The Chocolatier

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

San Francisco, 1945

“Here comes your Italian man,” Marge said, turning up the radio to sing to the latest Andrews Sisters’ harmony, which she did whenever Monsieur Jean-Jacques was away. The older woman had been working at La Petite Maison du Chocolat since Monsieur had opened it ten years ago, and after Celina’s mother died, she’d taken it upon herself to match Celina with every handsome man who passed through the door.

With the shop’s location near Union Square, there were plenty of men, but Celina knew that most of the young men who still wore their sailor whites or dress uniforms were just passing through, waiting to take trains home to loved ones.

Celina glanced up from behind the glass case, where she was arranging freshly made chocolates on lacy paper doilies. Business had been brisk due to returning troops from the Pacific theater pouring in through the San Francisco harbor. Boxes containing decorative gift tins were stacked to the ceiling in the back of the shop, waiting to be filled with gifts of chocolates for reunited lovers and families.

The scents of chocolate and other rich ingredients filled the air. Vanilla, sugar...raspberry, apricots...almonds, pistachios, pecans...cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, cayenne. Celina breathed in. She loved the aromas of her artistry.

This job was everything she had ever dreamed of, and it would have made her mother proud. Stella Romano had taught her daughter everything she’d learned about making exquisitely flavored and formed chocolates while studying in Paris before she’d married. Celina had all of her old recipes, and she’d also crafted many new versions.

“Celina, you wait on them,” Marge whispered, tucking strands of gray-shot brown hair into her bun. “That tall one is terribly attractive. Distinguished. A professor, maybe.”

Marge liked to guess people’s vocations. “He comes for the chocolates.”

“Oh, please. Every day?” Marge rolled her eyes as if Celina were naive.

Celina waved her off. Most people were naive compared to Marge, who used to work as a waitress at an all-night diner near the docks. She’d often start a story, saying, I got one that’ll roast your ears.

“Bet he asks you out today. Look here, he’s brought a friend for courage.”

He didn’t strike her as the kind of man who needed anyone’s moral support to ask a girl to dinner. Or coffee. She wouldn’t say no to either, though she didn’t even know his name. Once he’d spent an entire hour in the shop, asking her about her favorite fillings and flavors, how she tempered the chocolate, and all sorts of details most people didn’t give a hoot about.

She guessed he’d been a chef or teacher, maybe a pastry chef, or even a fellow chocolatier before the war, but he never offered any information about himself. Still, the way he looked at her was almost eerie. Intimate, but not s****l, as if he’d known her before. Or maybe he was an artist analyzing her features.

The bell on the shop door jingled as Marge disappeared behind a pair of short swinging doors into the kitchen, where Celina spent most of her time. Two weeks ago when the man had started asking questions about Celina’s truffles, Marge had seized on a matchmaking opportunity and brought her out of the kitchen to meet him.

Since then, this courtly man with the kind eyes had been visiting the chocolaterie almost every day. Celina smiled at him. Maybe today was the day. “Good afternoon.”

“Buongiorno,” he said, his deep voice filling the shop and reverberating off the tiled walls and floors, reminding her of a magnificent singer she’d once heard at the opera house with her mother. The man turned to his friend. “This young woman makes the finest chocolates in all of San Francisco. She has the soul of a true chocolatière and knows to use only the finest chocolate.”

Celina felt her face warm. One day he’d quizzed her on her knowledge of ingredients, and they’d discussed the merits of different varieties of cocoa beans from Central and South America. His favorites were from Venezuela, but he also loved those from Ecuador, and he spoke with reverence about cacao from a particular part of Peru.

“I’ve been experimenting with a new raspberry truffle recipe.” She plucked two perfectly hand-rolled truffles from the case, placed them on a white doily on a small silver tray, and offered them to the two men. “Would you like to try one?”

“Raspberry, yes?” the tall man asked, hesitating. “Not strawberry?”

“That’s right,” Celina said.

The man’s stocky friend quickly accepted her offering. “Grazie.” A warm, engaging grin creased his face, though it didn’t quite reach his weary eyes. Despite the angry red scars that ran from temple to jawline, he’d been handsome, and there was still something intriguing about him. She returned his quick smile. Many men and women had returned with physically lingering signs of service to their country.

As the man’s friend tasted a morsel, his dark-lashed eyes lit with delight, and he seemed to transform in front of her as if her chocolate held a magical ingredient. Slinging an arm around the taller man, he grinned. “You were right, Doc. Best truffle I’ve ever had. And the prettiest chocolate maker.”

“I’m not a chocolate maker, I’m a chocolatière.”

A grin played on the stocky man’s face. “What’s the difference?”

“Chocolate makers process cacao into chocolate through fermentation,” Celina said. “Chocolatiers are the artisans who use the processed chocolate to create molded and hand-formed sweets.” As she spoke, Celina glanced shyly at the taller man. Doc. The nickname suited him. He certainly had the gentle manner of a physician. She wondered if he’d been called for duty, or if he practiced medicine here in the city. Both, perhaps.

“Smart young lady.” The stocky man laughed with admiration. “You sure showed me.”

Celina couldn’t help but smile along with his infectious laughter.

“Don’t test her, Tony,” Doc said, admonishing his friend with a chuckle. “She knows what she’s doing.”

Doc tasted the truffle, thoughtfully measuring the texture and flavor. Celina held her breath, waiting for his opinion. He was so knowledgeable about her craft, and she trusted his judgment. Finally, he brought his fingers together and touched his lips. “Magnificent. This is your masterpiece.” He smiled. “So far. But you will achieve so much more.”

Celina’s cheeks burned, though she tried to hide her great pleasure. “Thank you. I’m working on another recipe today. Perhaps you’d like to try it tomorrow.”

“I cannot stay here.” Doc shook his head, and his eyes were filled with sorrow. He took her hand in his—the first time he’d ever done that. “I’m leaving San Francisco in the morning.”

His touch was magnetic, and Celina felt a chill course through her, almost like a vision. Blinking, she reminded herself that like so many other people who streamed through the shop, he was also on his way elsewhere. Nothing more than a tourist. No, he was not the man who would change her life as Marge imagined. How silly to think he could. She cleared the thickness she felt in her throat. “I’m glad you found our chocolaterie. It’s been a real pleasure meeting you.”

“I’ll be coming back,” Tony said with a broad grin, vying for her attention. “I’ll buy a box of your best.” Looking hungrily at the chocolates in the glass case, he asked her to select her finest assortment, and Doc asked for the same to take with him.

While Celina wrapped up the selections, adding satin ribbons and finishing each with a deft bow, Doc’s friend leaned on the glass top, watching her every movement. Glancing at him, she saw that he wore a silver medallion around his neck of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers.

“Sorry for testing you,” Tony said in a rich, gravelly voice. “I have a real appreciation for chocolate, too.”

“Really now?” she asked as Marge bustled from the kitchen with more gift tins. She must have overheard the conversation because now she was inspecting Tony. Celina stifled a laugh. She’d even applied pink lipstick and smoothed her hair. Marge didn’t waste any time zeroing in on another potential suitor for her.

“Absolutely,” Tony replied, trying to catch her eye while she packaged their chocolates. “I recognize and appreciate quality.”

Marge quickly cut in. “Then you’ll come back tomorrow to sample Celina’s new truffle recipe, won’t you?”

After the two men had gone, Celina smacked Marge’s shoulder with a towel, playfully chastising her. “You’re awfully bold.”

“And why not? You’re young, talented, and beautiful, and there are scads of men flowing through here.” Leaning on the counter, Marge folded her hands under her chin and gazed after them. “Take it from me. Doc’s leaving. When one door closes, yank open another door. Blink, and ten years pass.”

“I don’t know if Tony is my type.”

“I bet he’s a lot of fun. Don’t you remember how to have fun? Ah, if I were twenty years younger, you wouldn’t stand a chance with him,” she said, fluttering her lashes. “That man has a kind face, I can tell. That’s what counts. Handsome, too. Look past the scars, sweetheart. Most young women won’t.”

“Scars don’t bother me.”

With a wink, Marge elbowed her in the ribs. “Makes him look dangerous. Sexy, even. Shows he can handle himself and survive.”

Celina felt her face warm. Resting an elbow on the case next to Marge, she cupped her chin in thought. “I think every scar and every wrinkle tells a story. But I don’t know if he’s my type.”

Still, there was something about his lively dark eyes and the intense way he looked at her, just like she remembered her father looking at her mother. Despite her disappointment over Doc’s departure, she found herself hoping she might see Tony again.