of basil, lime, lemon, peppermint and spearmint—all of which were uplifting and offered clarity and focus to the tired mind. She could do it easily enough. But she was hoping she’d stumble on something even more powerful.
Right now, though, she had work to do. She was setting bars of dark chocolate from Trinitario beans, harvested from an estate located in the Gran Couva area of Tobago, fermented and dried there before being sold to her newest supplier in America, who then roasted them and shipped the bags to her in Tasmania, where she ground them into powder. She was, as Lincoln had so grandly put it, an important part in the long journey of a tiny seed to fulfil its true potential in the world.
There were so many ways to wreck cacao beans—so many steps along the way in the beans’ harvesting, drying, fermenting, packing and transporting where things could go wrong. But if a farmer worked hard and got the beans to her supplier in good condition, and her supplier did a perfect job of roasting them, then that just left her with the final responsibility to see it through to make marvellous chocolate. So many hands touched that one bean on its way to the consumer. Hers were just one pair.
She ladled out giant spoonfuls of gorgeously tempered chocolate from the tank and poured it into the moulds, removed the excess with the large steel scraper, and rattled the moulds seesaw-fashion, banging each end on the white marble slab on top of the workbench to remove the air bubbles, which rose to the surface and popped like tiny volcanoes.
The chocolate that came from this special region of ‘the chocolate soils’ in Tobago was highly prized, and rightly so; the next time she scooped up a ladle of thick brown liquid heaven, she let it cascade back into the tank just to see it fall. A shine on the surface. Ripples in the pool of chocolate below. The intense aroma.
The thermostat on the tempering tank clicked off and the sound reminded her she was working to the clock. She stirred the tank again, feeling the weight of the chocolate against the spoon, smoothing out the lumps that always formed the second the lid was removed and air met its simmering volume. Christmas had learned to keep her hands busy while her mind worked. It was like keeping a perturbed friend company while they talked. Her mind serpentined around the ghostly image of her father while her hands soothed—everything will be okay; you just have to ignore it.
It was challenging to separate the trip to France from the nagging notion of ancestral research. Now more than ever, she had to know what her priorities were. Studying with Master Le Coutre in France was the chance of a lifetime to blossom as a chocolate artisan. Well, possibly, depending on what his chosen itinerary held for that week. But even without Master Le Coutre, France was the hub of exciting and enriching food experiences. It wouldn’t be possible to go there and not come away with a whole new vision for her future creations. And it would mean spending time in Provence in the French summer. Her mouth actually watered at the thought. If there was any tiny doubt left as to whether she would go, it vanished in that moment.
It was really very simple: Gregoire Lachapelle didn’t matter.
She could absolutely separate her biological father from this trip. The two were not intertwined. They were different things. She wouldn’t give one more minute to agonising over whether she should do something about finding him. She shouldn’t. That was perfectly clear. She was going to France for this fantastic chocolate opportunity and nothing more.
The shop bell rang again as she turned her attention to the heart-shaped moulds, polished with cotton wool till they were shiny from the oils embedded in the fibres. She held the tray over the tank and spooned the melted chocolate into each heart. Scraped the excess back into the tank. Clattered plastic on marble.
With the bubbles popped, it was back to the tank, where she tipped most of the chocolate out of the mould and scraped the surface once more, leaving just a smooth thin coating inside each heart. She tipped the tray onto its side so the air would snap-dry the chocolate into shells, which she would fill tomorrow morning with strawberry liqueur ganache.
Abigail appeared, her dark fringe almost in her eyes. ‘There’s a guy out there asking for you. He was here the other day too, having lunch,’ she said. ‘I told him you were busy but he seems pretty keen to talk.’
Christmas considered her chocolate-covered pink pig apron, spattered arms and gently bubbling chocolate tank, drying at the edges. She clicked her tongue, irritated. ‘Send him back here so I can keep going.’ She didn’t have time to stop.
She picked up a new shiny mould tray and dipped her ladle once more as the swing door puffed open and Lincoln walked in.
‘Oh, hi.’ All her irritation was gone. She was instantly pleased she’d invited him back here.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, then inhaled deeply. ‘Wow, it smells fantastic in here.’
‘You get used to it after a while,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit sad really. There’s nothing like that great rush of cocoa to the brain.’
He took a step towards her, a big, casual, easy-as-you-please step.
‘Wait!’ She held up her ladle.
He froze.
‘You can’t come over here near the chocolate with all that . . . hair.’
‘Oh, of course. Sorry.’ His eyes snapped up to the fetching snood currently plastering her hair to her scalp like a bathing cap.
He fished in the long pocket of his pants and retrieved a saggy leather wallet, flipped it open and pulled out a business card. She motioned that she couldn’t take it as both hands were full and he took a single stride towards the bench, holding up his hands in a I’m not going to hurt the chocolate gesture, leaned forward gingerly and fully extended his arm, then placed the card on the edge of the bench where she could see it, before he retreated once more.
She peered down at it.
Lincoln van Luc
Botanist
‘I thought I should give you that, officially, so you know who I am rather than just thinking I’m a guy who hangs out in your store and eats loads of chocolate. I’m writing a book, actually, on cacao. And my editor, Jeremy, thinks my writing isn’t particularly people-friendly. He says it’s too scientific and dry. He wants me to find a co-author, someone who works on the other side of chocolate production. Someone like you.’
Christmas took a moment to understand what he was saying. ‘You want me to work with you?’
‘It seems ideal, doesn’t it? I’m a scientist, you’re a chocolatier—’ ‘I’m not, actually. A chocolatier is a professional, whereas I’m just an artisan . . .’
‘—and I know you can sell chocolates and you used to be a PR manager. I read about you in the copy of the in-flight magazine you have in the shopfront, while I was eating here the other day after the expo. And I thought . . . well, in fact my grandmother suggested it, and I couldn’t agree more, and I could kick myself for not thinking of it sooner, but you seem to be just the right person,’ he finished in a rush, his posture stiffening slightly, betraying a degree of something like nervousness, or self-consciousness.
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘You’ve got to love the unexpected and random, don’t you?’ Lincoln said, with genuine enthusiasm.
Her mind whirred. She wasn’t the person to write a chocolate book, was she? She’d only been in the business a few years and she was self-taught. Not exactly someone who should be claiming to be an expert on chocolate making and putting her name to a book.
On top of that, her career as a fairy godmother, which she pursued in her spare hours outside of the shop, was surprisingly time-consuming, and she was horribly behind on that right now too. She really didn’t have time for any more commitments.
And then there was him: a shaggy yet somehow alluring man. Lincoln van Luc—Just a Little Bit Cute. He was far too tempting to work in close proximity with.
Absolutely NO romantic relationships. It said so clearly on the charter above the desk in her office, and she read it aloud several times a month, though of course she now knew it off by heart, having lived by it ever since the day she wrote it three years ago. Then again, that particular rule didn’t specify how long it was to be enforced.
Why was she searching for loopholes?
‘It’s very flattering,’ she admitted. ‘And a wonderful opportunity. But I just don’t think I have the time.’ She turned towards the tempering tank and vigorously stirred, smoothing out lumps as she sought to settle the emotional ripples set off when Lincoln van Luc had loped easily into her kitchen.
‘Look, I know this was totally out of the blue, and I can see you’re working hard here,’ he said, casting his eyes over the trolley racks stacked six-feet high with cooling chocolate moulds. ‘How about I email you the synopsis and a bit of info and you can have a read and see how you feel? I’ll be living nearby for a while, just ten minutes that way,’ he pointed over his shoulder, ‘so we’re practically neighbours.’
‘Okay,’ she said, the word loaded with caution.
‘Excellent.’ He smiled, confidently, like it was a done deal.
The next thing, he was gone, leaving Christmas alone with her chocolate and her busy, busy hands.
A moment later, not yet recovered from the shock of Lincoln’s proposition, she heard her mobile phone buzz with an email. And because she was looking for a distraction from thinking about Lincoln, she washed her hands and checked the message. It was from her old PR firm, McKenzie Jones, regretfully informing her that their friend and colleague, journalist Peter O’Donnell, had passed away from a heart attack at the age of sixty-nine.
•
‘Emily!’
Emily turned around, a tube of eye cream in her hand, to see Val walking through the cosmetics section of Myer in Launceston, loaded down with bags.
‘Hi!’ she said, putting down the cream and kissing Val on the cheek.
‘What are you doing here?’ Val asked, slightly breathless.
‘I’m actually on an assignment. The station’s been doing a series of segments on cooking, retro style. I’ve just been down in the mall at the CupCakery doing research on cupcakes through the ages. Have you been in there? It’s really funky—lots of fifties posters, antique mixers and old recipe books, a bit like a museum to cake baking.’
‘No, I don’t bake,’ Val said definitively. ‘But I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve been meaning to call or text to say what a wonderful job you did getting that scholarship to France for Massy. That was so inspired! It will be so good for her.’
Emily bit her lip. She didn’t want to break the unspoken codes of sister–friend–sister relationships, but as the nominated best friend in this triangle of women, she truly believed it was her duty to step up if she thought it was necessary. ‘Actually, do you have time for a coffee?’ she said.
‘Sure. I don’t have to pick up the kids for another hour.’
‘Excellent. I was hoping we could have a chat about Christmas and this trip to France. I’m worried she’s not going to make the most of the chance to do something about . . .’ she searched for the appropriate phrase, ‘. . . healing her past.’
‘You mean look for her father?’
‘Yes.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Val said, and they wandered off to find a good brew.
•
Christmas had been to only a few funerals in her life, the most recent of which had been for Mr Tupper, Rosemary McCaw’s twenty-year-old, arthritic, diabetic cat, who died last year in his sleep on Rosemary’s lap while she was watching Downton Abbey. Mr Tupper was buried beneath a blossom tree in Rosemary’s backyard, and she’d invited a handful of close or notable villagers to the service, which included readings (by Rosemary) from Shakespeare, and an opera singer—a friend from her days in the theatre. It had been surprisingly moving as Mr Tupper’s ginger body was laid to rest in the grave.
Perhaps now, though, Christmas reflected morbidly, she was approaching the age when those around her started to shuffle off their mortal coils and this was just the beginning of an endless procession of sad farewells she’d have to endure until she too went to the big lavender field in the sky.
She swirled the red wine in her glass, sitting up in the queen ensemble in the bed and breakfast where she was staying for the night on Sydney’s north shore. It wasn’t far from where Peter’s family were gathered in his home to comfort one another after the service. An empty Thai takeaway container sat on the bedside table and a pile of used tissues littered the sheets. She hadn’t cried until tonight. She’d refused to let herself, forcing the tears back down inside her body. Let it hurt, she’d told herself. Because it wasn’t hurting her anywhere near as much as it was hurting Peter’s wife or children. What right did she have to cry? He wasn’t her father.
His children all spoke so eloquently, reminiscing about childhood games and recalling pieces of their father’s wisdom that they’d carry to their own graves. They spoke of his insatiable thirst for knowledge and his intrepid enthusiasm for travel journalism, which had taken him to places like Antarctica, Lebanon and Estonia and everywhere in between. He’d walked the Great Wall of China; unwittingly swum with a great white shark; trekked Kilimanjaro; been invited to Ethiopian family coffee rituals; walked on hot coals; been held up at gunpoint in Egypt; and cried in the refugee camps of Sudan.
But it was his eldest daughter’s words that had reached deep into Christmas’s heart. ‘No matter what happened to Dad out in the field—dysentery, muggings, being detained on suspicion of spying, lost passports or cockroach-infested hotels—his enjoyment and love of travel, and of life, never waned. Dad always said, “Life’s too short to live it behind a desk. Grab every opportunity that comes your way. Never say no.”’
Christmas poured herself another glass of grenache and wondered. She wasn’t living her life behind a desk; she’d at least extricated herself from that. But was she now hiding behind the four walls of her chocolate shop? If she was truly honest, as one could only be after more than half a bottle of fantastic Australian wine, she knew deep down that she was treading too carefully. She wasn’t grabbing every opportunity that came her way.
Not even Peter could make her reassess her position on Gregoire Lachapelle. She just wasn’t interested in going down that path. But Lincoln’s book? It was a rare professional opportunity. And she’d been determined to turn it down because she didn’t trust herself around an attractive man.
She cast her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh, Peter, what a scolding you’d give me if you could see me like this.’
Years ago, when she was still at McKenzie Jones, she and Peter had gone on a junket to the Great Barrier Reef, staying in a five-star hotel that was the subject of one of Christmas’s biggest-ever campaigns. They lay side by side on the beach under comically large straw hats, drinking piña coladas by the bucketful. As the day wore on and the sun got hotter they’d become quite hysterical, laughing at the silliest things, and then Peter had suddenly said, ‘I’d trade all the trips in the world for just one more day with my mum and dad.’
Instantly stone-cold sober, Christmas had burst into tears.
Peter patted her arm. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me think of them just now.’ He pulled himself up off the beach lounger with some difficulty and steadied himself on the back. He stared into his balloon glass and pulled out the glacé cherry and ate it. ‘Alcohol, I suppose.’ He had shrugged. ‘Cuts right to the chase sometimes.’
Now, sitting in that bed-and-breakfast room in Sydney just five hours after Peter’s funeral and his daughter’s words, the thought slid into her mind that perhaps she should just start saying yes. She threw back the last of the red wine and decided that there was one thing she could say yes to right now.
Can we talk?
Lincoln van Luc
Who is this?
Christmas Livingstone
Oh sorry. It’s Christmas Livingstone.
From the chocolate apocalypse
apoplexy
apagoge
Apothecary!!!
Are you still there?
Lincoln van Luc
Yes sorry. Just watching my neighbour over the fence. He’s a retired sea captain and limps and smokes a pipe. As true as I stand here.
Lincoln van Luc
I probably shouldn’t have said that. Now I sound like a weird peeping Tom or something. It’s just that he’s building something in his backyard.
Christmas Livingstone
What is it?
Lincoln van Luc
I don’t know.
Christmas Livingstone
Can’t you ask him?
Lincoln van Luc
No. He only talks in sign language.
Christmas Livingstone
He’s deaf?
Lincoln van Luc
No. He actually writes stuff on a blackboard and leaves it on the footpath. Today it says, ‘All governments are corrupt; you just need to pick the one less so.’
Christmas Livingstone
Huh. Cheery.
Lincoln van Luc
Yeah.
Anyway, did you want to talk?
Christmas Livingstone
Yes.
I think I’d like to write your book with you. I’m not sure what your time frame is—I’m leaving for France in seven weeks, and I’ll be gone for a bit over three weeks. But I’d like to do it. I’d like to say yes.
Christmas Livingstone
If you’re still interested.
Lincoln van Luc
I am.