“Sadly.Now put on some dry things before you end up like him.”She held the clothes out, with a patented stern look that worked for everything from printers to misbehaving middle schoolers.
Rosemary cocked her head.“Are youworriedabout me?”She didn’t wait for an answer.“Youare,” she concluded, with obvious delight.She leaned in and took the clothes, and somehow managed to make it feel like they shared a wonderful, private joke.“How charming!”
Corinthia, who had never been calledcharmingin her life, had the feeling that she was rapidly getting in over her head—and the only solution to that, perhaps, was the emergency backup chocolate supply, known as the Coffer of Chocolate, that she kept locked in the breakroom.
8
WhileRosemarywentoffto change, Corinthia went to the breakroom and reached deep into the back of a low cabinet.She pulled out a lightweight but sturdy wooden box, secured with a three-digit combination lock.
It hadn’t started as something elaborate.Corinthia had imported a few packets of cocoa here, a few bars of chocolate there, until one day she found that the improvised basket she was using was not only overfull, but terribly, unacceptably unorganized.So she converted a thrifted tea chest and placed everything in blissful order, then pushed it to the back of a cabinet where it would be undisturbed.Her Coffer of Chocolate had soothed her many a time.
She opened it and selected two cocoa packets.These were her own mixture: beautiful red Dutch processed cocoa, Ceylon cinnamon, real cane sugar with a golden color.They could be made with any milk, dairy or otherwise.A worn silver spoon came out, then a few soft picnic napkins with a red-and-white checked pattern.Corinthia turned on the coffee maker and let the plain hot water run into the carafe.She eyed the tiny bottle of brandy still sitting in the box, then took it out and placed it on the counter.
Her feet weren’t cold anymore, or if they were, the feeling was faded and academic, like pictures of ice in a discarded book about Alaska.
By the time Rosemary’s feet padded along the hallway, two hot cups of cocoa sat steaming and fragrant.
“Hot drinks!”Rosemary cried in delight.Her wet clothes lay over one arm.Though she looked quite normal at first glance, with a longer look the ordinary t-shirt and stretchy pants seemed to have been placed, incongruously, on a classical statue.
“Just some cocoa,” Corinthia said.“To warm you up.You seemed to enjoy it so much when you stopped by.”To admit that she observed Rosemary’s enjoyment made Corinthia a little shy, but she soldiered on.
Rosemary’s quick and clever fingers explored the Coffer of Chocolate without hesitation.She unscrewed the bottle of brandy and sniffed.“Oh, my,” she said.
“I didn’t add that yet,” Corinthia reassured her, thinking that perhaps she’d erred, and Rosemary was bothered in some way by alcohol.Corinthia herself did not drink, but she loved the flavor of brandies and liqueurs, and couldn’t resist a small, sensible spoonful, for flavoring.
“It’s a lovely scent,” Rosemary said, patting Corinthia’s arm.“Just strong!”
“Would you like to try a drop in your cocoa?”
“Please.”
Corinthia spooned a bit into each cup, and gave each another stir to blend.She raised her mug and waited for Rosemary to do the same.
Rosemary lifted her mug with the smallest hesitation, as if this was the first time she’d actually clinked cups with someone, after having only read about it in a book.But what she lacked in initial confidence she made up for with dimples after echoing Corinthia’s “Cheers!”
“I hope you’re feeling a bit warmer,” Corinthia said.
“Much,” Rosemary said.
“The brandy doesn’t bother you?”
Rosemary shook her head.“My family doesn’t”—she paused, seeming to rephrase on the fly—“they don’t drink.But I’ve read good things about it.”
“About drinking?”
Rosemary laughed, and Corinthia wanted to inhale it like the aroma of chocolate and fine spirits.“No, librarian Corinthia.About brandy.People in books are always taking it for their health, or to recover from an illness brought on by long walks on the moors.”
Corinthia had a sudden image of Rosemary walking the moors, her straight-laced family at home, eating a diet of wholesome nuts, seeds, and spring-water tinctures.“Is your family from around here?”
“Oh, yes.I was born here, as a matter of fact.”
Corinthia scoffed.“No one’s born in Shadow Ridge.Everyone moves here from somewhere else.”
“Not us,” Rosemary said, with a look of secret amusement.
Now Corinthia was picturing an entire clan of old-fashioned teetotalers in a creaky Victorian house, neither of which—Victorian houses or teetotalers—likely existed in Shadow Ridge.“You must have gone to school here, then.”
“Homeschooled.”
