“You miss your hair, poor thing.”
“You are mocking me, Mr. Delacroix,” I said. “Anyway I’ve worn it short before. It’s only hair.” It was only hair, but I had cried after it was cut. The hairdresser had spun around the chair for the big reveal. I regarded an alien in the mirror, who looked as if it might have trouble surviving life on the hostile planet where its spaceship had crashed. I looked vulnerable, which was my least favorite way to look. Who was that girl? She certainly couldn’t be Anya Balanchine. She certainly couldn’t be me. In a display that I considered so unlike myself as to be disturbing, I had buried my shorn head in my hands and wept. How embarrassing. One wept at funerals; one did not weep over hair.
“You hate it,” the poor hairdresser had said.
“No.” I took a shuddery breath and tried to come up with an excuse for my behavior. “It’s … Well, my neck is awfully cold.”
Luckily, only the stylist had been privy to my moment of weakness.
“I forget. Girls are sensitive about their hair. When my daughter was in the hospital—” Mr. Delacroix cut himself off with an ironic nod. “And this is not a story I want to tell right now.” He studied me. “I like the new hair. I liked the old hair, too, but the new hair is not bad.”
“What an endorsement,” I said. “Not bad.”
“Now I have a silly but potentially awkward matter to run by you.” He paused. “In her infinite wisdom, the media strategist thinks it would be good for the club if you brought a date to tomorrow’s opening.”
“Other than my sister, I suppose?”
“I believe they are willing to arrange someone suitable for you if you don’t have anyone lined up.”
“I suppose Win’s away at college,” I joked.
“He left last week.”
“And also he hates me.”
“Yes, that,” he said. “I didn’t become New York City’s district attorney, but I did manage to squelch that little high school romance.”
“Well done, you.”
I honestly didn’t have anyone to take me. I’d been working, not dating. And I was not on good terms with my exes. “I don’t want an arranged date,” I said finally. “I was planning to take my sister and I think I’m going to stick with that.”
“Okay, Anya. I will inform the team. I told them you would say that, by the way.” Mr. Delacroix started walking to the door.
“You always did think you knew my moves.”
He came back to me. “No. I did not predict this.” He gestured around the space, which had, in the last several weeks, begun to look like a club. The floors were buffed and polished. The painted-cloud ceiling had been restored. Silvery velvet curtains covered the windows, running from the ceiling to the floor, and the walls were painted a deep chocolate brown. A mahogany bar the length of one side of the room had been added, and a bandstand, too. A red carpet would be laid out that afternoon. The only feature we lacked? Paying customers. “This is rather enormous,” he said. “Now don’t stay too late, and get a good night’s sleep if you can.”
Despite Mr. Delacroix’s instructions, that night I lay in my bed not sleeping. As was my custom, I tortured myself by listing everything that might go wrong. It was almost a relief when my cell phone rang and Jones came on the line.
“Sorry to wake you, Ms. Balanchine. There’s been some vandalism. Someone poured acid—we think it’s acid at least—over the cacao supply.”
When I arrived, Jones led me to the pantry. The entire batch of cacao had been doused in a chemical that looked like either bleach or acid. Holes were burned into the sacks, and I could see dark mud-like clumps of damp cacao.
“You shouldn’t spend too long in there,” Jones said. “There’s not much ventilation.”
My eyes were already watering. I had to think. It was not going to be an easy matter, finding two hundred and fifty pounds of raw cacao for tonight’s opening.
I was about to leave the room when I noticed a Balanchine Special Dark wrapper sitting on a shelf. Not very subtle, I thought. Of course, subtlety hadn’t been the point.
I hadn’t heard much from Fats, who was now the head of the Balanchine family. At the prelaunch party in June, he had threatened me that there would be consequences for opening the club. I guess this was what he had meant. I knew I would have to deal with him later. In the meantime, triage. I took out my phone to call my cacao supplier in Mexico.
“Anya, this hour is insanity. It is too early for me to be speaking English,” Theo said when he picked up.
“Theo, I’m in trouble.”
“I am serious as the grave when I say that I will kill for you. I am small but tough.”
“No, you ridiculous boy. I don’t need you to kill for me.” I explained what had happened. “I wanted to know if anywhere locally might have, say, two hundred and fifty pounds of cacao for tonight?”
Theo didn’t speak for several seconds. “This is a disaster. My next delivery is not supposed to arrive to you until miércoles. Nowhere in your country can you obtain such a large quantity of cacao, and even if you were able to, you could not be sure of the quality.” He yelled to his sister, “Luna, despiértate! Necesitamos un avión!”
“Un avión?” My Spanish had atrophied in the months since I had left Casa Marquez. “Wait, isn’t that a plane?”
“Yes, Anya, I am coming to you. I cannot let you start your business with subpar cacao. In Chiapas, it is now five a.m. Luna thinks I can get to New York City by afternoon. You will arrange a truck to come meet me?”
“Of course. But Theo, a cargo plane is very expensive. I can’t let you and your family absorb such a cost.”
“I have money. I am a rich chocolate baron of Mexico. I will do this for you in exchange for”—he paused to come up with a figure—“50 percent of your first week’s profits.”
“Fifty percent is kind of high, Theo. Besides, shouldn’t you have negotiated this up front? You’ve already told Luna to get the plane, no?”
“You speak the truth, Anya. How about 15 percent of your profits until I’m paid back for the cost of the plane and the fuel and the cacao?”
“Theo, now you’re asking for too little. My business could flop, and then you’ll get nothing.”
“I believe in you. I taught you everything you know, did I not? Plus, it gives me a good chance to see New York and I can help you, if you like. I would not mind to see you. Is your hair grown out?”
I told him that he’d have to see when he got here. “Theo, buen viaje.”
“Very good, Anya. You have not forgotten completely your Spanish.”
I did not return to the apartment, as I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. I sat in my office, in my father’s chair, the same one in which he’d been murdered, and I brooded. What if the plane crashed? What if I failed and everyone laughed at me? I was thinking of Sophia Bitter, Yuji Ono, Simon Green, and, obviously, Fats. What if they were right to laugh? What if my idea had been stupid and what if I was a stupid girl for believing I could build something new? What if Mr. Kipling had been right, too? What did I know about running a business? What if the cacao arrived, we made the drinks, and still no one came? What if people did come, but they hated the cacao and refused to accept it as chocolate? What if I had to fire the people I had just hired? What would they do for work? For that matter, what would I do for a job? I had a high school equivalency diploma, no college prospects, and a criminal record. What if I ended up broke? Who would pay for Natty’s college? What if I lost the apartment? What if, at eighteen years old, I had ruined my entire life? Where would I go from here? I was totally alone and ugly with silly, short hair.