Beyond the Rising Tide (14 page)

He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it like a white sea anemone. “What would you suggest?”

I shrug. “Depends on your taste. We have plain, dark, salty, spicy …” I think about Sophie’s stunt minutes earlier. “
Really
spicy, fruity, savory, flowery … you get the idea.”

He peruses the glass shelves, seeming overwhelmed by the abundance of choices. “What’s your favorite?”

I look at the different chocolates Dad has created over the years, some of them old recipes, some new. Products of countless trials and errors of different flavors and combinations until he reached perfection. But I can’t answer Kai’s question honestly. Because there’s something I’ve never told anyone, especially Dad: I hate chocolate. I didn’t always hate it, but after spending years as a guinea pig for new recipes, I can’t taste chocolate without grouping it with that weird asparagus experiment, or the seaweed-noni mishap, or worst of all, the
Crab Cacao
that surprisingly, food critics raved about.

“I’m still deciding,” I finally say.

He tilts his head curiously, then points to something on the wall behind me. “You grew up in a chocolate shop and you’re still deciding?”

I twist to see what he’s looking at. It’s a photo of our family posing in front of the shop on the day it opened a decade earlier. Sophie and I are in matching yellow eyelet dresses, our hair in curly pigtails and our expressions like sunshine. Mom’s smile is wide and genuine. Beautiful. And Dad had a lot more hair back then. I avoid looking at the picture if I can help it because it hurts to remember how good things were when Mom and Dad were happy together. I turn back to Kai. “How can I decide when we’re always coming up with new recipes? I can’t keep up.”

“Okay, then. Why don’t you just give me something you think I’ll like?”

“I’ve only known you for a day. I don’t have much to go on.”

He shrugs. “Do your best.”

I study him a moment, from his snowy, unruly hair to his exposed toes. He’s a complete mystery to me. But when I think of him—which I do more than I should for someone I hardly know—I think of stillness and of soothing warmth. I reach into the display case and select a chocolate cube with a red swirl on top. I hand it to him, and when my fingertips brush his open palm, I swear the nerve endings in my fingers have suddenly multiplied.

“What’s this?” he asks, looking at the chocolate in his palm.

“Molten chocolate. Don’t chew. Just let it sit on your tongue.”

He puts it in his mouth, and his jaw remains stationary as I instructed. I watch his face, expecting to see pleasure or surprise, expressions I always see on our customers when they sample something new. But Kai’s face is serious and thoughtful, his eyes far away as though he’s savoring a beautiful sunset while contemplating the meaning of his life. And then his eyes turn wistful, like the colors of the sky have melted with his chocolate, and he’ll never taste chocolate or see the sun rise again.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He looks at me. “Nothing. It’s just … been a long time since I’ve had something so good.” His voice is soft and forlorn, reflecting his eyes. “Thank you.” He leans his elbows on top of the display case so that we’re eye-level. “So, are you and Tyler working things out?”

The question catches me off guard, and I don’t know what to say.

“I’m asking,” he says, “because if you are, I don’t want to get in the way.”

“You’re not,” I say automatically. But the truth is, I don’t really know what’s happening between Tyler and me.

“Is that why he was here? To make up?”

“No. He brought in his ‘customer,’ ” I say with air quotes, “for some chocolate. She got some stuff on her shirt, and”—I skip over the details of the
creme de habanero
incident—“she went to clean up. Then he invited me to a party tonight.”

“So you’re going?” he says with an unexpected amount of encouragement.

“I can’t. I’ll be working on a big order all night.”

“But do you want to go?”

I hear Sophie’s voice back in the kitchen. “
Willst du mich küssen
?”

“Is that … German?” Kai asks, looking confused.

“That’s my sister, Sophie. She’s been listening to German lessons on her iPhone.”

“Does she have travel plans?”

I shake my head. “She wishes. Her favorite band is from there, and she’s kind of obsessed with them. They’re like Radiohead meets a German Everly Brothers.”

“The Astromotts?”

“Oh—you know them? They seem so obscure.”

“I used to listen to them, before I …” He purses his lips, as though he almost said something he shouldn’t. “Before I got tired of them. They’ve got some killer guitar riffs.”

“
Du hast eine schöne Stimme
!” I don’t know what Sophie is saying, but her voice is all sultry. For someone who insists she’ll never fall in love, she sure is crazy for German boys.

“Anyway, I would love to get out of here,” I say. “It’s been a long day. But when your dad’s a small-business owner, duty calls.”

“Let me help you.”

“Are you asking for a job?”

“No—I already have one, remember? I’m asking if you want some free help.”

I give him an incredulous look. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to help me make chocolates so I can go to a party with my ex-boyfriend?”

He considers for half a second. “Yeah.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I—” His gaze rises to meet mine, and I glimpse something like tenderness before a wave of neutrality sweeps it away. “I like you, Avery. I want to be your friend. And if going to a party with Tyler will make you happy, then I want to help.”

I stare at him for a long moment, waiting in vain for that tenderness to resurface in his eyes, and it slowly and sadly occurs to me that he sees me only as a friend. It’s probably why he wants me to get back together with Tyler, so I won’t get the wrong idea.

“Well,” I say, flustered by a surge of disappointment, “if you want to volunteer here, I need to know your last name.” When he hesitates, I add, “It’s policy.” More of a personal one, seeing how we don’t have a volunteer policy, but I don’t tell him that.

He shifts his feet and then clears his throat. “Lennon.”

“Okay, Kai Lennon.” I grab a black apron from a hook on the wall and hand it to him over the display case. “You’ll want to put this on.”

He follows me into the kitchen, and we find Sophie dipping pieces of dried mango into a vat of tempered chocolate, earbuds in ears and yelling, “
Ich liebe dich
!” There is zero embarrassment in her face when she sees us, and after laying the drowned mango on a sheet of wax paper, she eyes Kai up and down critically. “Who’s he?” she yells as if we have on headphones too.

“This is Kai,” I yell back. “Can I use those mangos for a big order?”

She yanks the earbuds from her ears and unties her apron. “Sure, take ’em. I’m leaving.”

“You can’t. You have to help me.”

“I’ll help you tomorrow.”

“The order has to be ready by morning.”

She gives me a withering look. “What happened to our forty-eight hour notice policy?”

“The woman begged.”

She lets out a loud sigh. “It’s not my fault you’re softer than ganache. You took the order, so do it yourself.”

“It’s sixty dozen pieces! That’ll take me all night!”

Kai nudges me. “I’m helping, remember?”

Sophie divides a weird look between Kai and me. “Who’s this again? And where did he come from?”

“Michigan,” Kai says, though we all know that’s not the answer she’s looking for.

“Whatever,” Sophie says, taking off her apron. “I have plans tonight, so if Michigan Boy is helping, I’m out.
Auf Wiedersehen
.”

She tosses her apron on the granite countertop and escapes out the back entrance before I can object. I stare after her a moment, then turn to Kai. “Sisters,” I mutter.

Kai smiles, but it’s half-hearted and short-lived, and leaves a strange nostalgic shadow.

“Do you have sisters?” I ask, hunting for an explanation for the longing in his face.

He looks away at the sheet of chocolate-covered mangos Sophie just finished up. “So—are you going to show me how it’s done?”

“Are you just going to dodge my question?”

He drops the apron over his head, ties it around his lean waist, and then looks at me. “When questions are like daggers, I dodge.”

I regard him for a long moment, wondering what he’s been through, and why a simple question about family feels like a dagger to him. But no matter how robust my curiosity gets, I won’t push him to tell me. Because I understand what it’s like to have secrets buried so deep that extracting them would shred everything on the way out. I nod. “Okay, then. Let’s wash our hands and get to work.”

I show him how to dip each type of fruit, how to enrobe the grapes and raspberries, how to avoid the chocolate “foot,” and how to drizzle colored cocoa butter for the finishing touch. We stand side by side in front of the chocolate tempering machine and work through one type of fruit at a time. Dried kiwis and oranges, pineapple and coconut, fresh strawberries and grapes, apples and pears. No apricots. The air is rich with nectar and chocolate, and every time Kai’s arm brushes mine, my intake of the decadent air surges.

He’s quiet as we work, and I find myself talking about chocolate, imparting all my confectioner’s knowledge as though he’s an eager apprentice. He humors me, nodding in all the appropriate places and asking questions when he senses a lull in my rambling.

“So what happens if the beta-prime crystals aren’t melted?” he asks after I explain the science of chocolate tempering.

“Then you get chocolate bloom.”

“And bloom is bad.”

“Yes—unless you like white blotchy film on your chocolate.”

We fill up sheet after sheet of chocolate-covered fruit, stacking them in bakery racks. When we finish the last batch, our aprons and hands are splattered with chocolate, and we move to the sink to wash up before packaging the chocolates.

As Kai runs his hands under the tap, I notice a big glob of chocolate on his ring. “Here,” I say, reaching for it. “Take that off. I have something that gets the oil off better than soap.”

But before I can touch it, he jerks away. “It’s okay. Soap will work fine.” He lathers up his hands and rinses them under the running water.

I’ve never seen anything like his matching ring and wristband, and I want a closer look. So when he turns off the water and dries his hands, I ask, “Can I see that?”

When he sees me eyeing his wristband, his expression turns wary.

“I’m not going to steal it,” I assure him, though that can’t possibly be what he’s worried about.

He seems to be weighing something, and finally, he steps toward me and holds out his wrist. I curl my fingers around his forearm. His skin is warm and smooth, and touching him makes something bloom just behind my sternum. I gently tug him closer so I can get a better look at the wristband.

It’s beautiful. The metal has an unusual satin sheen, and the stone inlay is so brilliant, it’s almost luminous.

“What is this stone? Opal?”

“Um … I don’t know.”

“Where did you get it? And the ring?”

I feel the muscles in his arm tense, like he’s been caught in the act of a crime and is preparing to flee. I look into his eyes expecting to see guilt, but the face I see isn’t that of a thief. It’s of someone who’s had something precious stolen from him.

“I got them from a friend,” he says simply, his voice low.

“Sounds like there’s a story behind them.” Maybe he shared the wristband or ring with a girlfriend, like those “best friend” hearts that are split in two. And maybe they broke up, and he wears them both now because he can’t let go.

He smiles slightly. “Everything has a story.”

“So let’s hear it.”

He glances at the clock. “It’s a quarter past eleven. If you want to make it to that party, we should focus on getting all this fruit boxed up.”

I release his wrist. “Did you take a course in the art of evasion, or are you a natural?”

“I’m not evading. I just don’t want to waste your time with a boring story when you have a party to go to.”

“Maybe I don’t want to go to the party.” I turn away and grab an empty gift box, mentally adding his wristband and ring to my growing Mysteries of Kai Lennon list.

He steps beside me and grabs a box too, and we start clothing the fruit in foil candy cups and filling the boxes with a dozen pieces each. After filling a few in silence, Kai pauses and turns to me with an earnest expression. “Were you happy with him? With Tyler?”

So it
is
about a girl, and now he wants to swap breakup stories. “Yeah. I guess I was.”

“You guess?” He raises a dark eyebrow at me, then goes back to boxing fruit. “Romeo and Juliet, eat your heart out.”

I knock him with my elbow. “Well, first of all, define
happy
.”

“That kind of sounds like a blind person asking someone to define
yellow
.” He slides a lid on. “Happiness is subjective. I can only define it for myself.”

“So what’s happiness to you?”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “Who’s doing the evading now?”

I sigh. “Fine. I was happier with him.”

“Happier? Happier than what? A rock? A sunflower? Ronald McDonald?”

I laugh, and then search deeper for a more complete answer. “Happier with him than without him.” I move an empty tray to the sink and grab a new one that’s filled with chocolate-covered grapes from the baker’s rack. I set it on the counter next to all the other trays we have laid out. “He was the only one with the guts to join me on my most extreme adventures. He made me feel … less lonely. And when I was with him, the things that weighed me down seemed easier to carry.”

“Like what?”

I shrug. “My parents’ marriage falling apart, my mom’s ups and downs, my sister’s anger, which was caused by my mom but directed at me because I was an easier target … you know—those kinds of things.”

He nods slowly, like he does know.

“Anyway, he and I would go surfing or free-diving, and hang out on the beach all day. If I wanted to talk, he’d listen. If I didn’t, he was cool with that. He was always sweet and adorable and …” I look up at Kai, and he’s watching me like he’s hanging on my every word. “I was happy with him. Does that answer your question?”