“This place is really quite remarkable,” Henry says with a note of wonder in his voice. “There was a seal out here earlier, bobbing about, and yesterday I saw a bald eagle catch a fish and fly away.”
“It’s magical here,” I agree. “Did you grow up by the water?” I’m curious to know more about him.
“Yes, I was raised on the coast of England in Cornwall,” Henry tells me, sipping his tea. “I never feel more at home than when I’m by the sea. I miss it when I’m landlocked.”
“I feel the same. When I’m away from the water, I’m homesick for it. It feels like a longing nothing else can really satisfy. At least I haven’t found anything that does yet.” I take a tentative sip from my mug. It’s hot and sweet at first, with a bitter bite at the end. Nope, I still don’t care for tea.
Henry looks at me as though surprised to find we share this feeling. “Exactly,” he says. I wonder if he’s not used to being understood. I wonder if he leads a lonely life.
“Do you get to go home much?” I ask.
I’m trying to be casual, to have a normal conversation, but my pulse is fluttering with nerves. I’m hyperaware of every word and movement—his and mine. Everything feels heightened. I keep seeing flashes of the vision when I look at Henry. Our entire interaction feels weighty with potential, with the future.
“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 foreight 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 crushingme 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.”
