“It's his money too,” she says defensively. “He used to take draws from the account and tell me it was some sort of investment for the business but now he's given up all pretense. And I haven't even been able to get a hold of him.”
“I'm so sorry,” I say. I’ve never been interested in owning my own business (outside of a project in retirement). I've always been impressed by Adele’s courage. She’s so smart, and works so hard. “What can I do to help?” I ask.
“You already are helping,” Adele says. “I thought by now I'd be able to hire a few people to help me run the shop. But with the money disappearing…” She gives her head a brisk shake. “And Bing is no help.”
“No. It doesn't sound like Bing is a help at all. Quite the opposite.” I want to say more but my gut is churning. Sadie or Tabitha would know exactly what to say—Sadie would be sweet, and Tabitha would make plans to hunt Bing’s butt down and stake him out on a hill of fire ants until he promised to return the money.
I put my hand over my stomach, breathing deeply to calm the queasiness.
What are the next steps for Adele? A lawyer? What if she can’t afford one? What if Bing steals so much that she goes out of business? Life won't be the same in Taos without The Chocolatier. And what will Adele do?
Before I can say anything, the bell over the door chimes and a customer walks in. She’s a slim woman with ash blonde hair carefully styled, but her eyes are red and her mascara is smudged.
“I just drove up from Santa Fe. I want one of everything,” she announces, and slaps a hand over her mouth too late to hold in her sob. She doubles over, putting her head right down on the counter in a position I’m all too familiar with.
“Oh, honey,” Adele croons. She drops what she's doing and heads over to comfort the woman. I hover in the background, grabbing a big box and starting to fill it while still staying alert to help Adele with anything she needs.
“Tell me everything.” Adele is in full on mothering mode. Within seconds, she has a little white china plate out and a few samples artfully displayed on a gold doily.
The customer sniffles and Adele is ready, handing the poor woman a fabric handkerchief.
“He’s sleeping with the nanny,” the woman wails, blotting up tears and runny mascara while Adele makes sympathetic noises. “I never would’ve figured it out but Barbara from tennis doubles told me. The witch.”
Adele agrees without clarifying who the witch is: the nanny, or Barbara from tennis doubles. She motions to me to get a second pink and white box. I grab one and start filling it with the creme filled truffles.
“How could he do this to me?” the woman cries. “I just got my breasts done!”
After a half an hour, the woman has stopped crying and started plotting her revenge. Adele and I send her on her way with three bags full of boxes of chocolates, truffles, and pralines, but not before Adele makes the woman promise to talk to a lawyer before doing anything like throwing her husband's golf clubs into the river.
You’ve got to keep them away from their husband's golf clubs, she told me, Tabitha and Sadie once at a Whine Wednesday. Bad things can happen. You don’t want the cops to come knocking, trying to charge you with accessory to murder.
“This happens a lot, doesn't it?” I murmur, twisting up a few white truffles into cute little Chocolatier branded bags.
“About once a week,” Adele confirms.
“You're really good at it.”
“I'm glad my psychology degree is coming in handy,” she says with a wry smile, and we both laugh. Adele’s parents wanted her to be a psychologist or some sort of doctor like them. It was her Mémère who gave her the seed money to open The Chocolatier. If I remember correctly, Bing put up the rest and called in a favor to get them a prime real estate spot to lease.
The chocolaterie can't fail. There’s a knot in my throat when I tell this to Adele. I give her a hug, which she accepts, but she slants me a look when we break apart.
“Don’t think I forgot how you changed the subject earlier. I want to know what you’re going to do about Lance.”
“Um, yeah. About that.” I fiddle with a jar of toffees until Adele crosses her arms over her chest.
“Charlotte Louise.” She sounds more motherly than my mother ever did.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll talk it through with you, but only if I get to sample an Earl Gray truffle. I've had such a craving lately.”
“Mmmhmm,” she hums but grabs a second white china plate and gold doily.