A midnight bird squawked through the darkness outside Christmas’s window. And now that the whole of the chateau was sleeping, she had energy roaring through her like an express train. It was Wednesday night. She would be back in Tasmania on Saturday and she could be metres away from her father right now. Or she could be on the wrong side of the country.
Lincoln had sent her a short text soon after arriving home to say Elsa would be okay, but he hadn’t made contact since, and she was swinging between feeling cold with dread that she’d ruined everything and sick with shame that she’d brought all of this on herself. Well, almost all of it.
What she needed right now was to be making chocolate, harnessing her wild mind into constructive activity. But there was no such distraction to be found here.
Then she thought of something and rushed to her handbag. She had a bottle of lavender oil she’d purchased at the farm last week. She could rub some on her temples to ease the anxiety. But while rummaging through the contents of the bag, she found something else—the chocolate wrapper with Jackson Kent’s number on it. His language school wasn’t far away. And he did say to call any time. She didn’t let herself think about it for too long before she picked up the phone and called him and, bless him, he answered almost straight away.
He arrived at the chateau not long after in a utility vehicle he said he’d borrowed from a fellow campus inmate.
‘Inmate?’ Christmas said.
‘It’s a pretty fair description.’ He was joking. She hoped.
He asked her no questions as they drove along the darkened roads to his language school, and Christmas felt increasingly silly for calling him, fearing that she was imposing. But she needn’t have worried, she realised when they arrived, because the campus was lit up like a jolly school camp with a carnival atmosphere. Midnight feasts were going on at candlelit wooden tables beneath leafy trees with fairy lights wound around the branches. Cigarette smoke waded heavily through the still air. All around was the sound of corks popping from wine bottles and glasses clinking.
‘What’s that sweet smell?’ Christmas asked as they picked their way across the damp grass, passing a few rows of grape vines that harboured at least two romantic entanglements that she could see.
‘Some sort of flower, I think,’ Jackson said. ‘It’s strongest at night and makes me dream of travels I’m yet to have.’
‘Careful, Jackson, I think the French language has released the poet in you.’
He smiled and opened the weathered wooden door to his cabin. ‘There are worse things, I suppose.’
The room was spartan, but pleasant enough. Two single beds, blue quilts pulled up, a bedside table and lamp between them, an ancient writing desk and chair, and a small bar fridge humming in the corner. French dictionaries, books, maps, shopping catalogues and transport timetables lay scattered around. Outside, someone picked up a guitar and began a Spanish-sounding tune, accompanied by a chorus of whoops, claps and table slapping.
Jackson picked up a half-drunk bottle of red wine off the fridgetop and plucked out the cork. ‘Would you like some wine?’ he asked, reaching for glasses on a small shelf above the fridge.
‘Yes, thanks.’
He poured them each a glass and she gratefully took hers, if only to give her hands something to do while his eyes studied hers.
‘It seems as though you’re all having a great time here,’ she said, sitting on the chair at the desk. Jackson sat on the end of one of the beds and put his glass on the bedside table. She felt better already just for being out of her room away from her own thoughts and with a friendly face to talk to.
‘I’m enjoying myself,’ he said, flexing his fingers and then stretching his arms over his head and loosening his neck. ‘My brain hurts all the time, though. Immersion language schools are tough but I feel like I’ve come a long way in a few days. We aren’t supposed to speak anything other than French while we’re here and it can be really exhausting.’ He rubbed his eyes.
‘I’ll bet.’ Christmas reflected guiltily that she still only had a few simple words and phrases. ‘I’m sorry for keeping you up,’ she said sipping the wine. It was thick and warming.
‘Non, non.’ He gestured towards the window. ‘As you can see there is little rest to be had. I think it’s part of the torture method of breaking you down and then building you back up again.’
‘Like a cult?’
He laughed. ‘A bit.’
‘Lucky you’re so strong then,’ she said, genuinely admiring him. His eyes connected with hers and a jolt went through her. She put down her near-empty glass.
‘Thank you.’ He waited a moment and then said, ‘So, why are you here, Christmas? Really? I’m sure it’s not to make chocolate—as much as I enjoyed our time together doing that.’
‘Well, I do actually like to make chocolate when I’m stressed. It’s what I do at home. It soothes me.’
‘What are you stressed about?’
It was a long list. She’d fallen in love, been loved in return, and then it had all come into doubt and been turned upside down. The information about her father. Elsa’s illness. Her mini breakdown in front of Lincoln at the chateau.
She suddenly felt hot and stood up, looking for a window to open. There was one above the bed where Jackson was sitting; she reached over him, her shirt lifting and the skin of her abdomen finding the air. She shoved the window open as hard and fast as she could and stepped back out of Jackson’s personal space, but his eyes were focused military-style, straight ahead. A wave of affection for him made her want to reach out and stroke his cheek. But she held back.
She sat on the bed opposite him, their eyes level. Most of all right now, she needed a friend. ‘It’s a long story,’ she said.
‘I don’t have anywhere else to be.’
‘That’s good, because I’ve been feeling really bad the last couple of days. Bad in a way I haven’t felt for several years. I started to worry myself.’
Jackson waited for her to go on.
‘I got some information and it was quite a shock.’
‘Is everything okay back home?’
‘Yes. I guess. I’m not sure.’ She paused, wondering where to start, and fiddled with the bedspread near her knee.
‘I hear it helps to start at the very beginning,’ he said.
‘Like a Julie Andrews song?’ She grinned.
‘Huh?’
‘“Do, re, mi”? You know, The Sound of Music?’
‘Never seen it.’
‘Oh, come on. You must have.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘But you have to,’ she said. ‘Everyone needs to see it. It’s such a lovely film. Too long, granted. I’ve probably watched it twenty times and only made it to the end twice. But, still! You have to see it. I’m going to send you the DVD as soon as I get home.’
Jackson laughed, his neck muscles flexing as his head tilted back. Seriously, the man only had to breathe and muscle would flex.
‘Here, give me your address.’ She fished in her bag for paper and a pen and passed them to him to write it down, which he did, amused, resting the paper on his knee. He wrote carefully.
‘Excellent,’ she said, putting the paper back in her bag. Outside, the music sped up and more instruments joined the guitar. It sounded like a gypsy festival out there and Christmas’s mood soared.
‘Okay, so now that we have my movie viewing sorted, let’s get to the reason you’re really here,’ Jackson said.
‘Oh, yeah.’ She paused again. Maybe talking about this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe it would just make her mind focus on it more. Perhaps, in the absence of chocolate making, she needed another form of physical outlet. ‘You know what? I think you’ve helped me already. How about we just go outside and drink wine and dance?’
‘Fine with me,’ he said. ‘I’m better with action than talking.’
‘Then let’s just dance instead of talking, or making chocolate,’ she said, excited.
‘Master Le Coutre says it’s the same thing anyway.’
‘He might just be a genius,’ she said solemnly.
‘Or mad as a hatter,’ Jackson said.
‘Oh, so you’ve seen Alice in Wonderland then?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Oh, Jackson!’
‘Maybe we should dance?’ he suggested.
‘Amen to that.’
And so they danced, barefoot on the damp grass, overly warm in each other’s arms, the smell of wine on their breath as they laughed, surrounded by people from all around the world, singing in different languages, live music effortlessly directing their steps, until at three am they finally began to droop with fatigue and Jackson drove her home, their conversation slowing naturally as their eyelids began to close.
‘You should stay,’ she said when he pulled up outside the chateau. ‘You’re too tired to drive. There’s a foldout couch in my room. It’s probably not very comfortable, sorry, but maybe no worse than the compound you’re already in. And at least it’s quiet.’
He shook his head.
‘Okay, I’ll sleep on the foldout and you can have my bed,’ she said cheerily.
‘It’s not that,’ he said, looking straight ahead. ‘It would be too difficult to be there with you and not be with you.’
Christmas’s heart lurched. ‘I’m sorry, Jackson. I really like you. I just think my heart is, kind of regrettably, somewhere else.’
He looked at her then and butterflies stirred around her navel. ‘Why “regrettably”?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘It’s always such a big risk, isn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘I live in Jo’burg. I understand something of living with risk.’
‘Yes, I suppose you do.’
‘But there is one thing I know for sure,’ he said, reaching out to brush some hair from the side of her face. ‘Being alive is a risk. You risk dying every single day. But you can’t let it stop you living. And nothing . . . nothing . . . you can do will stop death from coming eventually. So the only choice you have is to live.’
Christmas swallowed past the tightness in her throat and took a deep breath. ‘Well, that’s sobering.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘No, you haven’t. I think you’re right. Maybe the trick is just to keep on dancing.’
He gave a small smile and she hopped out and closed the door gently.
Christmas watched Jackson’s borrowed ute until the taillights disappeared around a bend. She hoped very, very much that she would see him again one day. For now, she blew him a kiss goodbye.
For her final two days in Provence, Christmas decisively made herself three temporary rules, just to help her get to the other side: she would make peace with the fact that she wouldn’t find Gregoire Lachapelle on this trip but know that the door was still open for the future; she would allow no more angst over Lincoln—that situation would be sorted soon enough, one way or another; and she would devote herself to drinking in the stunning beauty of Provence, savouring every taste, sight, sound and smell, filling her inner well before she got back on the plane.
So that was what she did.
She arrived back in Tasmania after dark on Saturday evening and slipped into her loft above The Chocolate Apothecary. She dropped her luggage just inside the door, set the heaters to a fierce level to warm the frosty air, pulled on a fresh pair of fluffy paisley pyjamas from her armoire and climbed under her doona, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Her first day back in the shop was a Sunday, so there wasn’t a lot of time to indulge in jetlag, with the expected weekend visitors coming as usual. But she’d woken feeling better than she’d thought she’d might, and enjoyed reading through Abigail’s notes on everything that had happened on the days the shop had been open; she also flicked through the collection of letters and bills that had accrued. Unexpectedly, and touchingly, there was an invitation from Dennis and Juliette to their nuptials in a few months’ time. They’d set the date on the same night as the chocolate-inspired proposal, they said, and would love her to come. She was honoured that they would acknowledge her for the very small role she’d played in securing their happiness.
But she’d have to leave all communications and paperwork until tomorrow when the shop was closed. Today, she needed all her mental power to concentrate on making coffees and serving treats without burning or spilling anything. Throughout her time on the floor, she noticed that the store was slightly changed with the movement and rearrangement of stock; coming home was like reacquainting herself with a good friend who had adventures of her own to share. She was also enjoying the creative, entrepreneurial thoughts that kept floating to the surface—inspired by her trip—such as hosting farm tours to local producers, connecting people with the origins of their food, and running chocolate-making workshops—though she’d be a lot kinder to her clients than Master Le Coutre’s boot camp had been to her cohort.
Christmas wasn’t surprised that Rosemary McCaw was the first visitor on her doorstep. What was surprising, however, was how she was dressed—in head-to-toe hot-pink lycra and carrying a black bicycle helmet under her arm.
‘Christmas Angel, it’s so wonderful to have you back at the helm of this ship,’ Rosemary said, tip-tapping her way across the floor to embrace her.
‘It’s wonderful to see you, Rosemary,’ Christmas said, hugging her. ‘And why are you dressed like that?’
Rosemary stepped back and pointed her foot to one side to show Christmas. ‘My new shoes.’ They were cycling shoes, which explained the noise they made on the wooden floor. ‘Gordon Harding has been instructing me in the fine art of penny farthing transportation. We’re training for next year’s seniors races.’
‘Oh.’ That also explained the skin-tight pink outfit. ‘Oh! You and Gordon, hey?’ Christmas winked at Rosemary and raised her eyebrows. It was so heart-warming to see two senior residents find new life with each other. Especially since Rosemary had seemed down before Christmas left for France.
‘Yes, we’re an item. He’s my beau. We have regular sleepovers at each other’s houses.’
‘Ah, that’s . . . nice.’
Just then, Gordon Harding, Who Was Riding His Penny Farthing, rolled to a stop outside the shop, perched high on the big wheel and flicking the lever of the metal bell to make it click and clack.
‘That’s my call,’ Rosemary said. ‘After this morning’s ride we’re going to look up videos on YouTube for race tactics.’
‘That sounds like great fun,’ Christmas said. ‘But with all this training, will you no longer be coming in for chocolate consultations?’
Rosemary placed her hand on her heart. ‘My dear, I simply could not live without your chocolate. There is nothing on earth that would make me stop coming.’ She positioned the bicycle helmet on her head, wobbling it from side to side to find the best fit, then did up the chinstrap with some difficulty under that rather wide jaw. ‘At any rate, I’ll be back soon, as I need to hear all about your adventures and your own love story.’
‘I’m not sure what the ending to that story is yet,’ Christmas said pensively.
‘Then you can still choose the final scene,’ Rosemary called over her shoulder, heading to the door. ‘I’ll be back for the encore.’
Around midday, Bert and Ernie arrived, a cold gust of wind following them in the door. They welcomed Christmas home with smiles and a tip of their caps before moving to the coffee station for their free coffee of the day.
‘Off to canasta?’ she called to the back of the men’s trademark baseball caps as they sorted out their brews.
‘Yes,’ Bert said. ‘And those Henderson boys are going down today.’
‘They only won last time because of those four red threes. Can’t beat luck like that. But the stats would suggest they won’t get that lucky again today,’ Ernie said.
‘And that red canasta of aces.’ Bert shook his head. ‘I’d swear they were cheating.’
Bert and Ernie took their places at the long table and ordered chocolate toast, and Christmas placed the bread, fresh from Jane’s bakery, under the cafe grill.
Then, just as she delivered the plates to the men, a text message arrived from Emily, asking if she’d like to catch up for dinner, but Christmas didn’t have time to think about how to respond before Cheyenne came in carrying a bunch of sunflowers so large they almost dwarfed her short stature.
‘Hello!’ she called from behind the yellow heads and long green stems.
Christmas rushed to help her get them onto the counter. ‘It’s great to see you,’ she said. ‘Abigail was a bit worried about you while I was away. What happened?’
Cheyenne shot her left hand up into the air, the back of her hand facing Christmas, her fingers straight. A white gold and diamond ring sparkled under the lights.
‘Oh my God!’ Christmas took her hand and gazed at the beautiful ring, shiny with freshness and new beginnings. ‘How did this happen?’ Cheyenne wasn’t even seeing anyone as far as she knew.
‘His name’s Wilbur,’ Cheyenne said. ‘He lives in Melbourne and we’ve known each other since we were kids but we’d lost track for a decade or so. Then he looked me up on Facebook and we began chatting and it was as if we were best friends and always had been and should never have lost contact. He came to stay for a couple of weeks while you were away and I guess we fell into a bit of a . . . well, a consumed state of affairs.’
‘You’ve gone red to the tips of your ears!’ Christmas laughed.
‘The rest of the world just fell away, including, I’m afraid to say, your shop and my flower commitments. I’m very sorry.’
Christmas waved a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Abigail came knocking on the door eventually. She didn’t look very pleased. You know how she gets that horseshoe-shaped wrinkle between her brows when she’s grumpy.’
‘Yes, I do. She must be grumpy a lot, come to think of it, because I see it often.’
‘She told me off and said I’d let you down and you’d be so disappointed.’ Cheyenne tucked her left hand behind her back then, as though suddenly ashamed.
Christmas pulled it back around to the front. ‘Not at all. I’m delighted for you.’
‘Really? Because I’d love you to be a bridesmaid. I mean, I know we’re too mature for that sort of thing, but I don’t really have another word for it. I can’t call you a flower girl. Or maybe I can!’ Cheyenne laughed—loud, joyous laughter that simply couldn’t be contained.
‘Well, of course I’ll be your person, whatever you want to call me.’ They hugged.
‘I’ve got to run,’ Cheyenne said. ‘We’re off to look at venues together while the kids are at school. But I wanted to get these flowers to you and say how sorry I am for falling off the radar. I promise I’ll get my head together soon.’
‘Go on. Have fun.’
Cheyenne practically bounced out the door.
Christmas took a deep breath and a moment to absorb Cheyenne’s wonderful change of luck and the new direction her life was taking. Life was full of surprises. It seemed as though the whole world was in love or getting married: Val and Archie; Lincoln’s friend Rubble; Dennis and Juliette; Rosemary and Gordon; and Cheyenne.
Val appeared in the afternoon carrying a bag with the wedding shoes she’d just picked up for next weekend. She held them aloft and smiled sheepishly. Christmas was still annoyed with her, but Tiny Val was her sister. It was par for the course of sisterhood that you got annoyed, got hurt, but still kept going. It was the unwritten universal pact. And besides, Val was getting married in a week. Softening, Christmas held out her hands for the box to inspect them.
‘Have you come to see me here so I can’t make a scene in front of my customers?’ she asked.
‘Of course not,’ Val said, taking a freshly baked gingerbread man from the jar in front of her stool at the counter.
‘Because I’m still cranky,’ Christmas said, setting out cups to make tea. She’d had quite enough caffeine for one day. Despite the promising start to the day her stamina hadn’t lasted, and for the past few hours she’d been fighting off random waves of jetlag, which felt like she was being dumped in the surf and smothered by the weight of the ocean as she scrambled for air. She’d changed the music in the shop to an up-tempo Beatles compilation to keep her going. But she was very much looking forward to the shop being closed tomorrow so she could catch up.
‘Oh, Val, these are gorgeous,’ she added, touching the soft white fabric flowers on the toe of the shoe.
‘And they’re actually comfortable too! And half price! I’m a lucky girl,’ Val said, biting the foot off the gingerbread man. ‘Here, I brought you this,’ she went on, handing over her offering.
Christmas eyed the object uncertainly. ‘You brought me a rock?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
Val shrugged. ‘We’d run out of packet mixes for any sort of cake, so I chose a rock from the garden. Count yourself lucky—the rock’s probably more edible than a cake would have been anyway.’
Christmas looked at her. ‘You’re a bit odd.’
‘I know. Look, I really am sorry. It was an awful blunder of miscommunication and bad timing. You said so many times that you didn’t care about finding Gregoire, so when I didn’t hear back from you I assumed you were just ignoring me, but then later thought I should check just in case . . . But I’m still sorry.’
Christmas turned the rock over in her hand. On the back, Val had painted a red love heart in nail polish.
‘We’re family, Massy, and always will be,’ Val continued. ‘Families are the foundations of life, just like rocks are the foundation of the earth, which is of course why it hurts you so much that you might have missed your chance to find your father.’
Christmas lifted one shoulder—a partial relenting. ‘I think I’m old enough to know that there are many chances in life. They keep coming, like buses. If you miss one, you just take the next one.’
As Val took her hand, Christmas thought that her little sister might be right: family was the base of life and it was also the bedrock of happiness. If yours was a bit wonky to begin with, then you had to work harder to make it strong.
‘Okay, so I suppose I forgive you.’ She turned away to get the tea.
‘Hurrah.’ Val clapped.
‘Now, shall we follow the rules of making up after a fight and stuff ourselves silly with chocolate?’ Christmas said.
‘Pass me that bag of salted caramel drops there.’
‘This one?’
‘Yes. And get the slab of rocky road too.’
‘Sure. And while we’re on family, I want to start cooking classes with Nate. I should have done it before now. He’s been right under my nose.’
‘He’ll love that,’ Val said, biting into the rocky road. ‘Make sure you teach him how to make this first, though, because I plan on eating all of it.’
By the late afternoon, Christmas had also caught up with Mary Hauser and her schnauzer (who came in for doggy chocolate); Abigail (who came to let Christmas know she’d be reducing her working days to just Saturdays because she was taking on more study); and Tu and Lien. The last pair had popped in on their way to hydrotherapy for Lien, and Christmas had told them to wait in the shop while she raced upstairs, tipped out the contents of her suitcase and skipped back down the stairs with the novel she’d bought in Paris. She handed it to Lien.
‘It’s in French,’ the girl said, puzzled.
‘I picked it up at a book stall beside the Seine. At the rate you read, I was worried you might get through everything ever written in the English language, and I wondered if maybe you might like to start taking French lessons with me, and then you could start on the French books?’
Lien looked up, her eyes wide under the red woollen beanie on top of her long hair. ‘Together?’
‘Yes. I think it’s time I learned, but I hear it’s a difficult language and I reckon it would be much more fun with a friend. What do you say?’
Lien looked at Tu, who smiled and nodded. A bright smile flashed across Lien’s face, quickly replaced by an attempt at teenage nonchalance. ‘Okay, sure. I could do that.’
‘Wonderful!’
Tu had mouthed a silent thank you to Christmas while Lien was busy flipping through the book’s pages.
Now, Christmas turned her thoughts to Emily, who was waiting for an answer about having dinner tonight. The problem was, though, that she’d pushed Lincoln and Emily together, and then Lincoln had up and left Tasmania and followed her to France. She couldn’t be sure until she spoke to Emily, but perhaps her friend might be—justifiably—upset about this. And since she didn’t yet know where she stood with Lincoln, it would make their conversation rather awkward. She felt guilt about Lincoln, but at the same time she was still hurt that Emily hadn’t told her about Gregoire herself. It was all a bit much for her tired and foggy mind to handle. So she sent a message in reply to Emily, saying she was horribly jetlagged and would get back to her when she felt better.