The Chocolate Kiss

CHAPTER 21



La Maison des Sorcières always felt quiet and secret after the glamour and rush of Lyonnais. Philippe usually felt a strange brush of peace when he stepped inside, as if he was peeking into a refuge that was denied him. But today it was oddly packed, and Geneviève and even Aja glowered at him, as if it was his fault. He knew right away, when his heartrate slowed down, that Magalie must not be in.

A woman in her forties was paying Aja for a small bag of crystallized violets and another of blue rose tea at the vintage cash register, while two more couples waited just inside the door. A woman sat by herself before a splendid tray of chocolate at the table between the upright piano and the display, writing in a journal. In the room beyond, an older couple dug antique silver forks into rough-hewn slices of chocolate tarte and smiled at each other serenely, no need on their Valentine’s Day for Lyonnais glamour. But the three other tables were taken by couples who looked oddly similar to his own glossy clientele.

Despite the fact that the place didn’t seem that peaceful today, all the tension left his shoulders.

And he stood there, rose-heart in hand, deflated, knowing that if Magalie were there, his shoulders would still be braced for a fight.

Geneviève drew him back into the kitchen, and she and Aja eyed him speculatively. Philippe felt a blush rising to his cheeks. And he hadn’t even been the one half-naked last night. Maybe Magalie had jumped onto a passing barge and headed off into the unknown rather than face that look.

“What’s this one supposed to do?” Geneviève asked, as he set the gift reluctantly on the blue counter. He had wanted to hand it to Magalie. He had wanted to see her face. “Break her heart?”

He sighed and rolled his shoulders. “I see where she got her trust in others.”

Geneviève raised her eyebrows. “What she’s got of it probably did come from us, yes. Very self-reliant, Magalie. I think she believes something of her will break if she ever lets herself need anyone. Besides us, I mean, but it took us a few years.”

Was the woman actually giving him a hint? “And why is that, do you think?”

Geneviève snorted. “I don’t think, I know. But you’ll have to get to know her your own way. Or not, as the case may be.”

“I did offer you some tea,” Aja said peacefully, as if his difficult harvest completely failed to trouble her, since the seeds sown were his own.

“You have a tea for understanding Magalie?” Philippe asked incredulously. That seemed a little specialized, even for this place. Not to mention which, there were limits to all magic.

Aja gave him a serene look, clearly indicating that if he had wanted to know what her tea did, he should have drunk it.

“Where is she, anyway?”

Geneviève arched her eyebrows at Aja. “What was his name?”

Philippe’s gut clenched.

“He said he had promised you not to set foot in our kitchens, so she agreed to go to his.”

Rage rushed up in him like a volcanic explosion.

“I was surprised he talked her into it,” Aja said with great approval. “Magalie is very attached to this place. He might be good for her, that Christophe.”

Geneviève shook her head. “I don’t know. Don’t you think we should talk to her? This place is getting so crowded, I don’t know if I can take any more. I should never have let those puppy eyes of hers and Sylvain’s talk me into helping him with his window. And if she’s going to get us written about in blogs next . . .”

“It reassures her,” Aja said, like someone repeating an argument for the thirtieth time. “To know that she can attract customers despite him.” She gave Philippe a dismissive look.

“Yes, but we’re the ones people come hunting in the depths of the forest! We’re not the ones who put a castle on a hilltop and wave a flag to get attention. I don’t like the kind of people who come just because they’ve seen a waving flag.”

“It won’t last,” Aja said soothingly. “Let her get over this. It will die down eventually, or we’ll close more hours and send them all his way.” A slight flick of her hand, as if brushing crumbs off a dirty table for Philippe to scrounge.

“I hope it doesn’t last! If this keeps up, we’re going to have to dig up this shop and go hide it in a new place where no one knows where we are, and you know that would destroy Magalie. So we’re stuck.”

Philippe had a brief, terrifying vision of La Maison des Sorcières running off on chicken legs to an African jungle or something. He reached out and just barely stopped himself from grabbing Geneviève, who probably would have atrophied his arm with a look if he had. “Don’t you move anywhere else.”

Geneviève sniffed. “Well, keep more of your customers down your way. They’re not my type.”

Philippe ground his teeth, a gesture he didn’t even know he had in him. “Magalie takes every person who comes to my shop and not yours as a personal insult.”

Geneviève squinted at Aja. “When I was twenty-four, was I that confused and fragile?”

“I didn’t know you when you were twenty-four,” Aja said repressively. “But when you were twenty-six, the drop of a pin could knock you off center. She’s doing fine. She’s just small, still.” She held up her fingers in a circle about the size of a walnut. “She has to crack through that shell, put down roots, and grow.”

“Why would it be so traumatizing to Magalie to move this shop?” Philippe interrupted suddenly.

Both women ignored him. “I guess that’s why we should let her keep on with this nonsense,” Geneviève sighed to Aja. “Doing things like going to play in Christophe’s kitchen are probably a sign of growth. Nobody said growing pains in others weren’t annoying.”

“Plus,” Aja said sweetly, proving exactly how mean she could be to someone who had snubbed her tea, “it’s very romantic to be going to make chocolate for a man on Valentine’s Day, don’t you think?”

Philippe had to turn around and walk out. He almost took his “heart” with him. It cost him. It cost him bitterly to leave it lying there outside his body, in witches’ hands, while the witch it was for was away making her chocolate for that damn bastard Christophe.

Who would never, never, never set foot in any of Philippe’s kitchens again.

Fury burned through him. As he went back to work, it ate at him until it seemed to spread out from him through his entire laboratoire. He worked in silence, his mouth a harsh line, imagining two people in a kitchen somewhere across Paris. He had Christophe’s address somewhere. He had to restrain himself from looking it up. Even he couldn’t storm in there in a jealous rage.

He kept his mouth a grim line, because if he opened it, he didn’t know what would come out. Even in his silence, the force of his anger seemed to take over the kitchens, until other people were snarling at one another. The desserts they sent out, so deceptively beautiful, were probably going to break up half the couples in the city. Or at least lead to some passionate fights.

“What happened?” Grégory finally asked him, low. “Was it the blog post?”

Philippe whipped his head to look at the younger chef. And then he went into his office, shoved some books off his laptop, and went to Le Gourmand’s blog.