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resolutely, even cheerfully, continued hooking up the radiator, which later on they just as cheerfully moved across the room.

And then of course when the Sheetrock men came to close in the wall, the wiring wasn’t completed, so they disappeared for a whole week. Then the wall couldn’t be closed because the building inspector first had to check out the venting, which it became clear he would never do without a bribe of a hundred dollars or so. So that when the job actually got finished, pretty much the way she wanted it, only two weeks behind schedule, it felt like a miracle. Most of the decorating, thank goodness, she’d managed somehow to do on her own, with Emmett pitching in-painting, refinishing the antique display case she’d picked up on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, persuading Doug, who’d been a painter’s assistant before going to chef’s school, to hang wallpaper.

And then two days before she was scheduled to open, with the new stove and refrigerator fully installed, the cabinets hung and stocked, the butcher-block workstation in place, the cooling cabinets, tempering melter, prebottomer—the machine that formed the chocolate shells for filled bonbons-and enrober ready to go, and the bulk couverture and condiments stored in back, Mr. New York City Health Inspector marched in and wrote up a violation prohibiting any sales of edibles or any food preparation on account of rats. She could see him in her mind now, his narrow pocked face and pointy nose, looking like a rat himself as he crouched in a corner of the supply room, scraping the offending “droppings” into a vial while in pure Brooklynese he lectured her about possibly lethal diseases, poisons, exterminators. She’d been ready to scream. There were no rats; she was positive. And then it hit Annie. Of course-that shipment of couverture she’d gotten in the other day; there had been loose chocolate shavings in the bottom of the box that must have fallen on the floor. Scooping up a handful, she’d tried to convince Mr. Rat he was way off base, but no, he wouldn’t listen … he’d only disgustedly wrinkled his nose. And then, desperate, knowing that it might be days, weeks,

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before the test results on the “droppings” came back, she’d taken the only way out she could see-she’d popped the chocolate shavings into her mouth. And however unsanitary, it had been worth it… just to see the goggle-eyed, horrified look on his pointy face. He’d sickly shaken his head and then scurried out of there, clipboard tucked under his arm, as if he were about to be exterminated. But she’d heard no more about the violation.

The morning she began making her first batch of ganache, Annie, both weary and exhilarated, had felt as if at last she’d succeeded in climbing an enormous mountain and was planting her flag at the top. But then she realized she’d been vastly overoptimistic. The mountain turned out to be a mere foothill, and ahead of her rose the real Mount Everest. By six A.M., three whole batches of ganache had come out stiff and tasting slightly grainy, and she’d thrown them out. Could the couverture she’d bought from Van Leer in New Jersey, she’d wondered, be so different from what she’d worked with at Girod’s? Then she’d discovered that easily half the fresh raspberries she’d sent Doug out to buy were moldy. On top of that, most of the decorations-hazelnut crocants and violettes-lay crushed in their boxes, and to make her misery complete, the old enrober had clunked to a standstill. For the time being, all she could do was dip the truffles by hand, and she’d ended up with gross things that resembled chocolatecovered golf balls, only lumpier. And poor Doug—she could see him now in her mind, his thick glasses with their Coke-bottle lenses slipping down his beaked nose as he peered underneath the enrober’s conveyor belt-after dashing around on a million errands, scrubbing the pots, chopping the nuts, struggling valiantly to get the enrober going, then standing and helping her dip dozens upon dozens of truffles by hand, she’d insisted he eat six of those monstrous truffles, each with a different filling, to be absolutely sure they tasted all right. He’d gobbled them up, pronouncing them delicious … but then had gotten so nauseated, she’d had to send him home, and she’d been left all alone, working and worrying herself crazy.

What would happen, she’d agonized, if none of the

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buyers with whom she had appointments liked her ugly truffles? With not quite ten thousand left in the bank, barely enough to cover her costs for three months, she’d have to start selling these chocolates practically this minute, or this whole house of cards would come tumbling down around her ears.

At her first appointment that afternoon, with the buyer from Bloomingdale’s, she’d actually been laughed out of their uptown office. At the memory, Annie’s stomach knotted even now.

“Horse apples,” the haughty, gray-haired woman had pronounced. “They look exactly like horse apples.” She wouldn’t even taste one, saying that her customers clearly would be put off by the way they looked.

But then her old friend from Dolly’s shop, Russ Kearney, the Plaza Hotel’s bearded young buyer, though plainly apprehensive, had been kind enough to take a nibble. And then another, and another, finishing the whole truffle and licking his chocolate-smeared fingertips. Though too large and ungainly to be offered as an on-the-pillow-at-night freebie, Russ had ordered six dozen for a Palm Court luncheon he was organizing-making her want to cry with relief. Annie, luckily, had had the bright idea of wrapping each of the truffles in iridescent cellophane, tied with silver ribbon, onto which she pasted a postagestamp-sized “Tout de Suite” sticker. And just that little bit of advertising had brought her several retail customers and a small gourmet shop on Amsterdam Avenue.

Annie also managed to get tiny orders from Zabar’s and Macy’s Cellar. Modest reorders at first, and at prices below what she figured it was costing her to make the chocolates. But she had no choice. She had to swallow the loss in the hope that people would like them and come back for more. And gradually, very gradually they did. Then, as Tout de Suite began to catch on, the orders began coming for eight, nine, twelve dozen. She dared to raise her prices, just enough to leave her a tiny profit. But even priced at a dollar apiece, her unique homely truffles were being snatched up. And for Valentine’s Day, she’d thought of packaging each one individually in a tiny box, decorated I

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by Laurel with trimmings she’d bought from a milliner who was going out of business—silk flowers, bits of ribbon, tufts of netting, tiny faux cherries, strawberries, apples. She’d sold every one, and had orders for dozens more. With Doug and her both working every night, she’d also hired Louise, a Culinary Institute dropout who turned out to be inspired when it came to chocolate.

Even now, getting up while it was still dark, each day was an uphill climb. Riding the nearly deserted subway, which made her more uptight than at rush hour. Then here, plunging in up to her elbows, a batch of ganache on the stove, one on the tempering melter, another in the enrober, by the time most people just were pouring their first cup of coffee. Sweaty, her feet aching, her hands chapped, by the time she opened her door for business, she felt ready to drop.

Hard to believe it was a little more than a month; and now people were sending their drivers, from as far away as Sutton Place.

“I’m having a dinner party next week …”

Annie became aware that someone was speaking to her, a woman in a shamrock-green cashmere cape and stylish wide-brimmed hat that hid most of her face. Annie hadn’t seen her walk in.

“Oh, Mrs. Birnbaum, it’s you.” Annie started, then laughed. “You caught me daydreaming. I was just about to lock up. What can I do for you?” Felicia Birnbaum had been her first customer that scary opening day-her only “real” one, aside from Emmett and Dolly and Laurel.

“It’s a party for my husband’s biggest clients and their wives,” Felicia Birnbaum went on, tugging fretfully at her gloves. “And I’d like to do something they’ll really remember.”

Now Annie brought her into focus, and thought for a moment. “Marzipan,” she said. “Little braided marzipan baskets. I’ll fill them with twists of candied ginger and miniature truffles.” Her mind raced ahead, and she thought, Marzipan? God, I’ve only worked with it once before, with Pompeau watching my every move. Suppose I can’t do it… .

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Annie felt her coolly competent expression slipping, and she concentrated on fixing her smile in place.

Felicia Birnbaum frowned in contemplation, and brought a gloved hand to rest against one fashionably sunken cheek. She certainly wouldn’t indulge in anything as caloric as marzipan, but then a lot of Annie’s clientele were like that. They bought chocolates for their aged mothers, their clients, their husbands’ secretaries, sometimes even their lovers.

“Oh,” Mrs. Birnbaum said, “Well, I never thought … but that would be lovely, wouldn’t it? Do you have a sample … or a picture at least?”

“Only in my head.” Annie prayed she wouldn’t ask for details. “I’d do it as a special favor, Mrs. Birnbaum. Just for you. That way, no one else will have anything like it.”

The woman looked relieved, and she relaxed against the refrigerated display case crowded with wicker baskets like the ones on top, each heaped with truffles Annie had created herself: Drambuie, with flecks of orange peel; chocolate lemon custard; dark, smoky espresso, with a crunchy roasted coffee bean at its center; coconut, dark rum, and cr่me-fra๎che confections wrapped in milk chocolate.

“Oh,” she said. “That would be …”

Annie smiled. “Trust me.”

“… perfect.”

“How many guests will you be having?” she asked, pulling a slip of notepaper from a drawer under the register.

“Twenty-eight, give or take a few, but the party’s next Monday, only a week from today. Are you sure you’ll have enough time?”

“Absolutely,” Annie assured her with a confident flick of her pencil, while in her mind she was picturing herself working frantically through the weekend. “Twenty-eight did you say? Let’s make it an even thirty then. Believe me, Mrs. Birnbaum, you won’t have any leftovers.”

Minutes later, Mrs. Birnbaum was dashing through the rain, ducking into the bright red MG parked illegally

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at the curb, leaving behind a faint slipstream of Chanel No. 5 and a check for three hundred dollars. Annie slipped the check into the register, then went over and locked the front door, and put up the “CLOSED” sign. Returning to the counter, she noted that Louise had gone into the kitchen, probably to clean up, or maybe to give Emmett a hand-the way poor Louise blushed whenever Emmett was around, she might as well be wearing a neon sign. And why not? Wouldn’t any unattached woman in her right mind be attracted to Emmett?

Annie, suddenly too tired to stand, sank down on the old piano stool that stood between the wall and a secondhand sewing stand crowded with jars of candied grapefruit and orange peels dipped in chocolate. From the kitchen came the dreadful, broken-sounding clattering of the melter starting up. Obviously, Doug hadn’t fixed it properly. But would Emmett have better luck? Maybe it couldn’t be fixed, and she’d need a new one. Not that she had money to buy one, with every cent being funnelled back into supplies, rent, salaries, phone, electric, you name it.

She sighed, wondering how, with the melter down, she’d ever be able to have Mrs. Birnbaum’s baskets ready on time, when just keeping up with the Zabar’s order and two other parties she’d booked was already more than she could handle. When it rains it pours, she thought, glad for the business … but a little scared too. What on earth had she gotten herself into?

With Emmett, too. Was it fair to risk letting this thing between them get out of hand when she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to give him more?

/ miss Joe. The thought gripped her with sudden force, leaving her weak and breathless.

Since that day at the restaurant they’d hardly spoken. He was busy with Joe’s Place and who knew what else, and she with Tout de Suite. They smiled, and nodded to one another in the hallway. Once in a while, he’d chat for a moment about Laurel, who was due any day now.

And these days Joe saw more of Laurel than she did. One night a week, he took her to her Lamaze class, and

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on other nights, when he wasn’t too tired, he’d phone and she’d go down and practice her breathing exercises at his apartment.

Laurel had grown secretive. She hardly talked to Annie about anything other than the book she was illustrating, or Tout de Suite. Never about Joe. It was almost as if the two of them had formed some kind of … well, an unspoken pact.

Oh, Laurel was courteous … and she listened with a look of rapt concentration whenever Annie spoke about the shop. But it was like talking to a doll … that silly doll that Dearie had once given Laurel that chirped, when you pulled the string in its back, “Hi! My name is Chatty Cathy! What’s yours?”

Six months ago, Annie could not have imagined she’d ever be jealous of her sister … but now, weirdly, she was. That Laurel was in love with Joe, well, she could handle that. But he, could he be falling in love with her? It seemed impossible. It felt impossible. But then, why not? Laurel was lovely and sweet-natured … and she needed him… .

So what right have I to be jealous of Laurel? Especially now. At least I have Tout de Suite … but what does she have really? A make-believe husband, a baby she’s about to lose?

Once or twice, she had come upon Laurel sitting quietly with her hands placed almost protectively over her enormous belly, and an expression on her face that to Annie looked like agony. Not physical pain … but something inside that was maybe even worse. Now that she’d decided to give the baby up, could she be regretting it?

But this time Annie knew she had better keep her mouth shut. She’d already done more than enough interfering in Laurel’s life. Hadn’t Laurel made that plain enough? Besides, deep down, Annie hadn’t entirely forgiven her sister for coming between Joe and her.