The Purpose of Chocolate

5 hours and 37 minutes.

She did the maths in her head again, just to be sure.

5 hours and 42 minutes.

She had forgotten a tray of mini chocolate seashells.

Not that it mattered. Especially now. But somehow that’s the only thing her brain would do: count up how long she had spent making the cake that Roger would never see. Or taste. Or praise her for.

Not that she needed praise. But he loved to dote on her.

Had loved to...

He was always proud of her ‘edible artwork,’ as he called it.

She’d always told him it wasn’t anything special. She hadn’t even gone to culinary school, just taught herself because she enjoyed the process. And the delight on people’s faces when she delivered whatever confection she had spent hours or days or weeks perfecting.

God, she was numb.

She stared at the cake lovingly displayed on the kitchen island. Three tiers of chocolate sponge - her great-grandmother’s recipe - filled with buttercream, covered in dark chocolate ganache, and painstakingly decorated with 143 moulded chocolate seashells and starfish of all different sizes, interspersed with countless sugar pearls.

143… wasn’t that pager code for 'I love you?' Odd coincidence, that. It wasn’t planned. Just... happened.

She stared at that cake. Situated on a bed of brown sugar to mimic the look of wet sand, waiting for Roger. But he wouldn’t be coming home. Not ever again.

- -

Mara had just put the final touches on the cake and wiped up the stray sugar when the doorbell rang.

He was early! He had said he might be able to duck out early, but she hadn’t let herself hope…

Flinging the door open with a grin, Mara began distractedly, “The table isn’t quite set yet, but I think you’ll love…” Then, she saw the two women standing on her doorstep. “Oh! I’m so sorry, I thought you were my husband, Roger.” She hesitated at the solemn expression on their faces. “Can...I help you?”

The women exchanged a glance. One was tall, brunette, and angular. Probably in her mid-forties. The other was shorter, gingery-blonde, a bit plump, and a bit younger. Both seemed fit. And both radiated the sort of tension that told her they didn’t want to be there.

Mara felt her senses pique.

The older woman took half a step forward and asked, “Are you Mara Elisabeth St. James?”

“Yes, that’s me… What is this about?”

“I’m DI Scott and this is DS McIntyre,” she said, and they both showed her their badges. “We’re with the West Mercia Police. May we come in?”

“Of course,” Mara said, and stepped aside to let them enter.

“Oh, that’s a gorgeous cake you’ve got there,” said DI Scott, as her visual sweep of the house rounded on the kitchen.

“Thank you,” replied Mara, with a smile. “I made it for my husband. Today’s our anniversary. Two years.” The detectives exchanged another of those glances, leading Mara to again ask the obvious question, “What is this about?”

“Why don’t we all sit down, love,” DS McIntyre suggested. And just like that, Mara went from cautious to alarmed. She motioned them vaguely toward the sofa as she perched on the edge of an armchair.

“We just want to confirm,” McIntyre began, checking her police notebook, “that your husband is Roger William Finlay, aged 31 and this is his address?”

“Yes,” Mara said, opened her mouth to add something but couldn’t think what, and closed it again.

DI Scott leaned forward, a compassionate expression on her face, opened her mouth, and shattered Mara’s world.

Through the fog that settled into her head, Mara heard only fragments of what the detectives were saying.

“Sorry to inform…”

“...accident. His car was…”

“...taken to hospital…”

“...the surgeon did everything she could…”

“Sorry for your loss…”

The fog took over completely, then. Mara welcomed it. It seemed to insulate her from the horrible things these people were saying. Maybe when the fog cleared, this would all be a dream. A horrible nightmare. She dove deeper into that comforting silence until a hand gently grasped her shoulder.

“Mara?”

She glanced upward. DS McIntyre was handing her a cup of tea with horrifying pity in her expression. “Is there someone I can call to be with you?”

Automatically taking the tea, Mara dragged herself halfway out of the fog and murmured, “I grew up in Toronto. My family is there. My friend Anabelle… Oh no, she’s on holiday. Greece. Spain? I’m not sure. She moves about.” Pulling her wits together further, she landed on the necessary answer, “I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure. Are you up for a few questions now? Just some preliminary ones and we can do the rest later?”

“OK.”

“Great. I’ll be as quick as I can, and we’ll get out of your hair. Roger worked in information technology at the university, right?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, we found his ID card in his wallet. Did he do other jobs? Have any hobbies?”

“He…took on some freelance work sometimes. And some volunteer work with that children’s charity off the high street. That brought in some referral business.”

“And you? Are you a baker?” DS McIntyre nodded at the cake.

That damned cake.

“No. It’s just a hobby of mine.” Mara was suddenly exhausted. “I’m a photographer. Family portraits, weddings, and landscapes when I get the chance.”

“You said you grew up in Toronto. What brought you to England?”

Mara sighed and rubbed her temples. “I was adopted. ‘St. James’ is my adoptive parents’ name. After University, I became interested in my biological family and took one of those DNA tests. Found out my biological parents died young but I had some extended blood relatives here. I came to see what I could learn. When I tracked them down, they didn’t want to know me, so I travelled around the country as a tourist, since I was already here.” She shrugged.

“I met Roger on the train. We hit it off but didn’t think much of it until I ran into him again at a pub…” Mara trailed off, that lovely fog wafting back in...

Later. She’d fall apart later.

She pulled herself together and continued. “I was able to extend my visa and stay longer, and I moved in here not long afterwards.” Looking around the room, Mara had a horrible realisation. “How long can I stay here, now that…?” She couldn’t say it. But fortunately, they didn’t make her.

“Don’t worry about that now. We’ll sort all that out later,” DI Scott assured her. “And I’m sorry to do this, but we will need to set up a time for you to come down to the station to formally identify his remains. Unless…is there another relative who could do it?”

Mara shook her head, numbly. “He was an only child. His mum died when he was a kid, his dad went last year. Cancer.”

Looking at her notes, DS McIntyre nodded and said, “OK Mara, I think we can leave it there for now.” She looked at DI Scott who nodded, then continued. “I’ll be your Family Liaison Officer at least until the inquest. It’s probably straightforward, but we will have more questions for you, and I can arrange a counsellor if you’d like.”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

“Please do. We’ll be in touch. Give us a ring if you have any questions.”

McIntyre left her card on the table as both detectives stood. “We’ll show ourselves out, Mara. Take care.”

She nodded dully and they left. Her eyes were drawn to the chocolate cake on the counter, magnetized by its exquisite beauty. The joy it had represented and the tragedy in its wake.

An hour start to finish for the sponge, let it cool. Ganache glaze, 15 minutes, chill. Seashells? Varied. A few trays of this, several of that…. 5 hours, plus decoration time…

- -

5 hours and 42 minutes.

She still felt numb.

Mara looked at her watch, stood and went into the guest bedroom. Squatting in the middle of the floor, she pulled up a loose floorboard, stuck her hand in and felt around until she found it.

She pulled out the burner phone, turned it on and saw the text message.

Happy Birthday, Love. xoxo

Her lips curled slightly as she dialled the only number on speed dial.

He picked up on the second ring. “You’re taking a big risk calling me right now, Layla.”

“Relax, Sean. The cops are gone and “Mara” was appropriately shocked. No one suspects anything. Though your timing… Well, it was a good plan. For you to surprise me. Everything go alright on your end?”

“Just like we planned. No evidence of foul play whatsoever.”

“Perfect. I’ll just have to be Bereaved Mara a little bit longer and then it’s you, me, £5 million and margaritas on Isla Margarita.”

“Can’t wait.”

“I can’t wait to put this boring town behind us and go by ‘Layla’ again. But I’ve got to go, there’s a delicious chocolate cake on the counter just begging me to celebrate.”

She ended the call and popped the burner phone in the microwave before serving herself a generous slice of decadent chocolate cake.