The Chocolatier's Secret (Magnolia Creek, Book 2) (2 page)

He replied to a couple of messages, one requesting a kid’s birthday party and the other enquiring about mail-order chocolates, and then decided to move on to Twitter and post the same photograph of the hot chocolate cup there to cover all bases.

When he had finished everything he needed to do for the business, he knew he couldn’t ignore his personal life any longer. It was time he replied to Julia’s message and found out exactly what was going on.

Perhaps now, after all this time, he’d find the answers he’d needed for over three decades.

Chapter Two

Molly

Molly had been a midwife in England for three years and as a student she’d observed her fair share of emergencies, and still, every time she was called to another, she felt the familiar adrenaline surge for the job she loved. This patient, a nineteen-year-old single mother called Sophie, was terrified. Her baby was posterior and had refused to budge for hours. Now though, it had turned on its own and it was time.

‘Okay, Sophie. It’s time to push,’ said Molly, loud enough to be heard above the groans and the tears from the labouring mother.

‘I can’t do it, I can’t!’

Molly could see Sophie was exhausted. She had nobody with her in the labour room, nobody waiting outside as far as Molly knew, and she was so young.

‘I know this is hard, Sophie, but you can do this. You’re almost there, the head’s out.’

Sophie dug her elbows into the bed below her, and with one final push her baby boy came into the world. Molly cut the cord and lifted the baby onto his mother’s tummy.

‘It’s a boy,’ Sophie cried, tears streaming down her face.

‘Do we have a name?’ Molly asked, marvelling at mother and baby. She never tired of seeing this joy.

‘Max.’ Sophie sniffed. ‘His name’s Max.’

‘It suits him. Is there anyone I can call for you?’ She felt sure there must be a queue of people waiting to get in to see this little one and offer their congratulations.

Sophie’s eyes were fully focused on her baby: his delicate features, the scrunched up fist moving against her breast as he suckled, eyes tightly shut as though he wasn’t quite ready to see the big wide world.

‘It’s just me and Max now,’ said Sophie. ‘And to think … they wanted me to have an abortion. God, look at him. How could they ask me to do that?’ Molly knew better than to make judgements and she let Sophie carry on talking. ‘The father isn’t in the picture.’

She said it with such finality, and Molly was left wondering whether the father knew about the baby at all.

‘He’s at university studying to be a doctor,’ Sophie went on, ‘and I don’t think he needs this. Our families were both dead set against it.’ The new mum gazed down at her baby and stroked the downy head of dark hair. ‘I was supposed to go to university myself. My parents think I’m wasting everything I’ve ever worked for by having a baby. But you know what? They couldn’t be more wrong. I worked hard before all this, and now I have Max, I’ve even more reason to carve out a decent future. For both of us.’

Molly carried out the necessary checks and left mother and baby alone as she went out to the nurses station.

‘Happy news?’ asked Freya, her colleague and friend.

‘Mother and baby doing very well.’ Molly pretended to be engrossed in the form-filling she was required to do. Sometimes she felt as though she were better acquainted with paperwork than the babies themselves. But her mind was elsewhere. Her mind was – if such a thing could happen – back in 1985, the year she was born. Of course she didn’t have any idea what the scene was like, but in August of 1985, she was born to a mother who hadn’t kept her like Sophie was keeping Max. She’d given her up for adoption.

Molly’s parents, Margaret and Jeff Ramsey, had struggled to conceive Molly’s older brother, Isaac, and after a pregnancy fraught with problems, they’d decided to adopt to complete their family. Molly had always known she was adopted. She couldn’t even remember being told, it was simply a fact she’d grown up with, like knowing the grass was green and the sky was blue. The information had easily blended into her happy childhood with her parents and older brother. But two years ago, Molly’s job as a midwife had piqued her curiosity. Every day she witnessed elated mothers, jubilant fathers, and on the not so good days, she saw pain when the worst happened and babies died before they’d even taken their first breath outside the womb. It was all those moments rolled into one that had set the wheels in motion for Molly to find out what had happened all those years ago.

Via an agency, Molly successfully traced her birth mother and was given an address for her. She kept the address for nearly four weeks before she decided to do anything about it, and then she sent a letter. It was a simple letter stating her name as it was now and the year they’d lost contact – the only information needed to identify herself to this woman but nobody else.

Molly waited, and she waited. The counsellor had told her some birth mothers would struggle with painful memories, so much so, it could either take a very long time to reply, or may deter them from contact at all. Molly tried hard to be patient, but as the weeks and then months went on and the reply still didn’t come, she couldn’t wait any longer. She took matters into her own hands. Feeling she’d waited long enough, Molly visited her birth mother’s home address in a tiny village not far from her own home in Lower Weston, Bath.

One snowy day in January, Molly met her birth mother for the first time and lost her again in the space of five minutes. She wasn’t invited inside the home. She was kept on the doorstep, as though her presence would alter everything if she stepped over the threshold, and her birth mother told her she couldn’t do this. Molly had asked about her birth father but was told nothing, only that the memories were too painful. Her birth mother begged her over and over not to come again until Molly had turned, covered her ears like a small child and run away crying down the street, only stopping when she was so out of breath she couldn’t go on any longer.

And to this day, Molly hadn’t contacted her birth mother again.  

Chapter Three

Andrew

Andrew ran a hand through his dark hair that had faded over the years since he’d met Julia Mason. It was flecked with grey now, and he knew one day he’d look exactly like his father, his silver hair masking any trace of the colour it had been before.

He heard laughter coming from downstairs, laughter from Gemma and Louis as though they’d known one another all their lives. It warmed him to hear Gemma happy though, if only for a moment. There hadn’t been much time for that lately, and since Julia’s message half an hour ago in reply to his, all Andrew had been able to do was sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the curtains blowing in the breeze from the open window. He’d shut the computer down and run away from it since the brief exchange over Facebook messenger, as though the machine would spill out more secrets if he didn’t get away from it right now. Their exchange had been short and to the point but no less weighty in its content, and since then he’d shunted between anger, disbelief and sadness. He was so confused. He had no idea how to feel.

How the hell was he going to explain any of this to his wife? Should he tell her? Should he simply ignore it and carry on with his life as though he hadn’t made the shocking discovery?

Thirty-one years ago, two loved-up teenagers had the world at their feet, together, or so they’d thought. And then, all of a sudden, Julia had stopped phoning and she never came to his house again. Julia Mason had ceased all contact with Andrew Bennett and until this day, he’d never understood why. It wasn’t as though Andrew hadn’t moved on, of course he had. He hadn’t thought about Julia in years until he and Gemma had started trying for a baby and the significance of past events plagued his thoughts and his dreams at night.

Andrew heard Gemma’s footsteps as she trotted up the stairs, and he bent down to pull off his socks. When he looked up, Gemma was standing at the door, glass of wine in hand. Her blonde hair and tanned skin captured the beautiful girl he’d fallen in love with from the first moment they met.

‘The chicken pasta bake is cooking,’ she said. ‘Dinner in an hour?’

He held out his hand and she walked over to him. ‘Come here, you.’ His hands on her hips, he pulled her into him gently and rested his head against her chest. She was the anchor in his world right now when everything else, including his feelings, seemed to have been set adrift.

Gemma laughed in an attempt not to spill the red wine all over the cream rug on the bedroom floor. She ran her hand through his hair. He couldn’t help but grin. She’d always liked his hair. ‘Your dad’s downstairs,’ she admonished.

‘I wasn’t suggesting we do anything.’ He reached up and cupped her cheek and looked into baby blue eyes as he ran a thumb across her bottom lip. He was sure his marriage was solid, but right now he didn’t know whether Gemma was strong enough to know the details of Julia’s message. He was still trying to make sense of it himself, and his wife was in a world of hurt from the most recent miscarriage and each one that had come before. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she acted as though everything was fine when it was anything but.

He stood, took Gemma’s hand, and her smile was back as he led her downstairs to join Louis again. An hour later the conversation was flowing along with the red wine, and Andrew refused to let anything ruin the precious moment, at least not tonight. There’d be plenty of time for that later.

Generous serves of pasta bake were scooped out of the glass dish onto plates for Gemma and Andrew, a crisp green salad added to each portion. For Louis, Gemma served lean basil chicken with the salad, following the diet plan given to them by the hospital. Since Andrew’s mother died six years ago, Louis had lived in the annexe. When they’d moved to Magnolia Creek, an annexe had been a prerequisite and the three of them now happily coexisted in Myrtle Close. They often shared meals with one another, spent time together whenever it suited, and it was the perfect solution with Louis’ health a constant concern. It also meant Louis was there to talk business, and some of Andrew’s favourite times were with his father sitting at the kitchen table as they were doing right now, talking over new flavours and variations of chocolates, seasonal trends and customer orders that were helping his business to grow.

‘I’m telling you, toffee would work well with mango,’ Andrew insisted as he topped up his glass of wine, enjoying himself as they waxed lyrical about their joint passion. ‘It’s fresh and fun.’

‘It’d work well, but why not try something different?’ Louis hadn’t eaten much at dinner, but Andrew was pleased to see the colour back in his cheeks when they talked shop.

‘What do you suggest?’

‘What about dark chocolate with a lemon infusion?’ said Louis. ‘Or a variation with cardamom, now we’re coming into autumn.’

Gemma stacked their plates on top of one another and took them over to the sink. ‘I think someone’s missing the chocolatier business,’ she called over her shoulder to Louis.

‘Do you miss it, Dad?’ Andrew ran hot water into the oven dish, added a squirt of washing up liquid and told Gemma he’d let it soak and tackle it later. ‘You know you’re welcome in the chocolaterie anytime.’

‘I know, son. I try not to interfere, but maybe I’ll walk down tomorrow. Sometimes all I need is the intoxicating smell of a kitchen full of chocolate and it’s enough to put a smile on my face. If you set me up with a chair in the corner of the kitchen, I’d be a very happy man.’

Andrew and Gemma exchanged a fond look as Louis lost himself in his memories. Louis was in his early seventies now and although he hadn’t wanted to retire, the job had become too physical for him. Some people romanticised the life of a chocolatier, but it was hard work and long hours. You had to love it to do it well. Luckily for them, Louis’ love had been passed down a generation to Andrew, who loved nothing more than talking about the chocolaterie with his father, coming up with new flavour ideas, suggesting changes to the range they sold in the shop. Louis’ encouragement went further than anyone could ever realise.

‘Are you okay, Dad?’ Andrew asked as he returned to the table and picked up his wine.

‘I’m a bit tired. I’m old.’

‘Here we go.’ Andrew laughed. ‘Trying for the sympathy vote again?’

Louis grinned at him, the youthful part of his mind held in the sparkle of his eyes.

‘The test results will be in soon,’ Andrew said, all joking aside. ‘I’ll take you to your dialysis next time, give Gemma a break.’

‘You two shouldn’t have to run around after me.’

‘Nonsense.’ Andrew and Gemma laughed when they said the same word at the same time. Louis was forever apologising for being a burden, and as hard as it was to manage sometimes, he really wasn’t.

‘Can the other staff manage the shop?’ Louis asked.

‘Course they can. I’ve learnt to delegate.’

Louis’ laugh was weaker than usual. ‘You always had a problem with letting anyone else do anything for you.’

‘I take after you.’ Andrew’s smile faded. ‘And talking of not letting others do anything for you, I wish you’d reconsider the live transplant.’

Andrew had been tested and found to be a compatible match for a live donation of one of his own kidneys, but Louis was adamant he didn’t want Andrew to take any risk for him. This was his fight, he said. And to be fair, Louis was holding his own so far and every day there was a chance he’d move further up the transplant list.

Louis shook his head. ‘No, son. Let’s wait and see what the doctors say.’

Andrew already had a sneaky suspicion the news wasn’t going to be good and a transplant would be Louis’ only chance. The waiting list was long and a live transplant from a family member was the best option. And although the whole process wasn’t going to be easy on any of them – the operation itself, the recovery time, extra staffing costs, not to mention a business in its infancy that Andrew would worry about the whole time he wasn’t there – he was prepared to do it. He’d do anything for the father who’d been by his side his whole life.

Louis pulled a box from the sideboard near the kitchen table. ‘Enough morbid talk for one night. How about a chocolate?’ He opened the gold packaging to reveal some family favourites from the chocolaterie. ‘Stephanie packages up the rejects for me – poorly shaped chocolates, some whose decorations aren’t quite right – and drops them over each day after her shift. The poor girl doesn’t realise my diet is restricted. I’d hate to be rude and tell her I can’t eat them, but I also hate seeing such beautiful creations go to waste.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’ Andrew felt content he had staff he trusted and liked. It would help if his father ever agreed to the operation that would alter his life. He smiled at Gemma as he chose a milk chocolate heart not quite as symmetrical as it should’ve been. When they’d first got together and Gemma stayed with him night after night, he’d leave in the early hours of the morning – he’d be up at least two hours before she’d have to get showered and dressed to head out for her job as a teacher – and every morning he’d leave a chocolate on the pillow next to her. She’d loved it at first, and he’d thought it the most romantic thing in the world until she told him to cut it out, he was making her put on weight by starting the day with a chocolate fix. ‘That’s my job,’ he’d told her, and he’d taken her in his arms and made love to her to ‘burn off those calories’.

Andrew looked at Gemma and at Louis, all smiles around the table despite the setbacks and challenges they were constantly faced with. They were rock-solid, a family who stayed together. He wasn’t about to let his former girlfriend’s lies destroy his marriage.

Somewhere out there in the big, wide world he had a daughter, who’d been a six-pound, seven-ounce baby given up for adoption. She’d grown into a young woman who wanted answers, but he couldn’t let it blow their world apart.

He wouldn’t.

When he and Gemma had suffered the pain of all those miscarriages, Andrew had wondered whether it was the universe and karma having their say. He’d thought karma was punishing him for what he and Julia had done to their baby, karma getting revenge even though he’d been pushed out of the equation. How wrong he had been. He was the fourth side to the triangle, and to try to make sense of the misshapen world he’d suddenly found himself spiralling into was something he simply didn’t know how to do. He was the side that didn’t exist. There was the adoption triangle familiar to many, the naturally occurring three sides of the puzzle: the birth mother, the adoptee and the adoptive mother.

Where the hell did he fit into that?