“Carlotta,” I hiss under my breath. “Please stop commenting on people’s surgical choices.”
“I’m being complimentary!” she protests. “That man over there has ice blue vampire eyes that only money can buy. And the lady in the blue dress—her nose is so perfect I’m tempted to ask if it’s seeing anyone.”
“Good grief.” I grab her arm and try to steer her toward some empty seats. “Maybe we should focus on the chocolate instead of the crowd.”
“But this is way better than anything on cable,” Carlotta says. “One good laugh and somebody’s face is going to snap like a breadstick.”
Speaking of food, on the upside, it smells absolutely delightful in here, and there’s a dessert spread that looks like it was designed by angels with advanced degrees in chocolate architecture. As a professional baker, I can appreciate the sheer artistry laid out before us. This isn’t just a dessert table, it’s a masterclass in confectionery perfection.
“Well, would you look at that,” Carlotta breathes, practically drooling as she surveys the display. “It’s like someone took my wildest dessert fantasies and made them real. I’m getting aroused just looking at those éclairs.”
“Please don’t get aroused by pastry in public,” I mutter, though I have to admit the dessert spread is impressive and even I’m starting to perk up in places that haven’t perked up in a good long while. More than six weeks to be exact.
Table after table displays chocolate pastries in every possible iteration—éclairs filled with ganache that gleams like velvet, their choux pastry so perfectly piped it looks like it was extruded by Swissengineers. Petit fours decorated with edible gold leaf sit in perfect rows, each one identical with a precision that makes my decorating attempts look like finger painting.
“Geez, Lot, those little gold squares look expensive,” Carlotta says. “I’m talking designer handbag expensive. Think they beat your goodies?”
“They better,” I say, studying the flawless fondant work. “I’m pretty sure the chocolate alone has a higher credit score than I do.”
Truffles are arranged in patterns so intricate they belong in an art museum, each one hand-rolled to mathematical perfection. There are chocolate sculptures that defy gravity, marzipan fruits painted with photographic detail, and macarons in flavors I’ve never even heard of. Beyond those are the classics—rich chocolate cakes, fudgy brownies, chocolate muffins, chocolate cheesecake, and creamy mousse cups.
“I’m going to try one of everything,” Carlotta announces. “For charitable purposes.”
“How is eating expensive desserts charitable?”
“Someone has to make sure none of these are poisoned. I’m basically a hero.”
A poisoning? In this town? She might be onto something.
We make our way along the dessert tables, where the mousse cakes have layers stacked so neatly they could double as tiny chocolate quilts, and the chocolate shavings are curled with such gentle precision I can practically hear the baker humming while they worked.
Even the coffee service feels enchanted—silver urns holding coffee that smells like it was grown on a mountainside tended by poets, and cream so thick it could happily curl up on a scone.
“Lot Lot, you’re drooling,” Carlotta points out while shoving her elbow into my ribcage.
“I am not drooling. I’m appreciating professional technique, and maybe their budget for this snooty shindig, too.”
“Right. And I’m here for the intellectual stimulation.”
This is the kind of dessert spread that makes a small-town baker either deeply inspired or thoroughly intimidated, and right now I’m feeling both emotions in equal measure.
I can’t believe how wonderful it all looks, how wonderful everything and everyone in this room looks. And right about now, that whole turnip with warts thing is starting to make a comeback in my brain.
We find seats among the plastic people, and I’m fascinated by the sheer uniformity of surgical enhancement around us. It’s like being surrounded by a very expensive army of mannequins that have somehow achieved consciousness and developed opinions about chocolate.
Finally, everyone settles into their seats, the room darkens dramatically, and a spotlight appears on two figures positioned center stage. Fairbanks and Gina Whitmore stand tall as if they’re about to announce the winner of a prestigious award, and a thunderous applause breaks out that suggests this crowd really knows how to appreciate a good entrance.
Fairbanks takes the microphone first, his voice carrying the smooth confidence of someone who’s spent years giving presentations to people with more money than sense.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Annual Elite Chocolate Symposium! I’m Fairbanks Whitmore, and this is my lovely wife, Regina, and we’re absolutely thrilled to share our passion for artisanal chocolate with such a distinguished gathering.” He gestures grandly toward the audience, and the crowd offers up a polite applause. “Whitmore Chocolatiers has been crafting premium confections for over fifty years, and today we want to tell you about our latest philanthropic endeavors and exciting business ventures.”
Fairbanks’ voice takes on the practiced cadence of someone who’s given this speech before, probably to investors and charity boards who write very large checks.
“This year alone, we’ve donated over two million dollars to local children’s hospitals, funding state-of-the-art pediatric wings in Vermont and New Hampshire. We’ve also established the Whitmore Foundation for Culinary Arts Education, providing full scholarships to underprivileged students who want to pursue careers in the culinary field.”
The crowd murmurs appreciatively, the kind of polite enthusiasm that money can buy.
“We’ve partnered with food banks across New England to provide premium chocolate treats for families in need during the holidays,” he continues, his chest puffing with pride. “Because we believe that everyone deserves a little sweetness in their lives, regardless of their economic circumstances.”
