Just being with her cheered him up. It felt like a different day from just half an hour ago, when he’d sat looking at those dismal numbers and feeling the press of the future.
Hands twitching to touch her, he held them in his lap and said, “I know coming back here is nothing like you thought, but I’m glad you’re here, Alice.”
Her slow smile glowed brighter than a sunrise. “Me too.”
He finally put a finger on why his chest felt so much fuller.
She’d brought hope back into his life.
Chapter 3
Chocolate making suited Clifton’s orderly manner.
Alice would say it fed his soul.
But of course, she spoke with such whimsy as a matter of course. He was still learning this new language, one of the heart, but he was an eager pupil. At eighty-one, he was an improbable first-time business owner. Even more improbable was that he, a man who’d forgone a family of his own, had found one in Alice. Up until recently, he’d spent most of his life alone, save for his beloved former boss.
He surveyed Clara’s most recent text:
Good morning, Clifton! I see the weather continues to be unusually warm your way, which I take as a good sign for your shop. I hope it continues, and I trust you and Alice continue to move toward the opening. Your last picture of your new test truffles made my mouth water, and I’ve asked our new assistant if truffles are a possibility. Murrieta is making good inroads working for us, although I knew going into it there was no one who could ever replace you. Unfortunately, she’s resisted making Indian food, given Arthur’s bark over the cuisine. You know how he is… Tell Alice hello. We’ll talk soon, my friend.
Friend. Yes, they were that, and it pleased him to be in that hallowed company as much as the news that Murrieta was working out. Clara checked in with her entire Merriam family in the mornings, after her yoga, tai chi, or Qigong practice, and Clifton was honored to now be on her check-in list. He used to exercise with Clara, something he missed, although Alice often joined him for a session after her morning run through the neighborhood.
His neighborhood too.
Up until now, Clifton had never had a true home, having spent most of his life as a butler in service to Clara. His choices of décor and style had been expressions of Clara’s taste, not his own. Service ran in his blood, or so his father had always said—he had been a butler too, and his father before him. It made him uniquely qualified to work at a shop such as theirs—he could discern what had brought a customer inside and what kind of discussion and treat would best feed their soul. He was, after all, a master at intuiting other people’s deepest needs and desires and encouraging them toward something they wanted or needed.
Now was the time for him to make his home as well as his mark.
He, Clifton Hargreaves, was going to do his part to make the House of Hope & Chocolate the most acclaimed chocolatier outside France known for elegant, time-honored chocolates such as truffles and ganaches and the like.
He heard the trilling of a FaceTime call and sought his out tablet. Clara. He was still becoming accustomed to their new habit of using each other’s given names. And he wanted to chuckle that she couldn’t resist the urge to call him, even after the lengthy text.
When he answered, he felt a rush of fondness at the sight of her long silver hair and dear face. She had been his employer, yes, but she was also his oldest friend. “Clifton! My dear! It’s wonderful to see you. Here’s Arthur to say hello.”
The ruddy-cheeked man made a rude sound belied by his smile. “Clifton! Have you figured out how to make chocolate naan yet?”
Arthur’s droll sense of humor was always a delight, especially when he teased about eating Indian food, one of Clifton’s specialties. “Unfortunately Indian food doesn’t contain cocoa beans and its derivatives. Only Central and South American food do, mostly.”
“Bah! Isn’t there a gourmet thingamabob called fusion that gets all those Michelin star people hot and bothered?”
Clara swatted him, per their usual marital interactions. “Oh, don’t listen to him. When last we spoke, you were planning a new trio of holiday truffles. As I told you, the last grouping you put together made me swoon.”
“I had to catch her, Clifton, and I’m not a young man anymore,” Arthur said with a naughty wink.
“Madam would never give in to a full faint,” he responded. “It’s not dignified.”
“It’s Clara, remember?” she responded softly. “Oh, Clifton, I miss you.”
The uncomfortable rush of emotion surged through his diaphragm to his throat. “As I do you…Clara.”
Arthur barked, “I might even be tempted to say I miss you, Clifton. Although not the weekly Indian food. Murrieta is an ally there, thank God.” He glanced at Clara, whose eyes had turned glassy, and harrumphed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You already had your morning cry when you did your GoFundMe searches earlier. Although if you ask me, giving to others in need should make one joyous, not weepy.”
“It makes me feel both ways, you crazy old man,” she said with a glare. “You know how much I love supporting others.”
“Because you have a big heart and are as rich as Midas,” he barked with a laugh. “Clifton, my wife is a bona fide philanthropist.”
He well knew that, and it had been an honor to see her do such good in the world.
“Bah! As you say, Arthur. I do it because I can help. I only wish I could give out hugs too. I miss them. Especially with family.”
That brought a glimmer of a smile to Clifton’s lips. “Clara, Alice has a special way of giving a distanced hug, something she and Francesca do in their video calls. You might favor it.” Although he felt awkward doing it, he placed his hand to his heart.
Clara mimicked him, her eyes still a bit glassy, and Arthur blustered, “You two are going to make an old man cry. Show us the new chocolates before I have to find a handkerchief.”
Clifton’s hand automatically slid into his suit jacket, where he always kept a clean handkerchief for any emergency. He’d needed to give a few to Alice over the last few months. What a sad loss she’d suffered. Clifton wished he’d known Sarah better. From their short interactions, he’d known her to be a serious, thoughtful woman who was good with numbers and thorough with plans. Her work on the sale and remodeling of their shop before her untimely death more than proved that. Yet around Alice, Sarah had lit up, talked more, and laughed, sometimes with quiet reserve and other times with unbridled joy—exactly how Alice inspired him, Clifton Hargreaves, to act.
Without Sarah’s contribution, he’d worried too much of the execution for the shop now lay on Alice’s shoulders. While he was doing his best to take on what tasks he could, including a larger share of the testing and menu selection, he knew the marketing and social media aspects of running a business loomed large on her checklist, and he didn’t feel capable of helping with those.
He took the tablet with him to the truffle making station he’d created. Alice liked to flit around the kitchen, but Clifton had suggested orderly stations for their testing. She had agreed, especially after he’d run her through the OSHA and health department guidelines, which boggled the mind with their complexity, and that didn’t even include the new CDC ones put forward due to Covid-19. “The holiday truffles include plum spice, cinnamon, and whiskey cherries.”