Evenings in downtown Clayton occasionally end earlier than families expect. Dinner wraps up just as the streetlights blink to life, yet most storefronts already stand dark, their signs flipped to “closed.” Parents linger on the sidewalk, reluctant to call it a night, while their children tug them toward something, anything, more interesting than the car. The breweries hum with their usual crowd, but many families seek a softer landing, a place that feels relaxed rather than rowdy. That need, tucked into the hour between dinner and bedtime, caught the attention of a man who knew chocolate and who knew how to spot an opportunity.
Jerry Moore worked in Highlands, North Carolina, inside the polished, old-world atmosphere of Kilwins. The franchise delivered chocolate through corporate rules: gleaming cases, mandated recipes, strict controls over what sat in the display case. He sold confections, yet he missed freedom. He missed invention, risk, and the pleasure of improvisation. After he sold his share in Highlands, he planned a step back from retail.
Yet, the pull of front-facing work, the urge to hand over something he shaped with his own hands, drew him back. From his home in Dillard, Moore often drove down to Clayton for lunch or dinner. The pattern became a habit, and the habit turned into a question: where do families go after dinner, when they want something more than a drink?
He searched for space and scanned every vacancy. One day, he struck up a conversation with the owners of a donut shop. Shortly afterward, the Moore family took over the space. By February, Main Street Chocolates opened its doors.
Some locals call him “The Candy Man,” but you can call him Jerry.
Life as a franchisee
Kilwins offered security. A franchise hands its owners a brand, a blueprint, a tested model. Corporate offices choose the chocolate. Corporate binders dictate store design. Uniformity rules the work. For the man who later became the “Candy Man” of Clayton, that structure smothered the spark.
“A franchise dictates every step,” Moore said. “Entrepreneurship disappears.”
He wanted creation. He wanted to chase risk and discover what worked. He wanted a customer to ask for something strange and then find a way to bring it to life. The shop in Clayton reflects his need for identity.
A copper kettle glows behind the counter as caramel reaches its finish, and he tempers chocolate by hand. “Sugar, butter, and cream form the base,” he explains. From those ingredients, he crafts brittle, fudge, caramel corn, syrups, and chocolates.
A supplier once offered a premade cream for Dubai Chocolate, a trendy dessert with Middle Eastern roots. Moore rejected the mix and researched his own recipe, one that carried authenticity and depth. “An independent business listens to its customers,” he explained.
That approach produced creations like the Bigfoot fondants. “People in this region love Bigfoot,” he said with an affectionate grin. So he rolled out a line that matched local taste, the kind of choice no franchise permits.
Plush toys sit near the counter, bait for doting grandparents. At $3.99 or $5.99, shoppers leave with candy in one hand and a soft toy in the other.
A gathering place
If Kilwins projected corporate polish, Main Street Chocolates aims for eclectic warmth. An employee’s mother, Carole Anne, painted a mural that stretches across the wall. Coffee bags soften the room with an earthy texture. The shop feels tidy without sterility.
Families step in after dinner. Teenagers crowd around the espresso menu. Children press their noses against the glass. Couples linger with caramel corn in hand or an ice cream.
“This place gives families an alternative to a brewery,” he said. “A space for kids and parents.”
He never planned for milestones, but the community created them. Graduates arrive with caps still on their heads. Couples stop in after anniversaries. Families walk in after funerals, grief still raw, and seek sweetness to soften the edge.
“We want a place where people share a moment, graduations, anniversaries, grief, and just feel free,” he states. “The community shaped that before we recognized it.”
The balance of risk and reward
Independence demands nerve. Without a franchise, he carries the full weight. Marketing follows his instincts. Recipes follow his curiosity. Design follows his sense of place. No corporate net catches him.
Independence, though, gives control. He avoids competition with his former shop in Highlands; Clayton and Dillard support their own market, small yet strong enough for one chocolate maker. Quarterly reviews no longer hang over his work. He tests, fails, adapts, and tests again.
However, the difference between franchise and independence runs deeper than recipes. Franchises deliver structure and remove vision. Independence exposes a business to risk, but also ignites imagination. But, he owns every part of it: the risk, the reward, the labor, the sweet satisfaction, and that ownership, that autonomy, might stand as the richest confection he ever created.
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In addition to her freelance duties with Now Habersham, Carly McCurry is the publisher of The Cute North Georgian magazine. Follow her on Instagram and Facebook.
