In the Age of Love and Chocolate Page 4

  Behind them, I could see into the pantry where the shelves were stocked with weeks’ worth of supply from Granja Mañana, the cacao farm where I had spent the previous winter. In retrospect, I probably should have had the abuelas or at least Theo come out to teach my chefs how this was done.

  I went back to the bar, where Mr. Delacroix waited for me. “Would you like to read the interview in the Daily Interrogator?” he asked.

  “Not particularly.” Mr. Delacroix had insisted that we hire a publicist and a media strategist. I had given endless interviews over the past two weeks, and in that time I’d learned that Argon the Unaffected was not suited to talking about herself. “Is it bad?”

  “Listen, it takes a while to be good at giving interviews.”

  “You should have done all of them,” I said. He had given his share, but he had insisted that I be the face of the business. “I feel dumb talking about myself.”

  “You can’t think of it that way. You aren’t talking about yourself. You’re letting people know that you’re involved with this great project.”

  “But they dredge up parts of my life that I’m not comfortable discussing.” The difficulty was this: they felt that nothing was off limits while I, who was reserved by nature, felt that everything was. I did not wish to speak of my past—this included my mother’s murder, my father’s murder, my relatives in general, the time I’d spent at Liberty, the reason I’d been thrown out of school, the fact that my brother was in prison, the fact that my ex-boyfriend had been poisoned, and the fact that my other ex-boyfriend had been shot. “Mr. Delacroix, they want to unearth ancient history that has nothing to do with the club.”

  “Ignore the questions. Discuss what you do want to discuss. That’s the secret, Anya.”

  “Do you think the club’s going to flop because I’m awful at interviews?”

  “No. It’s too good to flop. People are going to come. I believe in this enterprise. I do.”

  I wanted to run my fingers through my hair but then remembered that I had no hair. The media strategist had thought it would be a good idea if I got a new look before the launch of the club. Gone were my curls, which I was told made me look like an unkempt preteen and not like the owner of—her words—“the hottest new nightclub in New York City!” Instead, I had a sleek, choppy bob, chemically relaxed and flat-ironed within an inch of its life. I did not mean to sigh, but I did.

  “You miss your hair, poor thing.”

  “You are mocking me, Mr. Delacroix,” I said. “Anyway I’ve worn it short before. It’s only hair.” It was only hair, but I had cried after it was cut. The hairdresser had spun around the chair for the big reveal. I regarded an alien in the mirror, who looked as if it might have trouble surviving life on the hostile planet where its spaceship had crashed. I looked vulnerable, which was my least favorite way to look. Who was that girl? She certainly couldn’t be Anya Balanchine. She certainly couldn’t be me. In a display that I considered so unlike myself as to be disturbing, I had buried my shorn head in my hands and wept. How embarrassing. One wept at funerals; one did not weep over hair.

  “You hate it,” the poor hairdresser had said.

  “No.” I took a shuddery breath and tried to come up with an excuse for my behavior. “It’s … Well, my neck is awfully cold.”

  Luckily, only the stylist had been privy to my moment of weakness.

  “I forget. Girls are sensitive about their hair. When my daughter was in the hospital—” Mr. Delacroix cut himself off with an ironic nod. “And this is not a story I want to tell right now.” He studied me. “I like the new hair. I liked the old hair, too, but the new hair is not bad.”

  “What an endorsement,” I said. “Not bad.”

  “Now I have a silly but potentially awkward matter to run by you.” He paused. “In her infinite wisdom, the media strategist thinks it would be good for the club if you brought a date to tomorrow’s opening.”

  “Other than my sister, I suppose?”

  “I believe they are willing to arrange someone suitable for you if you don’t have anyone lined up.”

  “I suppose Win’s away at college,” I joked.

  “He left last week.”

  “And also he hates me.”

  “Yes, that,” he said. “I didn’t become New York City’s district attorney, but I did manage to squelch that little high school romance.”

  “Well done, you.”

  I honestly didn’t have anyone to take me. I’d been working, not dating. And I was not on good terms with my exes. “I don’t want an arranged date,” I said finally. “I was planning to take my sister and I think I’m going to stick with that.”

  “Okay, Anya. I will inform the team. I told them you would say that, by the way.” Mr. Delacroix started walking to the door.

  “You always did think you knew my moves.”

  He came back to me. “No. I did not predict this.” He gestured around the space, which had, in the last several weeks, begun to look like a club. The floors were buffed and polished. The painted-cloud ceiling had been restored. Silvery velvet curtains covered the windows, running from the ceiling to the floor, and the walls were painted a deep chocolate brown. A mahogany bar the length of one side of the room had been added, and a bandstand, too. A red carpet would be laid out that afternoon. The only feature we lacked? Paying customers. “This is rather enormous,” he said. “Now don’t stay too late, and get a good night’s sleep if you can.”

  * * *

  Despite Mr. Delacroix’s instructions, that night I lay in my bed not sleeping. As was my custom, I tortured myself by listing everything that might go wrong. It was almost a relief when my cell phone rang and Jones came on the line.

  “Sorry to wake you, Ms. Balanchine. There’s been some vandalism. Someone poured acid—we think it’s acid at least—over the cacao supply.”

  When I arrived, Jones led me to the pantry. The entire batch of cacao had been doused in a chemical that looked like either bleach or acid. Holes were burned into the sacks, and I could see dark mud-like clumps of damp cacao.

  “You shouldn’t spend too long in there,” Jones said. “There’s not much ventilation.”

  My eyes were already watering. I had to think. It was not going to be an easy matter, finding two hundred and fifty pounds of raw cacao for tonight’s opening.

  I was about to leave the room when I noticed a Balanchine Special Dark wrapper sitting on a shelf. Not very subtle, I thought. Of course, subtlety hadn’t been the point.

  I hadn’t heard much from Fats, who was now the head of the Balanchine family. At the prelaunch party in June, he had threatened me that there would be consequences for opening the club. I guess this was what he had meant. I knew I would have to deal with him later. In the meantime, triage. I took out my phone to call my cacao supplier in Mexico.

  “Anya, this hour is insanity. It is too early for me to be speaking English,” Theo said when he picked up.

  “Theo, I’m in trouble.”

  “I am serious as the grave when I say that I will kill for you. I am small but tough.”

  “No, you ridiculous boy. I don’t need you to kill for me.” I explained what had happened. “I wanted to know if anywhere locally might have, say, two hundred and fifty pounds of cacao for tonight?”

  Theo didn’t speak for several seconds. “This is a disaster. My next delivery is not supposed to arrive to you until miércoles. Nowhere in your country can you obtain such a large quantity of cacao, and even if you were able to, you could not be sure of the quality.” He yelled to his sister, “Luna, despiértate! Necesitamos un avión!”

  “Un avión?” My Spanish had atrophied in the months since I had left Casa Marquez. “Wait, isn’t that a plane?”

  “Yes, Anya, I am coming to you. I cannot let you start your business with subpar cacao. In Chiapas, it is now five a.m. Luna thinks I can get to New York City by afternoon. You will arrange a truck to come meet me?”

  “Of course. But Theo, a car
go plane is very expensive. I can’t let you and your family absorb such a cost.”

  “I have money. I am a rich chocolate baron of Mexico. I will do this for you in exchange for”—he paused to come up with a figure—“50 percent of your first week’s profits.”

  “Fifty percent is kind of high, Theo. Besides, shouldn’t you have negotiated this up front? You’ve already told Luna to get the plane, no?”

  “You speak the truth, Anya. How about 15 percent of your profits until I’m paid back for the cost of the plane and the fuel and the cacao?”

  “Theo, now you’re asking for too little. My business could flop, and then you’ll get nothing.”

  “I believe in you. I taught you everything you know, did I not? Plus, it gives me a good chance to see New York and I can help you, if you like. I would not mind to see you. Is your hair grown out?”

  I told him that he’d have to see when he got here. “Theo, buen viaje.”

  “Very good, Anya. You have not forgotten completely your Spanish.”

  * * *

  I did not return to the apartment, as I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. I sat in my office, in my father’s chair, the same one in which he’d been murdered, and I brooded. What if the plane crashed? What if I failed and everyone laughed at me? I was thinking of Sophia Bitter, Yuji Ono, Simon Green, and, obviously, Fats. What if they were right to laugh? What if my idea had been stupid and what if I was a stupid girl for believing I could build something new? What if Mr. Kipling had been right, too? What did I know about running a business? What if the cacao arrived, we made the drinks, and still no one came? What if people did come, but they hated the cacao and refused to accept it as chocolate? What if I had to fire the people I had just hired? What would they do for work? For that matter, what would I do for a job? I had a high school equivalency diploma, no college prospects, and a criminal record. What if I ended up broke? Who would pay for Natty’s college? What if I lost the apartment? What if, at eighteen years old, I had ruined my entire life? Where would I go from here? I was totally alone and ugly with silly, short hair.

  What if I had told the boy I loved to leave and it ended up being for nothing?

  I didn’t talk about Win that much, even or especially with Scarlet, but I still missed him. Of course I did. At times like this, I felt the loss of him especially intensely.

  It had been three and a half months since we broke up for good, and this was how I had come to understand what had happened.

  I was not innocent. I knew what I had done. I knew why I was wrong (and why he was wrong, too). We had met in high school so the chance of us ending up together in the long run had probably been pretty slim, even if we hadn’t been star-crossed from the start.

  Yes, I had made my choices. And choosing this club meant not choosing Win. I had sacrificed him to a cause I believed to be greater. But, dear God, if you have the idea that letting Win leave had cost me nothing, you are mistaken. I know I am an infuriating character, that I have a tendency to sound stoic and dry. More than most people, it is my nature to conceal what is most sacred in my heart. But though my feelings may be concealed, it does not mean they aren’t felt.

  I missed Win’s smell (pine, citrus), his hands (soft palms, long fingers), his mouth (velvet, clean), and even his hats. I wanted to talk to him, to run ideas by him, to tease him, and to kiss him. I missed having someone love me, not because they were related to me, but because they thought I was irresistible, unique, and definitely worth the trouble.

  And so, I could not sleep.

  * * *

  The cacao arrived around two o’clock, and Theo with it.

  “Your hair is so ugly!”

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  “I despise it.” He circled me. “Why must girls torture their hair so?”

  “It was a business decision,” I told him. “And if you go on about it much longer, you’re in danger of hurting my feelings.”

  “Anya, have we been apart so long that you have forgotten what a fool I am? I should be ignored. Eh, maybe the hair, maybe it is not so bad. Maybe it is growing on me. I hope it is growing on you.” He kissed me on my cheeks. “The place looks handsome at least. Let us see the kitchen.”

  When Theo and I brought in the sacks of raw cacao, the staff cheered and Lucy even kissed Theo. He was very kissable, that boy. She made him the signature drink, which was still a work in progress. Theo tasted it, swallowed slowly, smiled politely at Lucy, and set the glass on the counter. Then he pulled me aside and whispered in my ear, “Anya, this is no good. You can’t serve this.”

  I explained to Theo that no American mixologist had experience making drinks with cacao on account of cacao being banned. We were doing the best we could under the circumstances.

  “I am serious. This tastes like dirt. Cacao requires more finesse than this. She needs to be teased, to be provoked. I am here. Let me help you.” He rolled up his sleeves and put on an apron.

  He looked at Lucy. “Listen, I mean you no disrespect, but we have different ways of dealing with the cacao in Mexico. Would you mind if I showed you?”

  “I’ve been working on this drink for months,” Lucy protested. “Not to mention, I have a special diploma in Beverages and Pastries from the Culinary Institute of America. I highly doubt you’ll come up with a better recipe in an afternoon.”

  “I only want to help my friend by showing you some techniques. I’ve been working with cacao my entire life so, humbly I tell you, I know a few things.”

  Lucy stepped aside though she didn’t exactly look happy about letting Theo take over her kitchen.

  “Okay, good. Gracias. I appreciate very much you letting me use your kitchen. I need orange zest, cinnamon, brown sugar, rose hips, coconut milk…” He reeled off a long list of ingredients and the sous-chefs scrambled to get them.

  Twenty minutes later, Theo had finished mixing his attempt at the club’s signature drink. “The Theobroma,” he said. “You must get orchids to put in the glasses.”

  I sipped. The flavor was chocolaty, but not heavily so. The cacao was rich but almost in the background. Instead, what I tasted was the coconut and the citrus. It was fresh and had exactly the flavors I had craved.

  “You know, Theo, orchids aren’t exactly easy to come by here,” I said.

  Theo was staring at me. “But what do you think of the drink?”

  “It’s good. It’s really good,” I said.

  Lucy drank tentatively, but when she was done, she took off her chef’s hat to Theo. She nodded toward me. I raised my glass and said, “To the Theobroma! The signature drink of the Dark Room!”

  * * *

  “We have to leave in twenty minutes or we’ll be late,” I called as I ran into the apartment. I had come home to change and pick Natty up. I dropped my keys in the foyer, and then I went into the living room, where my sister sat on the couch with an older-looking boy. They must not have heard me come in and they separated as soon as they saw me, which made them seem guilty—I didn’t think they were even doing anything. Still, the sight of my little sister entertaining a gentleman companion was scandalous to say the least. “Natty, who’s your friend?”

  The boy stood up and manfully introduced himself. “I’m Pierce. I was a year behind you at Trinity actually. Natty and I have science together.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Nice to see you, Pierce.” The boy was familiar and seemed friendly enough. However … though he was only one grade ahead of Natty, Pierce was much too old to be my sister’s boyfriend. I turned to Natty. “We have to leave in twenty minutes. Would you mind asking Pierce to go so that we can get ready?”

  Pierce was barely out the door when Natty turned on me. “What was that? Why were you so rude to him?”

  “Why do you think? He’s eighteen at least.”

  “Nineteen. He spent a semester working on the wells.”

  “You are fourteen. He is much too old for you, Natty.”

  “You’re being c
ompletely unfair. I’m a junior. He’s a senior.”

  “But you’re supposed to be a freshman.” She had skipped two grades.

  “I can’t help it if I’m young for my grade. And five years is nothing.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?” I asked.

  “No!” She sighed. “Yes.”

  “Natty, I forbid it. You cannot date a nineteen-year-old. He is a man, and you are still a child. And men have expectations.”

  “You forbid it?” she screamed. “You aren’t ever around. You don’t have a right to forbid me to do anything.”

  “I do, Natty. The state of New York says that I am your legal guardian, and I do actually get to forbid you to do anything I want. If you don’t break this off, I will call Pierce’s parents, and I will let them know that if he tries anything with you, I will press charges. Do you know what statutory rape is?”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “I would, Natty. Don’t test me.” I felt absurd even as I was saying this.

  Natty had started to cry. “Why have you become so horrible?”

  “I don’t want to be,” I said. “I’m trying to protect you.”

  “Protect me from what? Protect me from having friends? Protect me from having a life? I have no friends at school, do you know that? I’m, like, a freak. Pierce is seriously my only friend there, Annie.”

  I looked at my sister and realized I had no idea what was going on with her. “Natty, listen. We have to get ready for tonight. We can talk about this later. I’m sorry I haven’t been here more. I really do want to know what’s happening in your life.”

  Natty nodded. She went to her room, and I went to mine. I no longer had time to shower.

  For the opening, the branding people had chosen for me a pure white dress, skintight, made from a stretchy silk-wool blend. The dress had a very low back with multiple straps running horizontally across it. The neckline was an extreme V that ended in the southernmost region of my cleavage. The dress left nothing to the imagination. I was told that the color of the dress was meant to convey innocence, but that the cut said the Dark Room was the most exciting place in New York. What the dress said to me was nudity.