“You get it, Clifton,” she said, her heart a total mush factory right now. She’d heard from others she and Clifton were an unlikely pair. She was only twenty-nine, born and raised outside of Chicago, and he was a distinguished British gentleman of eighty-one. But they had clicked immediately and become family in every way that mattered. “Few acts convey hope like having a piece of chocolate. To me, it’s like you’re saying yes to life every time you eat it.”
“The French talk about enjoying the sweetness of life for a reason. It’s no wonder they are so famed for their chocolate. I am honored to join their ranks as a chocolatier.”
“Well, we’ll have an abundance of the sweetness of life in our shop,” she said, hugging herself. “Here be hope central.”
“Bien sur,” he answered in French, a language they often conversed in. He wore a black mask, but she could tell he was smiling from the way his brow line rose. She’d gotten better at reading the expressions behind people’s face masks. Her favorite compliment was being told she smiled with her eyes. She did so every chance she got.
Truth was, she’d been afraid of living in a world without smiles. Talk about sucking all the hope out. So not her jam. As she liked to tell Warren when they caught up, No siree Bob! Not on my watch. He still poked fun at her for the wacky way she talked. Of course he was as wacky as she was, which was why they were still such close friends. She dug out her camera and took a photo of the frame she’d just placed on the wall, texting it to him with the message:
Your toothless grin has been immortalized, my friend. Consider yourself a hope emissary in the Hudson Valley. Missing you and remembering all our good times together.
His text came back immediately. Well, texts, actually. He never said in one message what could be said in three. Something they had in common.
Missing you (and Sarah) too. Got choked up HARD at that photo. Where did you find it? You’ve got a Hope Chest, don’t you, Bailey? I need a copy!
You GO on the shop! Connection between people has taken a beating with this damn virus, and you’re going to kick BUTT taking it back. Plus, chocolate was such a better idea than lemonade. Have I ever thanked you for helping me see the light?
Have a good day, kid! Talk to you soon. Amy and the girls say hi. Here’s a pic from this weekend, BTW… Taylor has less teeth and hair than I did at six. Of course, our Toothless Wonder is only ten months so I probably shouldn’t be too worried about her, right?
Leave it to Warren to help her smile. Although Warren was grieving too, he’d gone above and beyond to keep her spirits up. So had Clifton. She had no family beyond her friends and those relationships were sacred to her. Being alone in her best friend’s hometown would have been hard, but Clifton never failed to remind her she wasn’t alone. He made every day easier and happier. Of course, he was going through lots of changes too, and she did her part to keep his spirits up. She slid her phone across the counter to Clifton to show him the picture of Warren’s family. He didn’t touch it, but his eyes told her he was smiling again.
“I must admit I laughed at Warren’s last photo,” Clifton said. “Making his backyard into a mini-golf resort with a baby pool and sandbox was not only creative but quite amusing. Especially since his golfing attire was a dinosaur outfit.”
“He made a wicked brontosaurus with that putter,” Alice said, chuckling and shaking off her lingering sadness. “You should have seen what we used to get up to as kids. I’d dress us up as Vikings, and we’d all go sledding and pretend we were pirates on the high seas. If Warren hadn’t wanted to go into finance, I swear he’d have been an actor.”
“Speaking of which,” Clifton said, “I hoped you might be on board with a musical playlist of various Broadway tunes. Classic shows like Hello, Dolly come to mind, but we might also want to include songs from modern ones like Hamilton.”
“Love it! Clifton, you know music like nobody’s business, so I hereby invite you to be in charge of the shop’s playlists. All of them. Make sure to include some of your classical Spanish guitar music.”
“I hereby accept that task.” He bowed in his elegant butler way.
“We should always be playing music,” she decided on the spot. Sabicas’ “Fantasia” was discreetly thrumming through the shop, she realized. Clifton and his small touches again. Sometimes she was too busy to notice them.
They had four weeks until their grand opening in mid-November, right as the holiday season kicked into full gear. Most shops made bank then, and she planned to cash in. Of course, the town’s businesses were all struggling. Foot traffic wasn’t what it had been. She needed to think outside the box to drive people to a new and untested shop.
Some thought she and Clifton were crazy to begin a business in these times, but hope kept them going—hope and a solid business sense bolstered by her education at Columbia University’s business school and six years of working with Francesca, who wasn’t just her former boss but a dear friend. She’d learned a thing or two, and she knew they could make the shop work.
They had six months to break even with their reserves before dipping too deeply into their personal savings. Not having a mortgage on her end was a boon, something she knew Sarah had thought about. She’d been considerate like that. The money Sarah had invested into the shop had also helped.
Only they were opening in a month and hadn’t finished their menu yet. They were still testing and tasting, and her market research never seemed complete. The pandemic had kicked conventional market wisdom to the curb. Alice was going on instinct about what to sell, but with everything on her plate—from moving to a new place, Sarah’s death, finishing their shop’s remodel, and creating content for their website and social media—she didn’t feel on top of her game.
They could use all the help they could get.
“Clifton,” Alice said, “I’m going to call that food writer for the Daily Herald in the city. Arthur was a peach to ask his granddaughter for a contact from when she used to work there.”
“I don’t think he’d take to being called a peach.” Still, Clifton’s eyes crinkled. “But yes, he and Clara, of course, have been most helpful. It doesn’t hurt to have a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist on one’s side.”
“I hope it’s safe enough for them to come visit soon.” Clara, Clifton’s former employer, and her husband were both in their eighties, like he was, and needed to be particularly careful to avoid the virus.
New York was one of the safer places to be at the moment, with some of the lowest Covid rates in the country, but there were no guarantees these days, which was why, when he wasn’t making chocolates in the kitchen, Hargreaves would man the chocolate counter behind the plexiglass wall they’d installed. Alice intended to handle any walk-ins, the Chocolate Bar customers, and the to-go window they’d installed in the outside wall facing the street.
Beyond wearing masks—which was mandatory for entry to all the businesses on Main Street, more by collective agreement than anything else—she planned to keep Clifton as safe as possible. He appreciated it, but he was a proud man and wanted to carry his weight. He’d insisted on being given more duties to offset all she was doing, so she’d told him he could temper the chocolate—a fastidious, time-consuming task more suited to his orderliness than her whimsical ways.