Because It Is My Blood

XX I PLAN FOR THE FUTURE

MY FATHER HATED THE SUMMER because summer was the worst time of year for dealing chocolate. The heat made distribution like running a gauntlet. A train delay or a malfunctioning refrigerated truck could mean that entire shipments were spoiled, i.e., melted. Daddy always said that people lost their taste for chocolate in the summer anyway—that chocolate was a cold-weather food, that people would rather have ice cream or even watermelon in the heat. The cost of shipping, expensive at all times of the year, was even more exorbitant in the summer. According to my father, the one thing that could have significantly eased the summer months was if it had been legal to create chocolate stateside: “Sure, we can’t sell it here, but why do they care if we make it?” I knew that Daddy often fantasized about Balanchine Chocolate going on hiatus from May through September. But as soon as he’d said this, my father would shake his head: “Not to be, Annie. If we force people to go three months without chocolate, they might lose their taste for it altogether. The American buying public is as fickle as a teenager’s heart.” I was not yet a teenager, so I didn’t bother taking offense at this analogy.

Though it was June, I was not thinking of any of this. My most immediate concern was helping Natty pack for her second summer at genius camp. I was in the middle of rolling a T-shirt when the phone rang.

“Did you hear the news?” He didn’t bother to introduce himself but I was more practiced at recognizing Jacks’s voice than I had once been.

“Phone calls are expensive, Jacks. You shouldn’t waste your weeklies on someone who doesn’t want to hear from you.”

Jacks ignored me. “Word on the street is that Balanchine Chocolate isn’t going to supply chocolate in the summer anymore. Fats thinks it’s too costly. He’s saying that he thinks chocolate should be a seasonal business. The dealers are about ready to kill him.”

I told him that Daddy had often said the same thing, and that seasonal or not, it wasn’t my business.

“You can’t be serious. Fats is running the business into the ground, and you don’t think it’s your business. Let me tell you, you backed the wrong guy with Fats. The only thing that guy cares about is his speak—”

“I’m finally out, Jacks. What do you want me to say?”

“You know I got no one else to call, right? Now that Mickey’s unreachable and Yuri’s dead, no one else will even take my call. And I’d like to have a job to go back to when I’m out of here.”

“Maybe you should consider a different line of work?”

“You finding it real easy to move on, Annie? It’d be about a million times harder for me, you know.”

“You’re not my problem,” I said, and then I hung up the phone.

I went back into Natty’s room, where she was folding up a raincoat. She wanted to know who had been on the phone. “No one,” I said.

“No one?” she repeated.

“Jacks. He’s worried that Fats is…” I let my voice trail off. If Fats was running Balanchine Chocolate into the ground, it wasn’t necessarily my problem, but it could definitely be my opportunity. “Excuse me, Natty. I have to go make a call.”

I went back out to the kitchen. If I were to make a go at this, I’d need a lawyer. I thought about calling Mr. Kipling, but we hadn’t been on the best of terms since Simon Green’s return. I thought about calling Simon Green, but I didn’t trust him. The greater problem with Mr. Kipling and Simon Green was that both men had spent their whole careers defending people from the wrong side of the law and what I needed right now was someone who played for the angels.

I thought about calling Charles Delacroix. In terms of drawbacks, he had thrown me in a reformatory twice, and also, Win would hate it.

It really did make the most sense to call Mr. Kipling. Maybe we’d had some hard times, but he was a good man and he was always on my side. At the very least, Mr. Kipling would be able to point me in the direction of the kind of lawyer I thought I needed.

I picked up the phone. I was about to dial Mr. Kipling when I found myself pressing the numbers for Win’s apartment instead. Win answered the phone. “Hello,” he said.

I didn’t reply.

“Hello,” Win repeated. “Is anyone there?”

I could have abandoned the idea right then. I could have just asked Win if he wanted to come over. I could have at the very least told him what I was thinking. But I didn’t do any of these things.

This might sound low to you, but I decided to disguise my voice. I made it deep and husky and a bit New York. “I’m calling for Charles Delacroix,” I purred. I was no vocal chameleon and part of me expected Win to burst out laughing and say, Annie, what are you playing at?

“Dad!” I heard Win yell. “Telephone!”

“I’ll take it in the office!” Charles Delacroix called back.

A second later, Charles Delacroix picked up the phone, and I heard Win hang up. “Yes?”

“It’s Anya Balanchine,” I said.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Charles Delacroix replied.

“I’m going to do it,” I said. “I’m going to open the medicinal cacao dispensary.”

“Good for you, Anya. That’s terribly industrious,” he said. “What changed your mind?”

“I saw a window—an opportunity that was too good to pass up,” I said. “I’m thinking that you should be my business lawyer.”

Charles Delacroix cleared his throat. “Why would I ever do that?”

“Because you have the expertise in city government and because you have nothing else to do and because I know you think it’s a good idea.”

“Let’s meet,” Charles Delacroix said finally. “I don’t have an office other than at home, and it would appear that you’re keeping this information from your boyfriend, my son, so…”

We agreed to meet at my apartment. Although I’d met with Charles Delacroix many times and under far more trying circumstances, I was still nervous. I took a while deciding what to wear. I didn’t want to look like a schoolgirl, but I also didn’t want to look like a little girl playing dress-up. I finally picked a pair of gray pants that might have been Daddy’s though I couldn’t say for certain and a black tank top that Scarlet had left at some point. The pants were too big so I belted them below the waistband. I looked at myself in the mirror behind the door and concluded that the outfit was silly. The doorbell rang—too late to change.

I invited Mr. Delacroix into our living room. He still hadn’t shaved, but it looked like his beard might have been trimmed.

“Tell me about your plan.” Charles Delacroix sat down on the couch and crossed his legs.

“You, um, already know the basic idea. I’ve done a little research since then.” I turned on my slate. I had made notes there, but as I scanned them, they looked less thorough than I had thought they would. “So, you’ll obviously know that the Rimbaud Act of 2055 banned cacao and specifically choc—”

“I can remember when it happened, Anya. I was a little younger than you and Win are now.”

“Right. But, well, the law was designed to stop the food companies from producing chocolate. Most cities, including this one, still allow the sale of pure cacao in small quantities as long as it’s for medicinal purposes. I guess this includes beauty products but it can also include anything health-related. So, what I thought is, I could start with a small store, less than five hundred square feet, maybe somewhere uptown, so that I wouldn’t compete with Fats. I’d hire a doctor, and a waitress, and I’d sell medicinal health drinks, made from cacao and chocolate. But where it would be different from Fats is that everything would be in the open. I wouldn’t have to be underground.”

“Hmm,” he replied. “It’s clever, as I already told you, but you’re thinking too small.”

I asked him what he meant.

“I’ve worked in government a very long time. Do you know the way to get the city to leave you alone? Be the biggest business out there. Be an elephant right smack in the middle of Midtown. Be popular. Give the people a product they want, and the whole city will be on your side. They’ll be grateful to you for making legal what they thought should never have been illegal in the first place.” He paused. “Also, medicinal cacao dispensary has no ring to it. People won’t even know what you’re talking about. Hire your doctors and your nutritionists, but you need to make the whole enterprise sound sexy.”

I considered his words. “What you’re describing could cost a lot of money.” I had Natty and Leo to think of.

“True, though it could also make you a lot of money. And as for the space, that’ll be cheap as the city has more mammoth abandoned spaces than it knows what to do with. How do you think those criminals who run Little Egypt manage it? You should have dancing, too, by the way.”

“Dancing? Are you saying I should open a nightclub?”

“Well, that makes it sound tawdry. How about a lounge? Or just a club. I’m thinking out loud here. If it were a club, all the members would need to have prescriptions before they could join. It would be a requirement of membership. Yes, then you wouldn’t even need the doctors on-site.”

“Those are, um, interesting ideas. You’ve certainly given me a lot to consider.”

Charles Delacroix didn’t say anything for a while. “I’ve been thinking about this ever since you called me and I want to help you do this. Because I respect you, I’m going to be completely candid about why I want to help. It isn’t because I like chocolate or you, although I do. The fact of the matter is, I’m a failure right now. However, if I give chocolate back to the people, I’ll be a hero. What better platform for me to run for DA or even some other, higher office?”

I nodded.

“So, why do you want me to help you?” Charles Delacroix asked.

“Don’t you already know? You always know everything.”

“Humor me.”

“Because you have a reputation for being ethical and always on the side of the good, and if you say this is legal, people will believe you. What I learned during those months I was away is how much I don’t want to spend my whole life in hiding, Mr. Delacroix.”

“Fine,” he said. “That makes sense.” He offered me his hand to shake and then he pulled it back. “Before we agree on this venture, I need you to know something. I don’t think anyone knows what I’m about to say, but if it came out later, I don’t want you to be shocked—I poisoned you last fall.” He said this as if he’d been asking me to pass the sugar.

“Excuse me?”

“I poisoned you last fall but I don’t see this as any reason we shouldn’t work together. I assure you I had perfectly good intentions, and you were never in any real danger. Perhaps it was wrongheaded of me but I wanted to get you out of the girls’ dormitory at Liberty and into the infirmary, a venue that I believed you would find more accommodating to escape.”

“How?” I sputtered.

“The water I gave you when we had our discussion in the Cellar was spiked with a substance that can emulate a heart attack.”

Though I was surprised, I was less shocked than you might have thought. I looked at him. “You’re ruthless.”

“Only a bit. I’ll be the same way for you.”

Had there been an official villain for my last two years on earth, it would have been Charles Delacroix. What had Daddy once said? “Games change, Anya, and so do players.” I offered this man my hand, and he shook it. We began to make a list of all the things we needed to do.

In the morning, I put Natty on a train bound for genius camp, and in the afternoon, Charles Delacroix called me. He said that although it might have been too early to be making such decisions and although this may have fallen outside of his purview, he’d become aware of a potential venue in Midtown. “Fortieth and Fifth,” he said.

“That’s right in the middle of town,” I said.

“I know,” he replied. “That’s the idea. I’ll meet you outside.”

Other than its capaciousness, the most notable feature of the exterior was the pair of graffiti-covered statues of reclining lions. “Oh, I know this place,” I said to him. “It used to be that nightclub the Lion’s Den. None of us ever liked to go there because it was awful and Little Egypt was closer.”

Charles Delacroix said that apparently it was awful enough that it had just closed for good.

We walked up a grand flight of steps, then through a set of columns. A Realtor met us inside. She was wearing a red suit and had a sickly-looking carnation tucked into her lapel. The Realtor looked at me dubiously. “This, the client? She looks like a kid.”

“Yes,” Charles Delacroix said. “This is Anya Balanchine.”

The Realtor started at my name. After a beat, she offered me her hand. “So, we can’t lease out the whole place on your budget, but we have this one room that might meet your needs.”

She led us up to the third floor. The room was about eighty feet wide and three hundred feet long and probably fifty feet high. Arched windows lined both sides of the space, so that the overall feeling was one of openness. The ceiling was vaulted, with dark wooden moldings. The part I liked best were the murals that had been painted on the ceiling: they were of blue skies and clouds. The effect of the room was such that it was like being outside while you were inside. I loved it immediately because it was private enough to accommodate my business, but it also said Chocolate can and should be sold in the open. It felt sacred to me, like being in church.

Much was in disrepair—broken panes of glass, holes in the plaster—but none of it seemed impossible to fix.

The Realtor said, “The old tenant had a kitchen just outside. And there’re bathrooms somewhere around here, too.”

I nodded. “What used to be here?”

“Lion’s Den. Some kind of club.” The Realtor made a face.

“Before that,” I specified. “What was the original purpose?”

The Realtor turned on her slate. “Um, let me see. It was a library, maybe? You know, paper books, something like that.” She wrinkled her nose as she said “paper books.” “So, what do you think?”

I wasn’t necessarily a believer in signs but the lion statues outside made me think of Leo, and paper books of Imogen, of course. I knew this was the place for me, but I wanted to get a good deal so I kept my face blank. “I’m going to sleep on it,” I said.

“Don’t wait too long. Someone might snap it up,” the Realtor warned.

“I doubt that,” Charles Delacroix said. “You can’t give these old ruins away. I used to be in government, you know.”

Charles Delacroix and I walked out into the sticky New York June.

“So?” he said.

“I like it,” I said.

“The location is good, and it has some kind of historical significance, for what that’s worth. But the main thing is the gesture of it—if you take a space, it becomes real to people, more than just an idea. I doubt you’ll have much competition for the lease.”

“I’m going to speak to Mr. Kipling,” I said. Mr. Kipling was managing my finances until August 12, when I turned eighteen. As yet, I had not felt any need to run my business plans past him.

Upon returning home, I slate-messaged Mr. Kipling that I needed to talk to him at his office. I had not seen him since Simon Green’s return.

When I arrived at his office, he greeted me warmly, and then he embraced me. “How are you? I was about to call. Look what came yesterday.”

He passed an envelope across the desk. It was my GED. I must have used my business address. “I didn’t know it would be paper,” I said.

“Important things still are,” Mr. Kipling said. “Congratulations, my dear!”

I took the envelope and slipped it into my pocket.

“Perhaps we could talk about your post-graduation plans?” Mr. Kipling cautiously suggested.

I told him that that had been exactly why I had come and then I described the business I planned to open and the space I wanted to rent in Midtown. “I’ll need you to arrange two payments for me. The first is a retainer for the business lawyer I’ve hired”—I purposely didn’t mention who the business lawyer was—“and the second as a deposit on the space I’d like to rent.”

Mr. Kipling listened carefully and then he said exactly what I’d feared he would say: “I’m not sure about any of this, Anya.” Although I didn’t ask him to, he began listing his objections: mainly that the idea could potentially anger the semya and that a business of any type was a financially risky venture. “A restaurant is a money pit, Anya.”

I told him it was a club, not a restaurant.

“Can you really say you know what you’re getting into?” he asked.

“Can anyone?” I paused. “You honestly don’t think this is a good idea?”

“Possibly. I don’t know. What I think is a really good idea is you going to college.”

I shook my head. “Mr. Kipling, you once told me that I would never escape chocolate so there was no point in hating it. That’s what I’m trying to do. I believe in this idea.”

Mr. Kipling didn’t say anything. Instead, he ran his fingers through his imaginary hair. “I may not be your lawyer anymore, but I am still the keeper of the trust, Anya.”

“In two months, I’ll be eighteen and I won’t need to ask your permission,” I reminded him.

Mr. Kipling looked at me. “Then I think you should wait two months. That’ll give you more time for research.”

I informed him that I had already drawn up a detailed business plan.

“Still, if it’s such a good idea, it’ll be good two months from now, too.”

Two months. I didn’t have two months. Who knew what the situation at Balanchine Chocolate would be two months from now? Who knew where I’d be? Now was the time. In my heart, I knew it.

“I could take you to court,” I said.

Mr. Kipling shook his head. “That would be foolish. You’d eat up money in legal fees, and it wouldn’t be settled by August anyway. If I were you, I’d wait.”

Mr. Kipling put his hand on my arm. I shook him off.

“I’m only doing this out of love,” he said.

“Love? That’s why you killed Nana, too, right?”

I left Mr. Kipling’s office, feeling despondent but also determined. I tried to come up with someone who could lend me the money I needed for the deposit on the lease. It was only five thousand dollars to hold on to the room, and I didn’t want to lose the space. I couldn’t think of anyone, or at least not anyone to whom I wished my brand-new business to be indebted. I thought of whether I had anything worth selling, but nothing was worth much in those days.

I was on the verge of despair when Mr. Kipling called me. “Anya, I know we’ve had our struggles this year, but I’ve thought about it. I’ll draft you the payments if that’s something you really want. You’re right when you say it’ll be your money in two months anyway. In the meantime, though, I want you to sign up for some extension school classes in business or law or restaurant management or medicine. That’s the price of me drafting these payments or any others.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kipling.” I gave him the name of the Realtor and the amount.

“You mentioned a business lawyer? Does this person have a name?”

“Charles Delacroix. I suppose you don’t need me to spell it.”

“Anya Pavlova Balanchine, have you lost your mind? You have to be kidding!”

I told him that I had thought about it, and for a variety of reasons, Charles Delacroix was the person who best met my needs.

“Well, it’s a very bold choice,” he said after a bit. “Certainly unexpected. Your father would probably approve. You’ll need to open a corporate account.”

“Mr. Delacroix said the same thing.”

“Of course, I’m glad to help you with that or anything else you need, Annie.”

On my way to the nightclub formerly known as the Lion’s Den, the place where I was meant to meet Charles Delacroix to sign the lease, I walked past St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I decided to go in to say a quick prayer.

It wasn’t that I was having doubts exactly. But I knew that once I signed that paper, everything would start to become real. I guess I thought it would be a good idea to ask for a blessing for my new venture.

I knelt down at the altar and bowed my head. I thanked God for the return of Leo and for keeping Natty safe. I thanked God that my legal problems were behind me. I thanked God for the time I’d spent in Mexico. I thanked God for my father, who had taught me so many things in the short time we had known each other. And I thanked God for my mother and Nana, too. I thanked God for Win because he had loved me even when I was pretty sure I was unlovable. I thanked God that I was Anya Balanchine and not some other girl. Because I, Anya, was made of pretty sturdy stuff, and God had never given me more than I could bear. And then, I thanked God for that, too.

I stood up. After depositing a small offering in the basket, I left the church, then went southward to sign the lease.

The second Friday in June, I decided to throw a small gathering at the new venue to tell my friends about what I’d be doing next year. Before I even invited anyone, I knew I would have to tell Win about his father’s involvement.

That summer, in an attempt to show that New York City wasn’t so awful, the mayor was screening ancient movies outside in Bryant Park. Win wanted to go, in the way rich, privileged people liked to do things that were potentially dangerous. I told him I’d come, but as was to be expected, I had my machete with me.

No one accosted us at the screening—police presence had been fairly impressive for a recreational event. Still, I could barely pay attention to the movie because I kept thinking about what I had to tell Win.

On the walk home, Win was still talking about the movie. “That part where the girl rides the horse across the water? That was amazing. I want to do that.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Win looked at me. “Annie, were you watching at all?”

“I—I have something I need to tell you.” I told him about the business and the lease I had signed and finally the name of the lawyer I had hired. “I’m having a sort of party to kick the whole thing off next week. I’d really like it if you came.”

Win did not speak for an entire city block. “You don’t have to do this, Anya. Just because you signed a lease doesn’t mean you have to do this.”

“I do have to do this, Win. Don’t you see? It’s a way to redeem my father. It’s the way I could change things in the city. If I don’t do this, I’ll always be living in the dark.”

“You think you have to, but you don’t.” He grabbed my hand and turned me roughly toward him. “Do you have any idea how hard this is going to be?”

“Yes, I do. But I have to anyway, Win.”

“Why?” he said in a sharper voice than I had ever heard him use. “Your cousin took over Balanchine Chocolate. You are out!”

“I’ll never be out. I am my father’s daughter. And if I don’t do this, I will always regret it.”

“You are not your father’s daughter. I am not my father’s son.”

“I am, Win.” I told him that to deny this was to deny who I was at my core, that I could not change my name or my blood. He wasn’t listening, though.

“Why did you have to hire my father?” he asked in a quiet voice that was more frightening than his loud one had been.

I tried to explain but he just shook his head.

“I knew you were headstrong, but I never took you for a fool.”

“I have reasons, Win.”

Win cornered me against the wall. “I have been loyal to you. If you do this, I won’t be by your side. We can be friends, nothing more. I will go as far away from you as possible. I will not watch you destroy yourself.”

I shook my head. My cheeks were wet, so I suppose I was crying. “I have to, Win.”

“I mean that little to you?”

“No … But I can’t be anyone other than who I am.”

Win looked at me with an expression of disgust. “You know he poisoned you last year, right?”

Win knew. “He told me.”

“You know exactly what kind of a man he is and you go and do this anyway! If he’s helping you, it’s because he sees some kind of angle for himself.”

“I know that, Win. He’s using me, and I’m using him.”

“You deserve each other then.” Win shook his head. “We’re done,” he said.

“Don’t do this, Win. Not here. Not now. Take a little time to think.” Embarrassing as this is, I fell to my knees and clasped my hands together.

He said he didn’t need to think. “I will not be my mother. I will not be long-suffering.”

And then he left. I got up to run after him, but I tripped and skinned my knees against the pavement. By the time I stood up, a bus had arrived, and Win was on it.

As soon as I got home, I tried calling Win. “He’s already gone to bed,” Mrs. Delacroix said coolly. “Would you rather speak to Charlie instead?”

I told her that wouldn’t be necessary. I saw Charles Delacroix all the time.

This went on for several days (fill in excuses appropriate to whatever time of day it was) until finally Mrs. Delacroix said that Win had gone to visit friends in Albany.

Maybe I should have gotten on the first train to Albany, but I just couldn’t. I didn’t know what I would say. The truth was, he was probably right. I had disregarded his feelings in pursuit of whatever this was, and I couldn’t explain to him why. Or rather, if I did explain, I suspected he wouldn’t like the answer: Win had been steadfast, loyal, kind, and everything good, but all that was not enough. For better or for worse, the desire I had to succeed where my father had failed was greater than the love I had for Win.

So, no, I did not chase my boyfriend to Albany. I was occupied with arranging for my business and finishing preparations for the prelaunch party on Friday.

The phone rang. Despite myself, I hoped it was Win, but it wasn’t.

“Are you not happy to hear from your old friend?” Theo asked.

I had messaged him several days earlier for advice from the abuelas about what could be used as a substitute for cacao in frozen hot chocolate, the drink I planned to serve at the party.

“The abuelas say that nothing can substitute cacao! They want to know why you would want to commit such a blasphemy.”

I told him about my business. “We’re having a prelaunch party, but my business partner doesn’t think it’s a good idea to serve anything illegal since the whole idea is for it to be aboveboard.”

“I see. Well, then perhaps you might try carob powder? It is a pale substitute but…”

I thanked him.

“Let me know what else I can do to help,” Theo said.

“How about a good deal on Granja Mañana cacao?” I suggested. “I’m going to need a supplier.”

“The best deal I have,” Theo said. “I am proud of you, Anya Barnum-Balanchine. You seem to have made peace with everything.”

“Gracias, Theo. You know you are the only person to say that to me.”

“It is because I know you, Anya. In our hearts, we are the same.” Theo paused. “How is your boyfriend?”

“He’s mad at me,” I said.

“He will get over it.”

“Maybe.” But I wasn’t really sure if he would this time.

We talked for a while longer, and Theo promised to come and see me when he could. I asked him if they’d be able to spare him at Granja Mañana, and he said that Luna had been much more help since he’d been sick. “I guess I should be grateful to you for getting me shot.”

“Unfortunately, you aren’t the first boy to say that to me.”

Friday came, and with it, the party. Still I had not heard from Win. I spent the day having the space cleaned and setting up samovars for the frozen hot chocolate along the sides of the room. I’d invited everyone in my circle—though no one from the semya—and Charles Delacroix had invited people, too, including potential investors.

Scarlet and Gable were among the first people to show up. She was about a million months pregnant at this point and I hadn’t been sure if she’d come at all. When I messaged her though, she had replied in about a second: Really happy to have a reason to get out of the house and really happy for the invitation! P.S. Does this mean we aren’t mad at each other anymore? I am so lonesome without you. When she arrived, she hugged me.

“You two married yet?” I asked them.

“We’re thinking about waiting until after she gives birth,” Gable said.

Scarlet shook her head. “I couldn’t get married without you, Anya.”

“This is a terrific place,” Gable said. “What are you planning to do with it anyway?”

“You’ll hear all that soon enough,” I said. “Hey, Gable. You planning to take any pictures tonight?” I asked.

Gable snarled that Scarlet had taken away his camera phone. “Where’s your boyfriend?” he wanted to know.

I pretended I didn’t hear him and I moved on to other guests.

Once most everyone had arrived, I went to the podium at the front of the room. I looked around to see if Win perchance had shown. He hadn’t. Without him or Natty or Leo, I felt a bit unmoored, and it certainly was not the best speech of my life. I ran through the bullet points about the club I was planning to open, and what I planned to serve, and the reason all of this would be perfectly legal. As I described the business, I could feel the room grow deathly quiet, but the quiet did not scare me. “Tonight, you’ll be drinking carob versions of the medicinal health drinks I’ll be serving in the fall. They’re going to taste a lot better then, I promise.” I raised my mug, but I hadn’t remembered to have it filled before starting my speech. Because it seemed awkward not to, I pretended to drink. “Someone once told me that last year’s enemy could very well be this year’s friend, so with that in mind, I’d like to introduce you to my new legal counsel.”

Charles Delacroix took the podium. He had shaved for the occasion, a gesture I appreciated. “Forgive me if I’m a bit rusty. I’m out of practice,” Charles Delacroix began, with a falsely modest chuckle. “Seven months ago, my career in politics, for lack of a better word, ended. We don’t need to go into the reasons why.” He shot a look over at me, which made the crowd laugh. “Tonight, I’m here to talk about the future, however.” He cleared his throat. “Chocolate,” he said. “It’s sweet. It’s pleasant enough. But it’s not worth dying over and it’s certainly not worth losing an election over. Well, I’ve had a lot of time to think about chocolate this past year for obvious reasons”—he looked at me again—“and here’s why chocolate matters. Not because I lost or because organized crime is bad. The reason it matters is because the legislation that banned chocolate is and has always been bad legislation.

“How does a city in decline become a city of tomorrow? It’s a question I’ve asked myself nearly every day for the last ten years. And the answer I’ve come to is this: we must rethink the laws. Laws change because people demand change or because people find new ways of interpreting old laws. My friend—and I think I can call her that—Anya Balanchine has come up with a novel way of doing both.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you are at the start of something larger than just a nightclub. I see a future where New York City is a shining city once again, a city of laws that make sense. I see a future where people come to New York City for chocolate because it is the only place in the country that has had the good sense to legalize it. I see an economic windfall for this city, this chocolate city.” He paused. “Even when we aren’t elected to serve, we can still find ways to serve. I believe that this is so, and that’s why I have agreed to help Anya Balanchine in any way that I can. I hope you, my friends, will join us.”

It was a far better speech than mine, though it should be noted that Charles Delacroix had had far more practice with such matters. It should also be noted that my colleague’s goals were a bit loftier than my own. He’d never said anything to me about a chocolate city. The term struck me as absurd.

I made my way through the crowd, stopping briefly to talk to Dr. Lau. And then I saw Dr. Freeman from Cacao Now. He shook my hand. “I can’t thank you enough for inviting me. You must come speak to us this summer. This is visionary, Anya. Visionary!”

Just as I had reached the banquet table, a waitress I had hired for the evening told me there was someone who was asking for me outside. I would be lying if I told you I wasn’t hoping for Win.

I went into the hallway, which was deserted. I walked down the stairs. On the landing stood my cousin Fats. He was sweaty and red-faced. Needless to say, he had not been invited. A flight down, I could see his security. That was new. Fats usually traveled alone.

“Fats,” I said lightly. When I was close enough, he kissed me. His lips smacked almost violently against my cheeks. “What brings you here?”

“Heard there was a party,” he said. “Hurts my feelings when I don’t get an invite after all the time you and your friends spent in my joint over the years.”

“I didn’t think you’d be interested,” I said lamely.

Fats craned his neck up the stairs. “This where the—what did you call it?—health cacao place is gonna be?”

“I came to you. You didn’t like the idea.”

“Maybe so. Guess I didn’t think you’d go and do it anyway,” Fats said. He pulled me in to whisper in my ear. His breath was moist and hot against my skin. “You sure about this, Annie? You sure you want all this brought down on you? There’s still time for you to change your mind. You got your brother to think about. Your little sister, too. And I know you already have plenty of enemies. Yuji Ono. Sophia Bitter. Mickey Balanchine. You really want me to be one more?”

I pushed him away. He was bluffing, I was certain. And even if he wasn’t, there were months before the club would open, which meant there were months left for me to broker some kind of peace between us if that proved necessary. Maybe it was foolish of me, but I truly believed that I could convince him to my way of thinking. Fats had loved my father, and I knew I was doing what Daddy would have wanted. I just didn’t want to make this case to Fats tonight. “It’s done,” I said. “Have a good night. I really must attend to my guests.”

I ran up the stairs and I did not look back.

At long last, I made it over to one of the samovars. I turned the spigot to fill my glass, and Charles Delacroix sidled up next to me. “You did well,” he said. “This is a great night. This is where it all begins.”

“So you said. ‘Chocolate city,’ huh?”

“I thought it had good drama to it. People like drama, Anya. They remember drama.”

I tasted the drink. I’d followed Theo’s instruction to the letter, but the flavor was strong, if ever so slightly sour. Though no one at the party seemed to notice, something had gone bad in the mix. Maybe Theo was right when he had told me that there wasn’t a good substitute for chocolate. Yet half the samovars were already empty, so perhaps I was being an overly sensitive hostess. I took a second tentative sip. When I looked up, I saw Win, standing across the room next to Scarlet and Gable. I hadn’t seen him arrive. Despite everything, he had come for me. At that moment, my heart, my lowly, amnesiac heart, could not recall the things that had been more important than those eyes, those hands, that mouth. Forgive me, I wanted to say to him, I knew I would hurt you and I did it anyway. I don’t know why I am the way I am. I don’t know why I do the things I do. Please, Win, don’t give up on me. Love me a little, even though I’m flawed. “Thank you,” was what I did manage to whisper. He couldn’t have heard, but I was sure he saw my lips. He did not cross the room to me. He did not reply or even smile. I was not forgiven, not yet. After a moment, he raised his glass. I imitated his gesture before draining that bitter drink to its lees.