The House of Hope & Chocolate (Friends & Neighbors Book 1) Page 2

  “He’s a dear,” she agreed. “My partner for the House of Hope & Chocolate worked for his wife until recently. Clifton and I decided it was now or never to follow our dreams. I mean, if there’s one thing we’ve all learned it’s that life is short, right?”

  “Right.” He sighed heavily as if he’d had his own share of hardships. “But New York is doing better right now, and we’re all grateful for that. Now, what can I do for you?”

  She set a hand on their working menu, focusing on her pitch. “Meredith said you were one of the best food writers out there, and I was hoping you might be interested in visiting our chocolate shop and featuring it in your column. We open the week before Thanksgiving, and Clifton and I have quite a menu going. Plus, our whole mission is to bring hope to this community through chocolate.”

  “That’s great, Alice.”

  But his voice had turned professional again, and her stomach quivered as she looked out the window.

  “I’ll be straight with you because of the Hales,” he said. “As much as I admire them and what you’re doing, I’m getting about twenty to thirty calls a day from places asking for similar features. You’re new to the scene with no customer base or track record. While I love the chocolate and hope angle, I need a bigger story.”

  Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she said, “Let me see what I can come up with. You mentioned other places have been reaching out to you for a feature. What if I could bring a few of Orion’s small businesses together?”

  For what? A collaboration of some sort? An event? God, she was nuts. Didn’t she have a three-page checklist to get through before the shop opened? But if no one knew about their shop, they wouldn’t have customers. Which meant no money coming in. Worse, it would seriously limit their ability to spread hope through chocolate, something she needed more than anything. They needed some PR. Stat.

  “Alice, if you can recruit a few other well-loved places to work with you to some end, that might be a story.”

  “Paul, thanks for your time. I’m going to pop myself into my special Hope Vortex and see what comes out.”

  “I could use one of those,” Paul said, fatigue and amusement in his voice. “Good luck, Alice. I hope to hear back from you. Take care.”

  She hung up. “I need more chocolate,” she muttered and went off in search of Clifton.

  He was in their test kitchen, adding bits of chocolate to a melting pot. “From the strain of your brows, your call did not go well. I’d hoped to hear you give a yawp worthy of Walt Whitman.”

  “I can’t even manage a woot, Clifton.” She dropped into a chair. “We aren’t a big enough story. We need to make a bigger splash.”

  “For a bigger splash we might host a chocolate festival in the spring—”

  “A festival!” She shot out of her chair and let out a yawp. “Yes! Why wait? We need the story.” She saw another checklist in her future, gave an inner cringe, and reached for another truffle. “God, this mocha one is delicious. Mocha! The Coffee Roastery! Maybe we could do some sort of event with the coffee shop.”

  “Baker strikes me as a man who would be open to collaboration,” Clifton said, stirring slowly in his perfectly clean and ironed chef apron.

  How does he do it? she wondered as she watched. Her apron always seemed to collect creases and chocolate fingerprints when she worked in the kitchen. “I like him, although I don’t know him well. Sarah thought he was awesome.”

  “Her take on people is ever accurate. Baker is known for his community involvement with coffee growers around the world. I have been impressed with what I’ve read about his work and mission online.”

  Leave it to Clifton to have done his research. “What goes with chocolate besides coffee? Beer! I had a chocolate stout last night out of Sarah’s fall stash.”

  “Beer is an excellent idea,” Clifton said, “and the resident repository of beer in Orion is O’Connor’s, as you know.”

  Did she ever.

  Although she hadn’t admitted it to anyone else, and barely to herself, Hank was another reason she’d taken to Sarah’s suggestion of opening the shop in Orion.

  Nearly a year ago, she’d spent Thanksgiving week with Sarah, and one frosty night she’d shared a kiss with Hank O’Connor, the proprietor of the Irish-leaning pub and tavern, after a magical night of good conversation, fun, and flirting.

  She wanted more of that.

  Alice had told Sarah all about the kiss, of course, and her friend had told her what she’d already guessed: she was damn lucky. Hank had been a loner since his divorce five years back. Being a workaholic, Hank had buried himself in running O’Connor’s after buying his dad out. Of course, Alice understood how time-consuming work could be. Hadn’t she had a job that took her around the world?

  Not anymore, Bailey. She was here, and he was here, and maybe Horace’s carpe diem was as important as a Whitman yawp these days. If not now, when? What was she waiting for?

  Working with him on a chocolate festival would help her find out if he still liked her. Since returning to town, she’d seen him all of once: at Sarah’s funeral. He hadn’t been anything but friendly and compassionate, not that she would have expected or wanted anything else at the time.

  She wasn’t sure how well O’Connor’s was doing. Beer sales were his gold standard, she knew from past visits. His takeout food likely wasn’t going to cut it. Everyone knew the menu was tired. And his outdoor dining was coming to a close as winter wrapped her cloak around the Hudson River Valley.

  Convincing him should be a piece of cake. Dark chocolate, of course.

  Chapter 2

  Hank stared at the books spread out on the corner table before him. The irony of the table he’d chosen wasn’t lost on him. He was literally backed into a corner. No ands, ifs, or buts about it. He’d been in finance before he’d taken over the pub, so he knew from experience that no amount of creative financing was going to keep him afloat. Only one thing would work: getting more customers in.

  Thank God he’d hired his best friend to take over as bartender. Hank needed to focus on his impossible task—keeping the pub open—and Vinnie had proven a reliable draw. People came in because they liked him, and because they were loyal to his family’s now-closed restaurant, Two Sisters. The boost in business wasn’t enough, but it was something, and having his friend around boosted his spirits.

  Which was why he had to make damn sure Vinnie never found out that he couldn’t afford his salary and was paying for it out of his personal savings.

  Vinnie Scorsese and he went back to kindergarten at St. Mary’s of Perpetual Peace, where they became friends over sharing their lunch. Vinnie had brought lasagna and Hank leftover bangers and mash, both from their family’s restaurants. They’d been inseparable from then on.

  They weren’t supposed to like each other, what with Hank being Irish American and Vinnie Italian American and the fact that their families had competing restaurants in the same small town. There were still enough ethnic jokes and sore feelings between the two communities that it caused a stir when two people like them formed a solid bond.

  New York was a weird place that way. New York City was full of old neighborhoods dating back to the early immigrants, something that had leaked into Orion, and their parents’ generation had opinions as strong—and occasionally as close-minded—as their forefathers. He figured it was what made New Yorkers such characters.

  His dad was a strict traditionalist. An Irish pub needed to serve Irish beer, Irish whiskey, and Irish coffee—never a glass of prosecco or a Tuscan Chianti—and foods like Irish stew, brown bread, shepherd’s pie, and bangers and mash. Irish music and bands were the only kind of music to play over the speakers.

  Hank was less hard-line about those things, but he loved O’Connor’s for many of the same reasons his dad did. It was a true neighborhood bar, the kind of place where people formed connections. During his time working in Manhattan, he’d gone to the same bar three times in two weeks, and the bartender still
hadn’t recognized him.

  O’Connor’s was never going to be like that.

  Vinnie got that. He understood that people didn’t just come in for food or drinks: they wanted a bit of comfort. A touch of home. Hank’s dad was supposed to be retired, but he was still making plenty of noise about Hank’s decision to hire Vinnie, who kept playing old Dean Martin and Louis Prima songs in an Irish pub. Too bad. The customers loved it, especially when Vinnie sang along in his spectacular voice, and Hank’s first publican rule was to give the people what they wanted.

  Maybe he should turn on some Dean Martin himself today. The restaurant was feeling pretty flat after another weak lunch crowd—sure, it was Tuesday, and they’d never been the best, but still…

  It would take a freaking miracle to keep the pub open longer than two months.

  Then the air changed, and the hairs on Hank’s arms rose as if the wind were calling them to attention.

  His gaze swiveled to the door, taking in their beautiful, long-legged visitor.

  Alice Bailey.

  He’d been giving her space after Sarah’s funeral. Between losing a close friend and opening a shop, he’d figured she had a ton on her plate. So he’d stayed away, figuring he’d check in with her after they opened. Yet she’d come to him. The very act seemed like its own sign, and he let his eyes cruise over her features.

  Hank’s mouth went dry. Even with her navy mask on, she was a knockout. Her big expressive brown eyes were lit up with her usual good humor, her short curly hair framing a sweetheart-shaped face. Her trim body was clad in jeans topped off with a long-sleeved white T-shirt that said in gold, “Dark Chocolate: You Are Our Only Hope; The House of Hope & Chocolate; Orion, New York.” The Star Wars reference reminded him of talking movies with her over beer the night of their kiss.

  He missed seeing her mouth, he realized.

  Too bad she’d been working around the world last year because he would have pursued her hard, something he hadn’t thought possible after his divorce. Now he had nothing to offer her but gloomy moods and debt.

  Still, he thought about that kiss all the time.

  Her very existence demanded it somehow, whether she was halfway around the world or halfway up Main Street. He’d often thought of her, especially on the dark, lonely nights of the early pandemic. Part of it was because she was Alice—the kind of person whose vibrancy left a mark—and part of it was because she was the last woman he’d kissed before the world was upended.

  “Alice!” Vinnie was already gesturing open-armed in that totally charming Italian way of his. “Welcome! Come in. Come in. The kitchen is closed, but I’ll make you a burger if you’re hungry.”

  “I’d never ask for such a favor, Vinnie,” she said, waving her hand in response in that down-to-earth way of hers that was so appealing. “I’m here to talk to Hank. But first, seriously, Vinnie… How is it that every time I see you walking past our shop you’re wearing such fine threads? Milan has nothing on you, my friend.”

  Vinnie strolled out from behind the bar, tugging on the red suspenders over his black shirt, which went perfectly with the black and white pin-striped slacks and shiny black shoes. He spun in a circle on his toes like an extra in a Bruno Mars video, making Alice clap. “If you ever see me wearing sweatpants, you might as well put me down. Covid isn’t going to stop me from dressing like a gentleman. Although it is stopping me from raising your hand to my lips in welcome, senorina, so we’ll just have to mime it instead. If you’ll follow my lead…”

  Hank found himself laughing as Vinnie playfully extended his hand to Alice at the proper social distance, and she held out hers in turn. Together they managed to complete the romantic mime, Vinnie pretending to lift her hand to his mask. “Bellissima.”

  “Grazie,” she responded in perfect Italian, and then Vinnie launched excitedly into more Italian, with Alice gesturing with her hands like they were on the streets of Rome.

  Alice was proficient in numerous languages, he knew. She spoke Italian to Vinnie, Spanish to their other good friend, Baker Malloy, who ran the Coffee Roastery, and he’d walked past Alice’s shop one day and heard her through the open door, slipping in and out of German and French with her business partner, Clifton Hargreaves.

  A few of the local business owners thought the duo was crazy to start up a business now. Hank’s father went so far as to say despairingly that they either had more money than God to throw around or completely lacked sense. Hank didn’t think that. He respected Alice, and if she thought they could make a go of the chocolate shop, he was all for it. Orion had lost a third of the businesses in their small town and he didn’t want to lose more, his own included.

  Like most people in New York, he’d lost people to the virus. Alice’s best friend Sarah had been one of them, along with Vinnie’s Aunt Alessa.

  She used to make Hank chocolate cannolis on his birthday.

  Vinnie’s mom had come down with it too. She’d survived, thank God, but she had a lifetime of respiratory issues ahead of her. Every time Hank saw Mama Gia sitting idle in the front window of her house instead of stirring her famous tomato sauce in her festive kitchen, he wanted to hit something at the unfairness of it all.

  Then again, life wasn’t fair.

  God, he was getting hot under the collar, so he slid out from the corner booth and faced her. Part of him hoped he might see a flash of excitement and desire in her eyes. He told himself he could handle it if he didn’t. It hadn’t been there at the funeral. When he’d looked, all he’d seen were red-rimmed eyes from her grief, which was only right.

  Alice gestured toward Hank, still speaking in Italian, and Vinnie responded with a cheeky Italian gesture Hank knew all too well. It conveyed that basically he was an uncultured clod for not knowing the language of love. Ask any Italian proud of his heritage like Vinnie and he would tell you that he had a leg up over other men because women loved to hear him speak in his native tongue. Hank had seen its effect on women, but most of that was just Vinnie. The man oozed as much old-school charm as Cary Grant.

  “Aren’t you going to mime kissing my hand, Hank?” Alice asked in English, holding out her slender arm to him. Piano fingers, he thought, seeing their elegance.

  Had she read his mind? He studied her, hoping to see that flash of attraction in her eyes. Hell, he wasn’t sure what he saw there. Delight, sure, but she was a bubbly person.

  He wanted to get a reaction from her, some notion of what she was thinking, so he held her gaze and said, “I’m not the gentleman Vinnie is.”

  Alice’s brown eyes widened before she blinked rapidly. “Good to know. Although I might disagree.”

  Might? That was what she wanted to say? He cocked his brow in response as Vinnie mumbled something under his breath.

  He gave his friend a look. “Well, we can all agree that no one but Vinnie could pull off that outfit. If I wore that, I’d look like a mob pimp. Maybe I could even get a part in a Scorsese movie, eh, Vinnie?”

  Alice let out a giant gasp, making Hank chuckle. She’d fallen hook, line, and sinker for that joke.

  “Don’t listen to him, Alice,” Vinnie said with a laugh. “Marty and I aren’t related. Too bad for me, right? I would make a great extra as a mobster in one of his movies, although no one could beat Aunt Gladys’ husband back in the day. Then again, he was a walking advertisement for Old World Elegance.”

  “Since you bought the Marty line, Alice,” he said, reveling in her stare down, “Aunt Gladys isn’t actually Vinnie’s aunt.”

  “Duh. I’ve only met her in passing, but Sarah told me about all the other shop owners.” She shook her head as if shaking off grief. “Everyone calls her that because she’s Orion’s unofficial den mother.”

  “No one does down-to-earth wisdom and peacemaking like Aunt Gladys,” Vinnie said.

  Hank thought she did a little more. She acted as arbiter when little tiffs happened between business owners, usually the knuckleheads in town, Hank’s father included.

 
“This one,” Vinnie said, pointing his way, “could use one of Aunt Gladys’ fashion makeovers. Alice, don’t you think a man needs more than a flannel shirt and jeans in his wardrobe? Some days I wonder if he’s turned into a lumberjack, especially when he doesn’t shave.”

  “Personally, I like lumberjacks,” Alice said. “So manly.”

  Their eyes connected again, and he smiled. Manly was encouraging.

  “Then Hank here is your guy,” he said, starting to laugh, “and I need to return the chainsaw I bought him for Christmas.”

  “Ha. Ha,” Hank said, making Alice and his friend laugh even harder.

  It felt damn good to hear Vinnie laugh. His friend had lost so much these last few months. His aunt. His mother’s health. His family’s restaurant. The weight of it had made the grown man cry more than once, while Hank had stood six feet away, his hands clenched, not knowing how to offer comfort.

  Thankfully, Vinnie’s spirits were lifting the more days passed. His eternal optimism couldn’t be snuffed out, thank God. Hank hoped the same was true for Alice. Her tears had soaked her mask at Sarah’s funeral, and Hank had clenched his fists again, wishing he could do something to ease her pain. Sarah’s death had shocked them all—she’d been so young, so full of life, and although they hadn’t been close, he’d enjoyed talking to her whenever she stopped in for a beer.

  “I need to do some serious investigation into this Old World Elegance,” Alice said, her eyes shifting to Hank. “You don’t know Clifton well yet, but he’s the epitome of that expression. Although I’m not sure if he could rock suspenders like you, Vinnie. Cufflinks, though. Good heavens.” She laid the back of her hand to her forehead as if about to faint.

  Vinnie laughed again. “I’ll have to go with him. Everyone’s been giving you two space, what with Sarah passing on. How are you doing really? We haven’t talked since the sale.”

  Her hand lowered slowly and the mirth drained from her face. “Honestly? I bawl like a baby sometimes, missing her. It’s hard being in the house, surrounded by all of her things. Other times my heart swells in gratitude when I pass a photo of us. I just put one up in the shop today, in fact. I was so lucky to have her in my life. Only… Dammit, we both wanted more time.”