“Okay, I’m going to call from the office. Wish me luck.”
His nod was as crisp as Sabicas picking at the guitar. “You don’t need it. You managed to convince a man of eighty-one to open a chocolate shop with you during a pandemic, after all.”
“I only convinced you of what was in your heart,” she said, blowing him a kiss as she left the main showroom for the hallway leading to the office. Although they’d knocked down a couple of walls since purchasing the building, the office sat where it always had—across from the doorway to the large kitchen.
This building was formerly a dear Italian restaurant that had closed in mid-July. Sarah had thought it perfect, and arranging its purchase had been one of her last acts. Their shop was quite a bit larger than a usual chocolate house, something that worked to their benefit. With a parking lot, outdoor seating, and tons of space inside, they could provide the requisite social distancing and work within new capacity guidelines.
There was also room for their Chocolate Bar, situated in a large room off the main showroom, which Alice hoped would become a gathering place for chocolate tastings and music nights beyond the normal fare they regularly served during the day. Of course, for the time being, they were only allowed a limited capacity inside the shop due to Covid, but she could live with that.
She dropped into her new gold ergonomic desk chair and swiveled around in a circle to boost her energy. The mocha truffle she’d saved for later was sitting on a pink and gold china plate on her white desk, and she popped it in her mouth. Hope in a delicious little package. The sensuous flavor of dark chocolate, ganache, and coffee had her closing her eyes in pure bliss. Damn, Clifton had outdone himself with this last test batch.
Pulling out her cellphone, she brought up the number Arthur had sent her and dialed it, tapping her foot on the newly finished wooden floor under the white desk.
“Paul Brown,” the serious voice answered.
“Hi, Paul. This is Alice Bailey. Meredith Hale put me in touch with you via her grandfather, Arthur.”
“Of course!” The man’s voice brightened. “Meredith emailed me about your new chocolate shop. She was great to work with, and her grandfather… He’s a legend.”
“He’s a dear,” she agreed. “My partner for the House of Hope & Chocolate worked for his wife until recently. Clifton and I decided it was now or never to follow our dreams. I mean, if there’s one thing we’ve all learned it’s that life is short, right?”
“Right.” He sighed heavily as if he’d had his own share of hardships. “But New York is doing better right now, and we’re all grateful for that. Now, what can I do for you?”
She set a hand on their working menu, focusing on her pitch. “Meredith said you were one of the best food writers out there, and I was hoping you might be interested in visiting our chocolate shop and featuring it in your column. We open the week before Thanksgiving, and Clifton and I have quite a menu going. Plus, our whole mission is to bring hope to this community through chocolate.”
“That’s great, Alice.”
But his voice had turned professional again, and her stomach quivered as she looked out the window.
“I’ll be straight with you because of the Hales,” he said. “As much as I admire them and what you’re doing, I’m getting about twenty to thirty calls a day from places asking for similar features. You’re new to the scene with no customer base or track record. While I love the chocolate and hope angle, I need a bigger story.”
Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she said, “Let me see what I can come up with. You mentioned other places have been reaching out to you for a feature. What if I could bring a few of Orion’s small businesses together?”
For what? A collaboration of some sort? An event? God, she was nuts. Didn’t she have a three-page checklist to get through before the shop opened? But if no one knew about their shop, they wouldn’t have customers. Which meant no money coming in. Worse, it would seriously limit their ability to spread hope through chocolate, something she needed more than anything. They needed some PR. Stat.
“Alice, if you can recruit a few other well-loved places to work with you to some end, that might be a story.”
“Paul, thanks for your time. I’m going to pop myself into my special Hope Vortex and see what comes out.”
“I could use one of those,” Paul said, fatigue and amusement in his voice. “Good luck, Alice. I hope to hear back from you. Take care.”
She hung up. “I need more chocolate,” she muttered and went off in search of Clifton.
He was in their test kitchen, adding bits of chocolate to a melting pot. “From the strain of your brows, your call did not go well. I’d hoped to hear you give a yawp worthy of Walt Whitman.”
“I can’t even manage a woot, Clifton.” She dropped into a chair. “We aren’t a big enough story. We need to make a bigger splash.”
“For a bigger splash we might host a chocolate festival in the spring—”
“A festival!” She shot out of her chair and let out a yawp. “Yes! Why wait? We need the story.” She saw another checklist in her future, gave an inner cringe, and reached for another truffle. “God, this mocha one is delicious. Mocha! The Coffee Roastery! Maybe we could do some sort of event with the coffee shop.”
“Baker strikes me as a man who would be open to collaboration,” Clifton said, stirring slowly in his perfectly clean and ironed chef apron.
How does he do it? she wondered as she watched. Her apron always seemed to collect creases and chocolate fingerprints when she worked in the kitchen. “I like him, although I don’t know him well. Sarah thought he was awesome.”
“Her take on people is ever accurate. Baker is known for his community involvement with coffee growers around the world. I have been impressed with what I’ve read about his work and mission online.”
Leave it to Clifton to have done his research. “What goes with chocolate besides coffee? Beer! I had a chocolate stout last night out of Sarah’s fall stash.”
“Beer is an excellent idea,” Clifton said, “and the resident repository of beer in Orion is O’Connor’s, as you know.”
Did she ever.
Although she hadn’t admitted it to anyone else, and barely to herself, Hank was another reason she’d taken to Sarah’s suggestion of opening the shop in Orion.
Nearly a year ago, she’d spent Thanksgiving week with Sarah, and one frosty night she’d shared a kiss with Hank O’Connor, the proprietor of the Irish-leaning pub and tavern, after a magical night of good conversation, fun, and flirting.
She wanted more of that.
Alice had told Sarah all about the kiss, of course, and her friend had told her what she’d already guessed: she was damn lucky. Hank had been a loner since his divorce five years back. Being a workaholic, Hank had buried himself in running O’Connor’s after buying his dad out. Of course, Alice understood how time-consuming work could be. Hadn’t she had a job that took her around the world?
Not anymore, Bailey. She was here, and he was here, and maybe Horace’s carpe diem was as important as a Whitman yawp these days. If not now, when? What was she waiting for?