First and Lonesome

-Two-

As daylight breaks through the curtains, my eyes pop open wide. I blink, feeling as though I haven't slept at all.

A dream? You've got to be kidding me!

I lie in bed for some time thinking about my strange visitor from the night before. It had all seemed so real, but as the clarity of the new day seeps into my bones; of course it was a dream. Of course it was.

Marina, you really need a boyfriend.

"Gofff!"

I throw the bedding off of me and spring to my feet, nearly stepping right onto my laptop, which is on the floor next to the bed. Definitely not a place I would normally set it. I must really have been tired last night. Actually, I don't even remember actually setting it down and going to sleep, as in the ritual of the actual lying down and closing my eyes sort of scenario. Obviously, recent events have me spun out and worn down.

No matter, I'm ready to grind down this little town with the heals of my boots like the butt of an old cigarette. I shower and dress in my customary all black; slacks, blouse, and boots. When you're a force of nature, you wear black. It's just the way of it.

A brush run through my long dark hair, a touch of mascara and lip gloss, a long wool coat, black of course, and I'm out the door to get answers from this town's chocolate maker, whom I currently only know as Nicolae, but I fully intend to change that. Christiansen Confectioneries, one of the most renowned and closely held Chocolatiers in the nation, arguably the world, will continue on. A company passed down from generation to generation of Christiansen men, that was until my father's recent passing, when the company came to me; his only heir. Now that this company is mine, I'm determined to make this Nicolae sign on to us exclusively. Or, you know, maybe he already is exclusive. The weird thing is, I don't know. After pouring through all the paperwork, I could find no contracts, no receipts, no written dealings of any kind, and my father didn't believe in lawyers. The single piece of information that I have on this guy is the wax seals, which come affixed to the paper packages the chocolate arrives in. As in, melt the wax stick and affix your seal, old school and archaic bullshit. Okay, it's kinda cool, I guess.

Anyway, the seal reads "N. V. Chocolate Makers, Orland, CA" and since I could find no telephone listing and no website, here I am, making a house call.

Besides, there's no time to waste as this Nicolae must be an old geezer by now, and I'm determined to snag him and all his chocolaty secrets before he croaks. His chocolate is the best, and the best is what I need for

my

company.

The day is chilly, socked in with a dense fog that feels extra wet. There's a spooky, horror movie vibe and it doesn't help that there's hardly any people around. The redneck at the motel counter wasn't even at his post.

There's a motor home parked in front of the motel, travelers,

obvi

, so they won't be able to help me. There's an old shopping center across the street but the storefronts are all boarded up, closed. "Well, shit."

"Pardon me, sir." I said, turning and lightly touching the elbow of an old man who suddenly appears beside me. "Can you tell where I may find N.V. Chocolate Makers? There's no listing on Google or anywhere, it seems."

He appears shocked and confused at how he got there, looking around himself at his surroundings and nearly stumbling backwards into a fall. His appearance is shabby, his wispy hair is unkempt and his clothes are filthy. If I had to guess, I'd say the old man was homeless.

He takes several shuffling steps away from me and for a moment I think he will ignore my question completely. His back is hunched and twisted, his thin wispy hair white as snow.

Just as I was about to give up and look elsewhere, I hear him scoff and murmur something under his breath. His head turns ever so slightly in my direction from his hunched posture. He eyes me carefully, up and down, peering at me from beneath his brushy white eyebrows through pale, watery blue eyes.

It's a rare occasion when someone can make me feel uncomfortable, but he stares at me for so long, I find myself beginning to fidget like a child in church.

As I return his gaze, he appears to be becoming more ugly as the seconds saunter by, his body more twisted, his skin ever more pale, with large wide-open pores and dark liver spots. I have a sudden urge to get away from the wretched man and when I cannot stand him a second more, he points a shaking finger, bent and surely as dry as the branch of an old oak tree, Southward down the road and mumbles "'bout five blocks..."

"...Thank you." I say quietly, not wanting to even speak to the man. Quickly, I spin on my heel to head down the street in the direction he had pointed.

"If yer a headin' there now, yer wastin' yer time." He calls hoarsely after me. Even his voice is dry.

"Why?"

"'Ee don open 'till dusk." He scoffs again, examining me once more with those watery eyes of his, which I would only describe now as

horrible

.

~<>~

Just as I was about to curse that old creature for his bad directions, and feeling completely isolated in this coffin of fog, a weathered old sign appears from the sea of white, jutting out over the weed-infused sidewalk. I quickly recognize the name from the red, wax seals I've been looking at all my life. I turn down a cobble pathway and walk slowly until a building begins to appear from the white. As I get closer, I can see it's weathered exterior is in a state of disrepair and the building doesn't look like it could house the equipment needed for commercial chocolate making. The exterior is stone, which had been painted white many, many years ago by the look of it, and brown weeds stand in defiance through the cracks in the cobbles along the front.

Cupping my hands to my face, I attempt to peer inside through a front window. In return for my effort however, only my own reflection do I see; stunning, but nonetheless unhelpful. Glancing around and seeing no one else on this quiet road, I decide to snoop around. First, I try the front door handle, of course to no avail, but had to give it a shot anyway. Next, I walk around the building to the Southern side. Here, I am totally secluded from town, if that's what one would call it, with nothing but dry yellow fields and railroad tracks behind me. The only witnesses to my actions here are the crows perched primly on the electrical wires, which string by in lazy, haphazard succession for as far as the eye can see.

These crows spy my every action as I riffle through my briefcase, pull out a credit card, slip it into the space between the frame and hardware and, after a quick wiggle and an audible click, slip inside slick as a black whisper.

Thank you Uncle Jerry for teaching me that little life skill!

He always said one day it would come in handy. He was right.

The room is warm- sweltering, almost and humid as the tropics. Gone now is the cold, stark wetness from outside. Blind and squinting, I try to force my eyes to adjust to the dim light. At first, I can only see dust pixies playing in narrow beams where the sunlight forces entry through this old building's cracks. Here the pungent, heavy scent of freshly roasted cocoa beans fills my senses. The scent itself has a palpable warmth that spellbinds me with a presence all its own; as if the scent itself is some being reaching out to caress me. Another embodiment pressing into mine, seductive and sweet, making my mouth water as my core twangs with sparks of electricity. The sense of smooth velvet envelops me as I stand frozen against the door, every nerve fiber alive as I draw in breath after slow drawn breath through my nose and mouth. Childhood memories of summers working alongside my mother and father creating sweet artisan confections, of all the times I threw my arms around my father's neck when he came home from work; a beautiful mixture of his cologne and sugar, heavy cream and chocolate filing my senses; like the warmth of pure sunshine.

As my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, it becomes apparent that indeed, the building's windows are all painted black on this side- the only paint that looks to be of this century. I can barely make out some of the usual equipment; roasters, winnowers, presses, conches, etc. As my eyes- wide and straining, move about the room, I realize I am standing on a small platform, and that the building actually extends below street level. The chocolate making equipment, although difficult to discern in the dim light, fills the room in an elaborate maze of stainless steel. The expanse is far beyond my imaginings from when I first walked up that path; in stark contrast to anything the outside of the building alludes to.

"Marina, I presume."

Startled, I scream as I twist around. I'm turning in circles, trying to locate the direction of the voice. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Trying my best to sound calm, "Who are you? Where are you?" and then

totally

intelligently, "I'm not trespassing!"

The vast expanse seems to be growing darker, blacker as I blink my eyes, straining to see. Suddenly a small white orb of pure light appears before me. It floats in mid-air and is welcoming and familiar, somehow. It casts a warmth upon me, and then into me and grows and suddenly my thoughts of fear and darkness are replaced by the vision of white, billowing curtains and early morning sunlight casting a heavenly glow, my once-strong father supine and weak in his bed. His skin is thin, pale, sickly and nearly as colorless as the white linens that surround him. His mouth is moving, the mere whispers that escape his lips as he tries to speak smell of putridity. Still, I lean into him, desperate to understand what he tries to tell me...

The vision pulls from me so quickly that I lurch forward, teetering on the edge of the dark platform, my arms reaching forward for something, anything to grab onto.

Arms come around me and pull me in. A hard body presses against mine.

"I know you. You're him. You came to my room last night." I breathe, my body trembling.

He doesn't speak; doesn't release me.

At last, "You shouldn't be here. It's not safe for you here." His voice; a deep baritone, has an immediate, physical effect on me which I try to ignore.

"Are you the chocolate maker? Are you the owner of N.V. Choc..."

"I am."