The Chocolate Apothecary E-Book

Josephine Moon

• Herausgeber: Allen & Unwin
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Winner of a 2015 Gourmand Cookbook Award For Fiction Shortlisted for the 2015 ABIA Matt Richell Award for New Writer Christmas Livingstone has formulated ten top rules for happiness that she lives by: Nurturing the senses every day, doing what she loves, sharing joy... but the most important for her rules is absolutely no romantic relationships! Her life is good as the owner of the enchantingly seductive shop, The Chocolate Apothecary. In her shop she can explore the potential medicinal uses of chocolate that make people happy. Her friends surround her and her role as a fairy godmother to her community allows her to share her joy. What she doesn't need is a handsome botany ace who knows everything about cacao to walk into her life... Or does she... The Chocolate Apothecary is a glorious novel of a strong creative woman discovering that you can't always play life by the rules.

Leseprobe

First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Allen & Unwin

First published in Australia in 2015 by Allen & Unwin (under the title The Chocolate Promise)

Copyright © Josephine Moon 2015

The moral right of Josephine Moon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

Allen & Unwin

c/o Atlantic Books

Ormand House

26-27 Boswell Street

London WC1N 3JZ

Phone: [phone]

Email: [email protected]

Web: www.allenandunwin.com/uk

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN 978 1 76011 359 9

E-Book ISBN 978 1 92526 670 2

Typeset by Post Pre-press Group, Australia

For my dad, Brian, and stepmother, Pamela, for sharing so much of Tasmania with me, creating many treasured family memories of our time there.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Two months later

Acknowledgements

1

Christmas Livingstone’s Top 10 Rules for Happiness

1. Do what you love and love what you do.

2. Never let yourself get hungry.

3. There is almost nothing that cannot be improved by chocolate.

4. Nurture all five senses each and every day.

5. Share joy with others and you’ll feel joyful too.

6. Massage is not a luxury but a necessity.

7. Ask yourself, ‘What would Oprah do?’

8. Your destiny doesn’t happen to you; you make your destiny.

9. Be on a quest at all times.

And, most importantly,

10. Absolutely no romantic relationships.

•

It was Thursday, Holy Thursday, to be exact—the day before the four-day Easter weekend, which also included the Evandale garden expo on Saturday—and The Chocolate Apothecary was a bubbling pot of activity. Easter, Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day were the biggest chocolate events of the year, and this time around, Easter was late enough to be just a week before Mother’s Day.

Cheyenne and Abigail were working the floor, selling and waitressing like their lives depended on it, carrying silver trays weighed down with mugs of hot chocolate, mochas, and pots of tea, apple pie and cream, chocolate fondants, chocolate-coated raspberries, chocolate brownies and pralines. Biscotti. Macarons. Meringues. The aromas of them all swirled together around the shop in a magical, intoxicating perfume and rolled out onto the street, stopping people in their tracks so they followed the scent inside, as if hypnotised.

Lots of visitors were in town for the Easter break, and it felt as though they’d all ended up inside Christmas Livingstone’s stately Georgian building, hiding from the indecisive weather outside. She peeked out from the kitchen behind the swing doors, wiping her hands on her apron. The long communal table down the centre of the shop was full, with customers’ chatter adding to the cacophony.

She’d be up all night replacing the chocolates and baked goods the crowd was consuming today. Maybe she should call someone in to help. But who? She couldn’t very well expect Cheyenne or Abigail to stay into the night after working all day. Maybe her sister? Val couldn’t cook a single thing, let alone temper chocolate or decorate it once it was set. But she was tremendously pragmatic. She would wash, clean, sweep, carry, lift and load. And she would keep Christmas’s spirits up when the fatigue hit. But Val had a man and three boys to look after.

That really only left Emily. She was working today but she’d be up for an all-nighter. Christmas would only have to sell it to her as a girly sleepover like they’d had when they were kids, and give her a glass of bubbly, and she’d be in. It was one of the many things she loved about Emily. She was always so keen to help.

Christmas pulled her phone out of her pocket, then hesitated. She hated asking for favours, even when she knew the other person would be happy to oblige. But the crowd out there wasn’t letting up and it was only going to get busier.

‘Just do it,’ she told herself, and tapped out a message.

Emily responded instantly. Absolutely. Great timing! I’ve got a super surprise for you. I can’t wait!!!

A surprise? Christmas couldn’t even begin to guess what that might be. And she had no more time to consider it, because the postman’s squealing van had just pulled up outside the picket fence at the front of the shop.

‘Excellent,’ she said aloud, pushing open the swing doors into the shop, stepping around a little boy rolling a toy train on the floor and a number of steel walking frames propped beside chairs at the small round tables where senior citizens rested with their hot drinks. She’d put in an order for several kilograms of raw cacao butter to be sent express, just in case of a rush, and now she was exceptionally glad she had. She skipped the last two steps across the doorway to greet the postman, who was heaving out of his van a box with a Caution: Heavy Load sticker on it. He placed it on the ground while he fetched his paperwork and mobile scanner for her to leave an electronic signature.

Gordon Harding swooshed by on his penny farthing, his head bent low against the wind, his waistcoat buttoned tightly against the cold. She waved heartily. It was one of the things she loved so much about living in Evandale—the penny farthings, from another time entirely, still whooshing about poetically, refusing to give in to the pressures of time and technology.

‘Sign here,’ the postman said, handing her the clunky device and the electronic pen. She scribbled her initials and said thanks, waiting to see if he might offer to carry the box inside. He didn’t. So she waited until his van had moved on, then knelt beside the box and tested its weight. It was fifteen kilos, according to the sticker. She knew she was strong enough to lift that much, but she was wearing a skirt and it wasn’t easy to brace her legs as she needed to, and the box was large and the cardboard packaging slippery. She levered it a few inches off the footpath before it dropped down again with a thud. She glanced in through the door of the shop, half embarrassed and half hoping someone might help her, but both Abigail and Cheyenne were busy and most of the men inside were older than her ex-stepfather, Joseph.

She was considering her options when an orange taxi pulled up in the space where the van had just been. Through the window, she saw a man thrust a couple of notes at the driver; then he opened the door and stepped out, dragging a battered traveller’s backpack that had certainly seen better days and looked as though its zips and buckles might pop open at any moment. The man straightened, adjusted a laptop bag slung across his body, closed the door, and the taxi left.

An easy smile broke through his dark beard, which was largely unkempt and messy but just within the bounds of still being rustic and attractive. But it was the way his smile reached all the way to his staggeringly blue eyes that hit Christmas hard. The air around her suddenly drained away and she was speechless for a couple of moments, unable to take her eyes off his.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Is this the chocolate place?’ He was walking towards her, his backpack abandoned on the footpath, peering through the window. ‘I picked up a brochure at the airport. I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.’

Christmas found some words. ‘You live here?’ Okay, not impressive words, but they were better than stunned silence.

He turned back to her, that smile still shining from his eyes. One side of his shirt was tucked into his pants but not the other, and for some reason this made Christmas feel wobbly. ‘I come from Tasmania but I’ve been overseas for work a lot in the past few years, coming back to live in my grandmother’s house in between gigs.’

‘I’ve been open for three years.’

‘This is your shop? Perfect. Maybe you can help me choose some chocolates for my grandmother. She’s in a nursing home and has a terrible sweet tooth. All good up here—’ he tapped his temple—‘but the body’s letting her down. On my way to see her now. And I’m starving so I thought I’d grab some lunch too.’

Christmas didn’t know where to look. She couldn’t keep looking at him because her body was reacting strongly to his presence. There was an aura about him—something magnetic. It was something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Perhaps ever.

And it wasn’t allowed. It was rule number ten—absolutely no romantic relationships.

This wouldn’t do at all.

‘Well, come inside and we’ll sort something out,’ she muttered, head down, marching towards the door.

‘Hang on, is this your box?’

She turned around and he’d already heaved the box onto his shoulder as though it was a wildebeest he’d just slain and was carrying home for dinner.

‘Yes. Thanks.’

‘I’m Lincoln, by the way,’ he said, following her through the door, weaving his way through the tables and displays and behind the counter and through the swing doors into the kitchen.

‘Sorry it’s such a mess,’ Christmas said, taking in the spilled chocolate that covered the stainless-steel benchtops, splattered up the fridge doors, ran across the floor and was generally sprayed from one end of the room to the other. It was like a graffiti attack, but a lovely one, made with chocolate.

‘I’ve just come out of the jungle in South America. Trust me, this isn’t a mess. Where do you want this?’

‘Huh? Oh! On the bench, somewhere, anywhere. Thanks.’

Lincoln dropped the box with a thud. Then he stood, calmly, looking at her, still smiling, as though he was waiting for something.

She began to shuffle and find flecks of chocolate to pick off the bench with her fingernail. ‘Are you a musician?’ she asked, remembering that he’d used the word ‘gig’.

‘Botanist. But that sounds like a great alternative job if I need one.’

She was silent for a moment, mesmerised by his eyes. ‘Well, thanks for carrying that in. We should get your chocolates. And shouldn’t you get your backpack?’ she said, suddenly realising they’d left it outside.

Lincoln shrugged. ‘It’ll be right.’

Christmas wished her heart wasn’t thumping so hard. ‘So . . .’ she prompted.

‘You haven’t told me your name,’ he said, touching her arm and sending a twang through her as though he’d plucked a nerve, blatantly flirting with her! It was incredible. No one flirted with her. Not here in sleepy old Evandale. She felt safe from romantic entanglements in this small town. With a population of only one and a half thousand, there simply weren’t enough people for romance.

‘Christmas Livingstone,’ she said, as ordinarily as she could.

He whistled through his teeth. ‘I like that.’

Oh boy, she needed to get out of this. ‘Come on. We’d better get you some food and your grandma some chocolate before it all disappears. It’s terribly busy out there today. You don’t want to miss out.’ And she turned on the spot and marched into the shop, not looking back but trying to sense the whole time how far behind her he was, whether he might be about to bump into her, if she stopped suddenly, for example.

Not that she would.

Not on purpose, anyway.

The rules, she reminded herself. The rules were there for her protection. The rules had served her well and kept her steady for the past three years. Now was not the time to abandon the rules. She had to get a grip.

Emily arrived that evening after The Apothecary had closed, pulling autumn leaves from her long unruly hair, and sniffing as though she was getting a cold. But still smiling.

‘Are you sick?’ Christmas said, tossing some bowls and spatulas into the kitchen sink and turning on the tap.

Emily sniffed some more, hung up her handbag on the coat hook by the door, dropped her overnight bag on the floor and took off her leather jacket. ‘I think it’s hay fever. Can you get it in autumn?’

‘I think you can get it any time. Thanks so much for coming. I owe you.’ Christmas headed to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of bubbly.

‘Rubbish. Think of it as thanks for helping me move into the townhouse over New Year.’

‘Oh yeah.’ Christmas eased the cork out of the bottle with a satisfying pop and it hit the ceiling. ‘That was hard work,’ she laughed. In fact, it had taken her nearly a week to recover. Emily was such a collector and hoarder, and where most people would see moving house as an opportunity to reduce the number of items they had to transport, Em actually seemed to have collected more. She still had dozens of boxes that weren’t opened or unpacked.

They clinked glasses. ‘Cheers!’

‘So what’s this surprise?’ Christmas asked, leaning against the bench. ‘I’m intrigued.’

Emily’s face lit up and she let out a little squeal. ‘I should make you wait until the end of the night, after we’ve finished all the work, but I don’t think I can.’

She placed her glass on the bench, went to her handbag and fished out an envelope. Returning to stand in front of Christmas, she held it in two hands by the top corners. ‘Okay, so you know how in the past you’ve talked about Master Le Coutre?’

Christmas frowned in confusion. This was unexpected. Master Le Coutre was a world-renowned French chocolatier, known for his brilliance, eccentricity, and the annual scholarship course he opened to anyone, anywhere in the world, where they got to spend a week with him absorbing his greatness. The arrogance was breathtaking; the competition for the scholarship, hysterical. The itinerary for his course changed each year, and no one knew what it would be when they applied. Previous recipients reported poetry readings, surprise flights to African cacao farms, sleep deprivation and all-night chocolate making, opera lessons, and camping out in tents under the stars while

Master Le Coutre lectured by fireside and stirred melted chocolate over an open flame; some even claimed they hadn’t seen him once during their stay. He was mad, they said. He was cruel, said some. He was a genius, said many. But nothing he did ever turned people away from applying. It was as though the stranger his behaviour the more people wanted to be in his course. And as no promises were made as to what would happen during the week, and no one actually paid for their trip, no one could really complain too much. He was an enigma; and his devoted followers, including Christmas, hung off every one of his enigmatic words.

‘Yeeess,’ she said, instantly on her guard. Blood rushed through her ears. She had spoken to Emily about him many times, even showing her the magazines where the ads for the scholarship were placed each year. And they had laughed about how bizarre Master Le Coutre was.

‘But would you go?’ Emily had asked her in the past. ‘If you had the chance?’

Christmas had shrugged. ‘Sure, why not?’ But she’d never considered the question seriously because she never thought she would go as far as to apply. No matter how brilliant Master Le Coutre was, going to France meant a whole lot more than professional development. Going to France was personal.

Emily’s eyes brightened. ‘You’re in,’ she whispered.

‘What?’

‘You’re in! I got you a place in this year’s scholarship course!’ Emily flung her arms around her and squeezed so tightly that Christmas gasped for breath.

‘Oh, sorry!’ Emily said, stepping back, laughing. She thrust the envelope into Christmas’s hand. ‘Read it!’

‘But I didn’t do this,’ Christmas said, alarmed and confused.

‘I know. I did it. I applied on your behalf and wrote an essay and everything. It took so long,’ Emily finished, breathlessly, as though even the memory exhausted her.

‘What did you say?’

Emily waved her hand. ‘Oh, this and that. I’ve heard you talk often enough about your dream for chocolate to be used as medicine that I could recite what you’ve said.’ She tilted her head to the side. ‘It’s a strange application form. They don’t actually care too much if you have previous experience with chocolate making, though of course I sent photos of your greatest pieces,’ she hurriedly assured Christmas. ‘But mostly I just talked about your passion for chocolate and for the new frontiers!’ She delivered the last sentence very dramatically. ‘You’re going to France! Finally!’ And Emily launched herself on Christmas in another bear hug.

Christmas didn’t know what to say. Every year, only a handful of applicants were chosen for Master Le Coutre’s scholarship week. She’d be mad to knock it back. But it was in France, the great unknown, the place she’d dreamed about, romanticised, loved, and feared going to her whole life. At one stage a few years ago, she’d been quite motivated to go. But then everything in Sydney had happened and she’d shelved the idea, along with thoughts of romance and children. She’d changed her life—made it stable and predictable.

France was the home of the father she’d never known. For so long it had sat there on the other side of the world, taunting her with the possibility of discovery, and the terror of what that might lead to. And given her history, her family history, inviting the unknown into her perfectly neat life was not something to be taken lightly.

But with the trip literally in her hands right now, how could she not at least consider it?

2

A Little Piece of Chocolate Magic

By Peter O’Donnell

Is chocolate good for you?

At The Chocolate Apothecary, the answer is unequivocally yes. But its owner and creator, Christmas Livingstone, goes a step further than that. For her, chocolate is not just good for you; it’s medicine.

It could be easy to assume from the outside that this is just one more chocolate shop among the delights of the gourmet food trails for which Tasmania has become famous. But as its name suggests, The Chocolate Apothecary is much more than a quaint, charming, French-inspired artisan’s boutique.

Inside its stone walls is an abundance of magical enchantments, mystical wisdom, and potions disguised in smooth Belgian chocolate, home-made rose-petal meringues, and fine tea and coffee.

‘I wanted it to feel as though when you eat something here you’re eating a little healing potion,’ says Livingstone.

Those potions are dispensed during a ‘chocolate consultation’, in which a person’s character or life circumstance is matched to the particular properties of chocolate and the botanical extracts Livingstone combines with it.

The Chocolate Apothecary is the manifestation of the long-held dream of Ms Livingstone, a former Sydney-based public relations manager who was once in the media spotlight during her whirlwind relationship with tennis player Simon Barton.

A native Tasmanian, originally from Hobart, Livingstone seems to have transitioned into her new life here in the village of Evandale easily. And successfully. Her appointment list for private chocolate consultations is fully booked most weeks. She glows with the disposition of something akin to what her own name suggests—a little bit of magic.

Asked what drives her, she replies, ‘It’s one of my life rules to do what I love and love what I do. My goal for each day is to bring happiness to myself and to others. That’s a huge motivation. I think we’re a terribly stressed society and have lost the art of valuing simple pleasures and the wisdom of knowing just how important that is. What could be a better job than that?’

Well, possibly this: not only is Livingstone a chocolate apothecarist, but she has also carved out a niche for herself as a ‘fairy godmother’.

‘I started the website on a whim a few years ago, partly to give myself a feel-good project to work on while I was going through big life transitions,’ she explains. ‘I was soon overwhelmed by requests for wishes to be granted. I’ve had to restrict the number I take on, simply because of the time commitments involved in running The Apothecary, and that’s the hardest part. Now some people pay me for services—such as helping them to throw a surprise party or do something nice for someone anonymously—and other wishes I do pro bono. I keep doing what I can in a small way but my ultimate goal would be for the paying clients to subsidise a part-time role for an assistant so we can get through more wishes. So many people out there are struggling.’

For now it’s a small sideline operation, but one she finds immensely rewarding. ‘It’s great fun,’ she says. ‘And of course every wish is accompanied by gifts of chocolate. And any day that ends in chocolate is a good day.’

This travel writer can’t disagree with that logic. So make sure you put a visit to The Chocolate Apothecary high on your to-do list when you’re next heading to this wonderful island state.

What: The Chocolate Apothecary

Where: Russell Street, Evandale, Tasmania

When: Tuesday–Sunday each week, 9 a.m. to 4 p.m.

How to get there: Evandale is a short ten-minute drive from Launceston airport.

Christmas dialled Peter’s number.

‘Christmas Livingstone, I presume,’ he boomed, the warmth in his voice sending a wave of nostalgia through her.

‘I just read the article in the copy of the in-flight magazine you sent. It came in yesterday’s mail but I only just got the chance to read it. It’s really lovely, thank you. It’s always so nerve-racking when someone does a story; they never seem to get it quite right. But I think that might be the best one I’ve read on The Apothecary yet.’

‘Never trust a journo,’ he said. ‘You of all people should know that.’

She could hear the smile in his voice and she missed him. Solid, dependable Peter—one of the few people who knew why she’d left Sydney three years ago. He was an old-school journalist who should rightly be retired but who found the life far too exciting. ‘You’re brilliant, and a great friend. I should send you a portion of the extra profits that will surely come in after this.’

‘Nonsense. Give them to some poor kid who needs a teddy bear.’

‘Where are you off to next?’ she said.

‘Cambodia. I hear the noodles are excellent.’

‘Well, have fun, and have a bowl for me.’

‘Will do,’ he sang. ‘Bye, kiddo.’

‘Bye. Make sure you drop in again next time you’re in Tassie.’

‘Will do.’

She was grinning as she hung up and slid her mobile phone into the pocket of her blue apron. Talking to Peter had given her the lift she needed, having spent much of last night listening to Emily enthuse about the scholarship to France and trying so very hard to pretend she was incredibly grateful and excited too. And she supposed she was, somewhere deep inside. But it was such a shock and she’d found it difficult to concentrate on the work; eventually she had apologised to Emily and explained that she couldn’t stay up half the night talking because she had a huge weekend ahead. Emily had understood, of course, but Christmas had lain awake for several hours in her bed up in the loft, listening to Emily’s deep breathing on the fold-out couch across the room, feeling anxious whenever she thought about France.

But now she surveyed her beautiful shop, buoyed by Peter’s words, energised on this Good Friday public holiday, alone in the store and free to use her imagination. Her eyes fell on the store’s logo.

At one point in primary school, it was all the rage among the girls in her class to take cold black coffee, dip a sponge in it and wipe it across white paper. After letting it dry, you took a lighted match and ran it around the edges to make them blackened and fragile. The paper absorbed the aroma of both the coffee and smoke, a heady combination that made Christmas feel rather mature. Then you wrote in ink across the paper, creating an ancient-looking letter.

These memories had inspired her when she was designing the logo for The Chocolate Apothecary; the result was a rectangular sepia-coloured label, with the corners blunted and the edges lined in black. The Chocolate Apothecary arched across the top in scrolled writing. Below the words was a sketch of a woman in Victorian dress atop a penny farthing—a nod to the town, famous for its annual penny farthing races through the village. The woman’s basket overflowed with herbs and flowers—her medicinal tools—and her hair streamed out behind her in complete contrast with her prim Victorian clothing. Although the design was Victorian in feel, it coexisted harmoniously with the Georgian building she’d acquired to run her business.

When Christmas first saw the shop, it had a hand-painted sign tacked to a post and hammered into the overgrown front lawn saying, For Sale or Rent by Owner. At the time, she had enough money saved from her former career in public relations to place a deposit, but with no regular income now coming in, she knew that a bank wouldn’t give her a loan to purchase the place. Instead she’d struck a rent-to-buy deal with the owner with the hope to one day own it outright. That was why articles like Peter’s were so important. She was in this for the long haul, and failure was not an option.

‘Most businesses fail in the first year,’ her mother, Darla, had helpfully told her when Christmas announced she was opening the store. ‘Well, I’m just being practical,’ she’d said defensively in response to Christmas’s dismayed expression.

But she was still here, three years on.

Like most small businesses—particularly those in sleepy towns off the popular trails—Christmas had known she’d have to diversify if she was to survive. While chocolate remained at the heart of what she did, she could never make a living just selling it; after all, people could pop into their local supermarket for a huge block of chocolate for a fifth of the price of hers. She had to entice people with a total sensory experience. So she found beautiful knick-knacks to sell and involved community members with small businesses of their own who needed a gorgeous place to sell their wares. In gilt letters on the front door, The Chocolate Apothecary now offered Chocolate * Flowers * Homewares * Massage.

In renovating the old building’s front room, she’d sought to retain the essence of the original dispensary but also bring in a breath of fresh air and French country charm. Through a curly trail of paperwork with the council over heritage requirements, she’d replaced the solid wooden door with a glass one to make it inviting to customers on the street. To bring in as much light as possible and give the whole space a warm glow she’d hung rows of lamps and a couple of chandeliers from the ceiling.

She’d kept the original twenty-four-drawer dark wooden apothecary chest along the back wall. It still had some of its brass shell-shaped handles, though others had been replaced by silver replicas over time. On top of it, she’d mounted three tall whitewashed hutches with shelves for products. The counter, which separated the apothecary chest and hutches from the customers, was a marble-topped affair, the kind on which you could grind, chop and mix ingredients and then scoop them off and into a mortar for further pounding. This was also where clients sat for chocolate consultations.

It was there at the bench that she’d first met Tu Pham, only weeks after opening the store, full of lofty ideas of chocolate as medicine she still wasn’t really sure she could pull off. Tu had come to The Chocolate Apothecary to request a fairy godmother wish for her niece’s thirteenth birthday.

At the time, Christmas had been making mousse. There was something so inspiring about turning unappealing egg white and sugar into a rich, snow-white, fluffy mound of foam. As Christmas whisked egg whites, Tu explained that her niece, Lien, lived with her because her parents had been killed in a car accident five years earlier. If that wasn’t bad enough, Lien had juvenile arthritis, leaving her with stiff, swollen and painful joints, debilitating fevers and generally feeling unwell and fatigued. She was a smart girl and a big fan of Irish dancing, and whenever the medications were working and her arthritis was clinically under control, she took lessons.

Christmas, listening sympathetically, took a moment to enjoy the idea of a Vietnamese–Australian girl loving Irish dancing.

‘But she’s recently had a setback—her body’s become immune to the cocktail of drugs she’s been on. I’d take all her pain if I could.’ Tu’s knuckle caught a drop from her eye.

Christmas slid Tu a crystal glass filled with freshly made strawberry mousse, to which she’d added a drop of geranium essential oil.

‘Thanks,’ Tu said, taking the silver spoon from the marble counter and poking it into the shiny surface of the mousse.

‘She must be missing her friends from school,’ Christmas said. ‘Thirteen is such a tough age.’

‘It is. Her two closest friends come to visit her after school but it’s like the light has gone out of her. She’s depressed. And why wouldn’t she be? She should be hanging out with her friends, wondering what dress to wear to the school dance, thinking about boys. Instead, she’s basically bedridden like an old person.’

Tu sucked the spoon clean and her eyes opened wide. ‘Mmm! That’s really good.’

‘Thanks. It’s an experiment.’

‘Well, consider me a willing guinea pig.’

Normally Christmas would have taken more pleasure in the compliment, but she was distracted by Tu’s description of Lien’s situation. It wasn’t fair. A thirteen-year-old shouldn’t be in that much pain. And depressed as well? Christmas knew only too well that dragging, empty, endless despair of depression. The way you became detached from everything around you, the fire extinguished. It was too much.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a woman in a bright yellow anorak approached the counter. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ Christmas said, patting Tu’s hand.

She served the customer, placing a dozen of her handmade chocolates into a box and tying it with ribbon. By the time she returned, Tu was halfway through the mousse and visibly cheerier.

‘I’m serious. This is really good,’ she said, waving her spoon in the air.

‘Wait there. I’ll give you some to take home to Lien.’ Christmas popped out into the kitchen and spooned some mousse into a takeaway coffee cup, then snapped down the plastic lid.

She went back through the swing doors and resumed her position at her consulting stool. ‘Apologies for the lack of presentation,’ she said, handing over the cup.

‘No, that’s great. She’ll love it, I’m sure,’ Tu said.

‘So tell me what I can do to help.’

Tu jiggled her leg beneath her on the stool, as though embarrassed or nervous. ‘There’s a big Irish dance company touring Australia right now and they’ll be in Hobart next week. It will be hard for her to go—she can’t get comfortable sitting up, but if we could get tickets, we could hire a special wheelchair, we can take her heat packs and pillows, we could organise special disability access. I know it’s a lot, and we’d have to stay overnight because the long car trip would be really hard on her . . .’ Her face fell then, reconciling all these challenges.

‘Leave it with me,’ Christmas said. ‘I have a good feeling we can make it work and Lien will have a wonderful time. I’ll try for tickets for her two friends as well, and hotel accommodation with a super-soft bed, all of it.’

‘Really?’ Tu’s eyes welled with grateful tears.

‘Absolutely. Lien needs as much joy as we can muster. Don’t tell her yet in case it doesn’t pan out. But I’ll call you as soon as I can. In the meantime, if she likes that mousse you can come in every day and pick some up.’

Tu put her hands together in prayer position, her fingertips at her nose, and stared at Christmas as though she couldn’t believe it. ‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you.’

‘It’s my pleasure. Truly.’

Later that afternoon, Tu had texted Christmas to say that Lien had loved the mousse, it had really lifted her spirits and she had been smiling ever since and telling jokes. It must be magic mousse! she finished.

And Christmas had stopped in the middle of sweeping the shop floor and leaned on the broom, a powerful, tingling wave rolling down her spine.

Geranium oil was well known for its effect of balancing the nervous system, lifting spirits, instilling a sense of hope, and relieving depression. Or so she’d read. Could the geranium oil in the strawberry mousse really have lifted Lien’s mood?

It was possible, she’d realised with a turbo charge to her heart. It was entirely possible. And there’d been so much research into the health benefits of dark chocolate. So if both of those things were true, did that mean that her chocolate creations really could be medicinal? She’d been worried it was a bit fanciful, and her mother’s eye-rolls didn’t help, but maybe, just maybe, there was something in it after all. Tu’s feedback certainly seemed to give the idea serious validation. And from that moment, she’d never looked back.

Everything had worked out perfectly for the trip to the Irish dance performance. Tu, Lien and her friends had had a great weekend in Hobart. Christmas’s PR skills had combined with her journalist friend Mary Hauser’s contacts to get free tickets, offered by the performance company. They’d also managed to secure hotel accommodation for all of them, with Lien’s bed upsized to a king so she’d have lots of room to prop herself up with pillows as necessary. Tu and Lien had come in to see Christmas the day after their return, the young girl bubbling over with happiness. Soon afterwards, Lien became Christmas’s taste tester.

‘Dreadful!’ she had declared about Christmas’s German chamomile and lime chocolate shells.

‘Lien!’ Tu said, mortified. ‘Sorry, Christmas.’

‘No, no,’ Christmas said. ‘I need to know. Better to hear it from Lien than from a paying customer.’ She winked at the girl.

Unabashed, Lien reached for her walking stick to go to the fridge for a glass of milk. ‘Maybe sheep would like it?’ she’d teased.

‘Great idea. I’ll take the rest to the animal sanctuary in Longford.’

Tu had handed Christmas a bowl of noodles. ‘Stay for dinner?’

‘Love to.’

Quickly, finding ways to help Lien had become one of Christmas’s key motivations for what she was doing.

Rule number one—do what you love and love what you do.

And Christmas loved this store. She adored the crumbling brickwork and original fireplace, which she could never actually light because the heat would destroy the chocolate. She loved Cheyenne’s glorious pyramid of fresh flowers next to the chocolate display case, with its blooms that mingled and cascaded down like a colourful fragrant waterfall. She loved the massage room in the back corner, the serene little hideaway for healing and relaxation, where Abigail eased muscles and minds every day. (Rule number six—massage is not a luxury but a necessity.) And she loved the nooks and crannies harbouring wooden trugs, wine barrels and metal bread bins, and the handmade soaps, floral linen water, ceramic birds, teapots, dried lavender, kitchen canisters, covered chairs, clocks, preserves, linen and lace.

It was precisely because of this that she should go to France. This career she’d built for herself was exciting; it was her life. She’d be mad not to go. She would just have to close the vault on any thought or emotion regarding her father. Stick to what was simple, the basic facts. And the facts were that she loved working with chocolate and Master Le Coutre was a virtuoso chocolatier.

Go to France, she told herself. Go to France and forget your father. Simple.

3

Over in Green Hills Aged Care in Oatlands, Elsa van Luc was waiting impatiently for her grandson to return. He’d come yesterday, straight from the airport, and stayed briefly, keeping a taxi waiting for him in the car park. She’d so wanted him to stay longer, but she’d quickly sent him home, telling him to get some rest. There was nothing worse than a clinging grandmother.

She’d heard Lincoln coming before she saw him, and her heart answered a loud hello. He’d called out when he reached the door of her detached bungalow but didn’t wait for her to reply before coming in, just like the hundreds of times he’d ridden his bicycle to the farm to see her and eat her apple pie with raw sugar on top. Yesterday he strode in with a white box squashed under his arm.

She had known it was him by his voice and his smile, but not much else. There was so much hair.

‘Hi, Nan,’ he’d said, bending down to where she sat in her wheelchair and kissing her cheek, wrapping her in a bear hug, his whiskers tickling her nose.

‘Goodness, who is this come to see me? A yeti?’

He pressed the box into her hands and she clasped it in her crooked fingers with their enlarged knuckles. She could smell the chocolates inside and she brought the pretty parcel up to her nose and inhaled, her eyelids closing in a moment of bliss. At the age of ninety-two it was vitally important to make the most of each moment. The smell took her back to her teenage days working in the fancy cake shop in Hobart, where she had to wear a white lace cap, and polish silver, and stand all day long without a minute’s rest off her feet.

‘I came straight here, via the chocolate shop,’ Lincoln said. He dragged a sturdy chair up next to her at the bay window where she’d been reading Twilight for the past hour. It was the latest on the book-club list. Lulu Divine—who occupied the private bungalow next to hers—had been so outraged by Elsa’s choice that Elsa had begun to feel nervous about holding onto her position as captain, fearing that Lulu might lead a coup at the next election. She could already imagine Lulu’s scathing diatribe on this one. Oh, what a chore she was. She was a former rodeo-riding, self-reliant girl (for, at seventy-two, she was just a girl compared to most of the residents) who, at just eighteen years of age, had left Australia to brave the tough rodeo opportunities in America. She wouldn’t brook any of this Bella character’s whimpering, simpering victim folly. No, Lulu Divine would have sent that Edward vampire on his way quick smart.

Elsa, on the other hand, harboured a soft spot for the Cullen boy. Typical really. Nothing had changed then. Sometimes she wished she’d been more like Lulu when she was young. Not that Ebe had been a vampire of a husband. Just a big kid who’d never grown up and didn’t like to take any sort of responsibility in the world. He thought everything should come easily. Hard work was overrated as far as Ebe was concerned.

‘You didn’t need to bring me anything,’ she’d scolded her grandson, but she knew Lincoln could see right through her pretend crossness. She’d missed him terribly. ‘And you could have got settled at home first.’

She felt a stab of homesickness at the word ‘home’, the house she’d bought in town after Ebe had died, when the farm had become too much for her on her own. Now Lincoln lived there on an ad hoc basis between jobs. It suited her, knowing he had a place to come home to. A place not far from her.

‘Bit jetlagged,’ he admitted. ‘Didn’t trust myself to drive yet. My head’s still on the other side of the world.’

‘I got your email,’ Elsa said. ‘What luck for me that your project finished a bit earlier than expected.’ Her eyes narrowed.

He sat casually, leaning forward with his arms resting on his thighs and his hands dangling between them. His blue eyes, the iridescent colours of a blue jay’s back—so much like Tom’s, yet alive and engaging where his father’s were dull—drilled into hers. ‘Yes.’

They regarded each other for a moment. Jenny would be behind this, no doubt.

‘I assume you’ve cut your trip short because your sister asked you to,’ Elsa said.

He hesitated as though trying to decide how much to say. ‘She had reason to be concerned. The nurse, what’s her name, Susan . . . ?’

‘Sarah.’

‘Yes, Sarah. She’d emailed Jen to say she was worried about you.’

‘Did she?’ Elsa felt a flicker of annoyance, but it was extinguished quickly. Her favourite nurse, Sarah, could do no wrong as far as Elsa was concerned.

‘She mentioned that Dad had been making things difficult.’

Lincoln was fishing for information, she could tell. He didn’t know much. But he’d cut his research trip short to come home for her. It was beyond flattering. But then, if someone had to come—and she was too proud to think for a second that they did—it probably would have to be him. Jenny couldn’t travel easily from north Queensland with young Nathan in his wheelchair. As for the rest of the family: Elsa’s eldest son, Matthew, had died in Vietnam; the next son, Jake, had left Australia forty years back for London; and the youngest son, Tom, was the one acting up.

‘So how are you, really?’ Lincoln asked, and the seriousness in his voice saddened her. He shouldn’t be worrying about her. He had a life to lead, not to be wasted fretting over an old woman.

She began to untie the string around the box. ‘ “The Chocolate Apothecary”,’ she said, reading the sepia-coloured sticker. ‘I don’t think I’ve tried these before. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. But don’t change the topic.’

She swallowed her annoyance. What the young didn’t seem to understand was that no amount of moping or complaining could actually fix anything, so, really, there was just no point dwelling. All you could do was keep busy and strive for new goals, no matter how small. It was okay to keep wanting more, even at her age. Essential, actually. That’s what she told herself anyway whenever she felt that vain thrill run through her at the sight of her name up on the board in the common dining room—Book Club Captain: Elsa van Luc, Wombat Bungalow.

‘The physio-terrorist is exceptionally pleased with my work in the pool this week,’ she said cheerfully, giving him some sort of answer in return for his concern. ‘He says my hip range has improved out of sight. I’ll be pole dancing by New Year.’

‘That’s a party trick I’d like to see,’ Lincoln said. He was so easy to please.

She threw the focus back to him. ‘Have you seen your father?’

‘I only just got off the plane,’ he said, eyeing her. ‘I’ll go see him when I’ve dealt with the jetlag. You were my priority. I wanted to make sure you were alright.’

Elsa had the box open and was clucking excitedly over the chocolates. Several had the most delicate floral stencil patterns on top. Some were the shape of a coffee cup, with white chocolate ‘milk’ inside. Some were wrapped not just in coloured foil but with tiny perfect ribbons as well. There were even tiny hand-painted fairies, with sparkling wings. ‘They almost look too good to eat,’ she said. ‘Each one’s a work of art.’

‘It’s an amazing little shop,’ he said. ‘It’s run by this woman who’s also a fairy godmother.’

‘A fairy godmother?’

‘Apparently. I picked up a brochure at the airport.’ He started to pat his pockets, looking for it to give to her, but gave up when he couldn’t find it. ‘Anyway, she’s a professional wish-granter or something like that. People hire her to make dreams or wishes come true for their family and friends. Isn’t that a great idea?’

Elsa popped a hazelnut praline into her mouth and moaned as the velvety chocolate melted and washed over her tastebuds, the aroma wafting up her nostrils.

Lincoln smiled. She offered the box to him but he waved it away. Then he yawned.

‘Clearly we have much to catch up on,’ she said, running her tongue over her false teeth and sucking from them every last morsel of chocolate. ‘But you obviously need to get home to bed.’ She arched a thinning eyebrow and gestured in the area of his face. ‘And a shower and shave.’

He ran a hand through his long rumpled hair and yawned again, his eyes watering with fatigue.

‘I want to hear all about the jungle, but don’t tell me now,’ she said. ‘That way you’ll have to come back and see me again. You should get home. That taxi’s meter’s running and it’s getting dark outside.’

Lincoln reached out his big, roughened hand and placed it on her veiny, knobbly one. ‘I don’t need any excuses to come see my favourite grandmother.’

‘Pft. I’m your only grandparent left. But I’ll milk it for all it’s worth. Come back and see me when you’ve found your face under all that fur.’

He stood and kissed her on the cheek again and she patted his shoulder. ‘You’re a good boy.’

He grinned and she was speared with the memory of him grinning just like that when he was six, fistfuls of leaves in his hands while helping her in the garden.

‘Thanks, Nan. See you soon.’

With that, he’d lumbered out of the room, leaving behind a gaping hole in her chest.

Now she was waiting for him again, the opened copy of Twilight once more on her lap, except she couldn’t muster the concentration to read it. Instead she was sitting at the window, watching for his car—her car, actually—to putter up the driveway. Waiting like a faithful hound and wondering if there was something she could do to encourage him to stay this time.

She hated being this excited about his return. And she felt unbridled guilt that she loved her grandson more than her son. As well as deep shame that, if she were totally honest with herself, she wished he would change his life for her. No more tripping around the world. She wanted him to put down roots. Find a woman and get married and have children. For as much as she adored her grandson, sometimes his laid-back attitude to life reminded her of her husband—though Lincoln was far more generous and reliable than Ebe ever was.

Not that she wanted him to live his life around her, of course. She wasn’t that selfish. She was an old woman; he was a young man. It was the law of nature.

But still, if it could all fall into place that way . . .

Especially with things as they were with Tom right now. Thinking of her youngest son was like being drenched with cold water. Not for the first time she questioned how Lincoln and his father could be so different.

There must be an answer. Certainly, Lincoln’s globe-trotting would be partly due to his unwillingness to stay in the same place as his father for too long. Those two were made to rub up against each other like pieces of flint. Tom had always been too hard on Lincoln. Anyone could see that. And that was why Lincoln had spent more time at her house than his own as a boy. Tom was a fool and too stubborn to admit he’d been a bad father.

But she still had a chance with Lincoln. She just had to find a motivation strong enough for him to stay. It was a challenge, like a game of chess, and she loved a good challenge. It would keep her mind buzzing like a busy wee bee in the nightly hours of insomnia, as she lay in her bed with just the red glow of the emergency call buttons around the walls of her bungalow to remind her she wasn’t really alone, that help was only a few metres away in the high-care building.

She heard the Honda crunching over the driveway and closed her book.

Challenge accepted.

•

To: Christmas Livingstone; Joseph Kennedy; Darla Livingstone

From: Valerie Kennedy

Subject: Save the date!

Hi family,

It’s finally happened. Archie has popped the question! Actually, that’s a bit dramatic. Basically we decided over fish and chips that after ten years and three kids it was about time we got hitched. So we’ve set the date for 29 July. Simple church wedding and backyard reception, nothing too fancy. Not too much tradition. Although, Dad, if it’s okay I’d like you to walk me down the aisle. Christmas, will you be my bridesmaid? Mum, do you think you can come?

Val xx

————

To: Valerie Kennedy; Christmas Livingstone; Darla Livingstone

From: Joseph Kennedy

Subject: Re: Save the date!

My darling girl, congratulations to you both. And of course I will walk you down the aisle. It would be my honour. Call me this afternoon.

Dad xx

Christmas felt like she’d swallowed a sponge. A big, fat absorbent sponge that was now sucking her dry. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Thank goodness Val had shared this news via email rather than in person.

She dropped the block of chocolate on the marble bench, took a breath and ran her hands down her apron. She tugged at the lace around the sweetheart neckline of her dress, which was suddenly scratchy.

She was happy for Val. Of course she was. She and Archie had been together for so long and they seemed solid. And happy. Why shouldn’t they get married? And it was an honour to be bridesmaid. So why did she feel like this?

It wasn’t that she was losing her sister. Nothing was changing, really. Val and Archie already lived together and had the three boys, so it wasn’t like anything major would come along to disrupt the sisters’ relationship with each other.

She began to shave the chocolate into a small bowl. An unpleasant sensation spread slowly but unstoppably out from her middle, filling her chest and flowing down her legs.

Jealousy, she was horrified to realise. She was fiercely, achingly jealous.

But it wasn’t the wedding.

It was Joseph.

To: Joseph Kennedy; Valerie Kennedy; Darla Livingstone

From: Christmas Livingstone

Subject: Re: Save the date!

My Tiny Val is getting married!!! How exciting! Congratulations!! Yes of course I’ll be your bridesmaid. We’ll chat soon!! love xxxx

————

To: Valerie Kennedy; Christmas Livingstone; Joseph Kennedy

From: Darla Livingstone

Subject: Re: Save the date!

Why would you change something that’s not broken? Valerie, I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but honestly, marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. (Tell her, Joseph—you’ve got two failed marriages under your belt.) You and Archie have had a good run. Don’t ruin it now.

I’m very busy with my work. I was due to be out in western Queensland about that time. But if you insist on going ahead I’ll do my best to be there.

Mum

————

To: Christmas Livingstone

From: Valerie Kennedy

Subject: What the hell is wrong with our mother?!?!?!?

•

When Christmas was nine years old, she’d pictured her biological father as the Looney Tunes French skunk, Pepe Le Pew. All her mother had ever told Christmas about her father was that he had been a twenty-year-old travelling juggler from France whom she’d known only ‘briefly’ (whatever that meant). He wasn’t listed on the birth certificate. No father was. And as an adult Christmas was at times highly sceptical that he existed at all, suspecting that Darla had fabricated him to cover the fact that she couldn’t actually remember who the real one was.

But back then, before those doubts had crept in, Christmas had imagined that her father had black hair with a dramatic white stripe through it, styled with volume. His cheeks were large and expressive, mooshing and squooshing as he pressed them up against the object of his rampant affection—her mother. He clasped Darla’s body to his, cartoon love hearts popping from his chest and stars shooting from his eyes at her outstanding beauty. He was dashing. Overwhelmingly romantic. He serenaded Darla with love songs, a rose between his teeth, and French poetry muttered breathlessly into her ear. Aside from the fact that Pepe Le Pew was actually blatantly sexually harassing the black and white female cat with whom he was smitten, and the fact that he smelled, well, like a skunk, he was every girl’s dream.

Later, when Christmas was a teenager and Darla had made the shocking revelation that her father’s name was Gregoire Lachapelle, Christmas’s image of him had swiftly changed. He now looked like a French film star of the eighties she would watch on movies from her local video store and rewind to watch again. He had desperately soft, jet-black hair that framed his face with delicious curls that just begged to be coiled around your finger. Olive skin. A clean, square jaw. A husky, smoky voice. And eyes that smouldered with passion. She seethed with anger that her mother had carelessly let this man slip through her grasp.

Even as a mature woman, Christmas’s vision of her father still changed regularly. In her most recent imaginings, his face was aged, lined. He would be retired now, with greying hair and silver whiskers that he kept artfully long, not long enough to constitute a beard but more than a couple of days’ growth. Sometimes she pictured him as a farmer, out in the fields tending his sheep, or perhaps his vines. Sometimes he was an artist in Paris, living in a one-bedroom loft like hers, except he would be in the heart of the city, perhaps amid the cafes of the Latin Quarter. Sometimes she imagined him married, with not only other children but grandchildren too who he chased around in the park on weekends. Sometimes in her imaginings, Gregoire was gay—a lost juggler who’d headed out across the oceans as a young man to explore the world and himself, and her mother had been an experiment.