Chapter 8 #2
“I don’t get back to England as much as I’d like,” Henry admits with a touch of regret.
“I try to go back every year for my mum’s birthday or for Christmas, but it’s hard with the show schedule.
I travel quite a lot for work, upwards of nine months of the year.
I’m seldom in one place for long.” He leans his elbows on the railing and glances sideways at me.
“This summer will be the longest I’ve stayed in one place and not traveled anywhere in years, actually.
I’m not quite sure what to do with myself.
I’m so used to rambling about. I’m a bit of a wandering soul, I’m afraid.
” He seems a little bashful at the admission.
I’m taken aback by the reality of his travel schedule. Nine months a year? How can he have a life outside of work? “That’s a lot of travel,” I observe, sipping my tea. “Does it get lonely?”
Henry nods. “At times. It can get taxing to always be someplace new. But it’s fascinating too. I love what I do, despite the grueling schedule.” He grins at me, his smile carefree and genuine. “What about you?” he asks. “Were you lucky enough to grow up here?”
“All my life,” I tell him, gazing out at the bay. “The Wynne roots run deep in Poulsbo.”
“Did you ever want to leave and go somewhere else?” he asks curiously.
“I left after high school,” I tell him. “I lived in Europe for eight years. When I was eighteen I enrolled in a chocolatier program in Switzerland, and after I graduated I took a job as an apprentice for Jacques Genin in Paris. I was there for years.”
Henry whistles low. “Genin? That’s quite impressive.
” He looks at me with a touch of admiration.
I can see him reassessing his initial impression of me, putting the different pieces in place.
“That explains the caramel you gave me yesterday. It was…utterly delicious. Where can I find more of your creations? I’d love to try some of your chocolates. ”
I blush, embarrassed. “I don’t actually make chocolates anymore.”
It feels like a failure somehow to admit that to him.
I can’t quite believe that it’s been so many years since I tried my hand at what was once the center of my whole life.
Henry wraps his long fingers around his mug and gazes at me intently.
“Forgive me if this is too forward, but is there a reason you quit? You’re obviously very talented, at least from what I tasted. ”
I open my mouth and then hesitate. How can I explain? Any way I slice it, it sounds pathetic.
“My life has been…a little complicated for the past few years,” I tell him, trying to sound optimistic, skimming over the hard parts. “Family stuff mostly. But I’m hoping to start making chocolates again soon. This summer, actually.”
“I hope you do. For all our sakes.” Henry gives me a lopsided smile. His eyes on me are kind and curious. I feel like he sees me, like I have his whole attention. It feels like he has all the time in the world to chat with me, which is why I uncharacteristically keep talking.
“Thank you,” I blurt out, then blush. “I’d love to do more with chocolate again someday. I’ve always wanted to open my own shop.”
“You should,” Henry says promptly. “But why only someday? Why not now?”
I toy with the handle of my mug. “A lot of reasons, actually. After my dad died, my mom needed help. She has a health condition that means she can’t make fudge anymore or run the candy store by herself.
I’m an only child, so there wasn’t anyone else to take over the family business.
” I think of all the evenings I sit down to work on urgent bills and business paperwork and fall asleep listening to Henry’s soothing voice coming from the TV.
Now I’m here with him in real life. I can’t quite wrap my mind around it.
He’s a little shorter and leaner than he looks on TV, but just as cute and somehow even more approachable.
I hesitate, then add, “And I have a son, Gus. He’s six.
So I wear a lot of hats. Sometimes too many hats.
There hasn’t been room in my life to add one more thing. ”
Henry nods, absorbing this information. “That is a lot,” he agrees. “Do you miss making chocolate?”
“I do,” I admit readily. “If there was a way to do it full-time, to have my own shop, that would be a dream come true, but the store is struggling and my mom’s health is not going to improve.
Things are tough right now. I don’t see how I can.
I don’t have the time, and we can’t take the financial risk to have me go out on my own.
Maybe one day.” I shrug, instantly embarrassed by my oversharing.
Henry looks steadily at me, his brow furrowed a little in thought.
His eyes are a beautiful clear hazel, I notice, with flecks of green.
They’re warm eyes, magnetic. I feel like the center of the universe when he’s looking at me.
It’s a giddy sensation. “That sounds like quite a lot for one person to carry,” he observes.
I glance away. “Sometimes,” I say lightly. What I mean is, always. What I mean is, sometimes I feel as though it’s crushing me and I can’t breathe with the weight of everything I’m carrying.
He considers me for a moment, then says thoughtfully, “Emmie, you have a real talent. I hope someday soon you can find a way to share it with the world again. If I can help in any way…”
“Thank you.” I fiddle with the handle of my mug, touched by his offer.
“Unfortunately, fudge pays the bills right now, but maybe someday…” I lick my lips and gaze out at the bay.
I feel ashamed admitting this to him, but it’s the truth.
I can’t justify the risk to do something else.
Everyone is depending on me. And there just isn’t enough of me to go around.
What I want doesn’t really factor into the equation.
Not now, not when I’m the center around which our world continues to turn.
If I tilt, if I drop something, if I falter, my family, our livelihood, our life, will go careening into space.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and it brings me back to the present. I check the time. “We should go,” I tell Henry regretfully. “I need to open the store soon. Dot too. Thanks for letting us barge in on your morning uninvited.”
“I’m not sorry at all,” Henry replies promptly. “It was a delightful reprieve.” He shoots me a rueful smile. “But I suppose I really should get back to the grindstone.”
Back inside, I place my almost-full mug of tea by the sink and gather Dot and Mom. Mr. Butters trots along behind me. Henry walks us out, offering his arm to Mom again.
“Thank you again for the fudge, Gwen,” he says sincerely, pressing Mom’s hand gently when we reach the car. “Fingers crossed it will help me churn out another chapter or two.”
“I hope we’ll see a lot more of you, Henry,” Mom tells him, beaming up at him expectantly.
“I’d like that very much.” Henry glances at me as he says it.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Dot tells him, clapping him on the back heartily as though they are old friends.
“I won’t, Dot. You have my word. Thank you for the lovely surprise visit this morning.”
Henry helps Mom into the car and Dot boosts Mr. Butters into the back seat, since his legs are too short to get in without help.
Then Henry and I linger for a moment before I get in.
In an uncharacteristic fit of boldness, I fish around in my purse for a scrap of paper, find a receipt, and scrawl my phone number on it.
“In case you have questions or need someone to show you around, I can tell you which restaurants are good in town and who has the best Danishes,” I say, handing it to him.
Too late, I realize it is the receipt for my new push-up bra.
Mortified, I consider trying to take it back, but he’s already tucking it into his pocket.
“Thank you, Emmie. I appreciate the offer. It’s nice to have a friendly face in a new place.”
“Call her,” Dot yells from the car. She’s not even remotely subtle. I shoot her a quelling look, which does nothing.
“See you around, Henry.” I try to sound breezy and confident. “Thanks for the tea.”
He smiles, his eyes creasing at the corners.
“My pleasure. Goodbye, Emmie, it was good to see you again.” He starts to put out his hand just as I go in for a hug.
We both freeze, then laugh. We hug anyway.
It’s brief, but I like the feel of his arms around me.
It’s been a long time since a handsome man hugged me, and he’s surprisingly toned under the soft cotton of his T-shirt.
I sniff him covertly, just a tiny bit, and am delighted to find he smells deliciously of Earl Grey tea.
I was right. Bergamot. His scent is lovely and expensive.
As I get into the car and shut the door, Mom sighs. “Oh, what a darling man. With that accent. And those eyes!”
Dot chuckles. “I’ve got a good feeling about this,” she predicts.
“Shh…he can probably hear you,” I scold, turning the key in the ignition and checking to make sure all the windows are rolled up. They both grin at me, totally unrepentant.
“I am not taking you anywhere ever again,” I grouse at them, but they ignore me, chatting about what color eyes Henry’s and my babies might have as we head back down the drive.
I hazard a glance in the rearview mirror and my heart gives a little flip.
Henry is standing on the front porch, sipping his tea, watching me drive away.
He raises a hand in farewell. Maybe he’s just procrastinating a minute more, but it really does feel like destiny.
I drive back to town basking in the glow of the morning.
Henry is exactly what I hoped he’d be—not pretentious, warm and genuine, thoughtful and kind.
I worried I’d be disappointed by the real thing, but he’s even better than he seems on TV.
I like him a lot, and I think he may like me, or at least he’s intrigued by me. It’s a good place to start.
I don’t know what happens next, but this morning felt like the beginning of something special.