by Anna Martin
Macarons at Midnight
MJ O’Shea
Anna Martin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Macarons at Midnight Copyright © 2019 by M.J. O’Shea and Anna Martin
Cover Art by M.J. O’Shea
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
Chapter One
Don’t drop it… don’t drop it… oh no, no, no!
“Son of a freaking bitch! Ow!”
The bag in Henry Livingston’s hand slipped, like he’d known it would all along.
That’s what you get for being lazy, isn’t it?
He’d been running late and trying to do too many things at the same time. Of course, he’d tripped on the one uneven tile he knew was there, which had always been there, and poof went a twenty-pound bag of flour everywhere. He’d tried to grasp the heavy bag with his fingernails and nearly pulled one out in the process, but no luck. There was a thick, squishy thump, and then the sound of industrial paper ripping on the corner of the worktop.
Anyone who didn’t know exactly how much flour a twenty-pound bag could hold probably didn’t want to find out. The mess turned his kitchen into something like the aftermath of a disaster movie, spread out all over the black and white floor tiles. White powder floated through the air, slow, and in a weird way somehow enchanting, catching the rays of light and dusting every surface in Henry’s pristine kitchen. His pristine kitchen he’d just wiped down only minutes before. Of course. The whole place looked like some kind of drug bust gone awry, the nail bed of his left index finger throbbed like the devil, and he was still late. As usual.
Wasn’t disaster the rule for those sorts of situations? It was for Henry. Disaster seemed to follow him everywhere he went—at least where messes could be made.
“What have you done this time, twinkle toes?” Millie, called from the front room.
His assistant wandered back, fanning herself with her hand and laugh-coughing at the floury mess. Millie’s intense cherry-red hair had flown out of her bun, humidity and the heat from the bakery turning her bright, wiry curls into a dandelion puff around her head. Henry had to smile. Even if she was laughing at him. She giggled some more while she pointed at Henry, covered in powder, staring at the explosion as if he could somehow make it disappear with his mind. No respect. None. He didn’t figure he’d ever get any from Millie. She was more like another older sister than an employee, and as much as they might bitch at each other, Henry wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I’ve only been out front for five minutes! How’d you already manage to turn your kitchen into a coke raid?”
He snorted out a frustrated laugh. “I was trying to get ahead for once, mix the dough for the Schwartz bat mitzvah cookies tonight so I only had to bake and decorate them tomorrow, but instead of getting ahead, I have a half an hour of cleaning to do, no dough, and I’m already running late for dinner at my parents’ place.”
“When are you supposed to be there?”
Henry gave Millie a sheepish smile. “Twenty minutes.” Not a chance he was going to make it. Punctuality had never been Henry’s strong suit.
Millie shook her head. “Someday you’ll be on time to something that doesn’t have to do with this damn bakery.”
“Probably not.”
“Shoo with you, then.” She waved him off. “I don’t have any plans. I’ll clean it up.” She cocked an eyebrow. “But this is coming out of your holiday bonus.”
Henry grinned at her. He might be the owner of Honeyfly Cakes and Cookies, but they both knew who was really in charge. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, though. I owe you.”
“Give Trix a kiss for me,” she said.
Despite never quite understanding each other’s lives, Millie and his real sister had always gotten along. Sometimes, when they ganged up on him especially, Henry regretted introducing them. It was a disaster when they got together and decided what was best for him. Like James. Or that lavender V-neck sweater from Brooks Brothers that made him feel like some prepped out Easter bunny. Still, he was glad he had both of them. And sometimes glad they had each other.
“I’ll tell her. You do have a phone, though.”
Millie snorted. “Why bother when she’s in here all the time? Besides, it looks like I have some work cut out for me with all this.” She gestured at the piles of settling flour all over the floor. Henry winced.
“Okay, I’m out.”
Henry had walked to work that morning instead of taking his bike since the early predawn had been so warm and lovely, slowly turning from black to a blushy lavender and coating the West Village with a rosy glow. It was his favorite part of living in the neighborhood, and Henry hadn’t wanted to miss it. Of course, nothing was quite as picturesque while jogging in long pants, with his heavy messenger bag hitting him on the back in sweltering six o’clock late-summer heat. He needed a long, cold shower, but that was going to have to wait until he got home from dinner.
He barely had time to change, but somehow didn’t think his mom would appreciate Converse, a T-shirt, and some ratty old jeans with a sticky dusting of flour and sweat. At least he had an excuse not to stay long. That dough wasn’t going to mix itself, and he had a two-hundred-cookie special order to get out the door by the time the shop closed tomorrow. Henry had a super early morning in his near future. The kind that started after he got home from dinner and took a two- or three-hour nap.
He rinsed off quickly when he finally made it home to his fourth-floor apartment, sweaty and still coated with flour. More thorough showering could wait, but he had to look like a human, at least, and not the abominable snowman. Or Pablo Escobar. He dressed in loafers and khakis, a pale blue button-up, and a summer-weight jacket before he shoved his wallet in his pocket and grabbed his keys. Good enough? Probably not, since he’d gotten it at Banana Republic and not right off the runway. Too bad. It had to be.
A large black vintage Rolls Royce Phantom was waiting on the street when he pulled open the front door to his building. Henry rolled his eyes but smiled. Of course. His dad had a thing for the old cars, and the Phantom was one of his favorites. He typically had Ollie get it out when he had a point to make—like how much Henry was missing by living downtown instead of where he belonged. Henry usually ignored his father’s rather heavy-handed points. Pointedly.
“Hey, Ollie,” Henry said. He felt his face split with a genuine smile.
The family’s driver had been with them since Henry was a little boy. He was family to Henry, who’d spent more time with him on the trips back and forth to school than he’d ever spent with his actual parents growing up. Ollie’s hair had slowly turned from black to salt-and-pepper to nearly white, and his skin sagged a bit around the edges, but other than that, nothing had changed. He was familiar and comforting.
Ollie opened the back door for Henry. “Your father thought you might need a car,” Ollie told him.
The same thing happened every time. Henry had been planning to take the subway like he did whenever he wanted to get anywhere and walking or biking wouldn’t work, but his parents weren’t fans of the thought of him getting on the train. When had the subway ever been good enough for a Livingston? According to them, never. Besides, if he got to their house on his own steam, how would they have the
chance to remind him of what he was missing so dearly?
“Thanks, Ollie. It will be nice not to have to go down into the subways. It’s hot today.” Henry slid into the cool, dark interior of his father’s favorite toy.
Ollie smiled and closed the door behind him.
Henry did whatever it was people always did when they girded their loins. He put his armor on, got his witty banter and his excuses ready for why he’d missed the last few family dinners. Loins were girded. Henry was ready. Dinner with the folks. Always relaxing.
* * *
Ollie pulled up to the front entrance of Henry’s family home, a stuffy sandstone townhouse on east Eighty-Second Street. He’d never liked it there, even when he was little. He’d spent hours in his bedroom that he’d plastered with band posters and travel photographs to try to make it look like a little slice of home and not like the stuffy stone monsters that marched up and down the street – including his own. He’d escaped to the park and the museums when he was old enough to go alone. His sister had blended perfectly into Upper East Side life, into society and the right clothes at the best events, but it had never been for him. He’d been ecstatic when he was finally old enough to move away other than a visit or two a month.
He got out and opened the door for Henry.
“Have a good night, sir,” Ollie said.
“Ollie. It’s Henry. I’m really not ‘sir’ material.” He’d always hated being called “sir” instead of his name. It’d started somewhere around his eighteenth birthday, and he’d been trying to get Ollie to knock it off ever since.
“Of course. Have a good night.”
The door opened as soon as Henry put his first foot on the stairs that lead to a thick-windowed oak door.
“Evening, sir.” His parents’ butler guided Henry into the foyer. Here we go again. It was silent as usual. Heavy in its pristine quiet. Thick Persian carpet covered the marble-tiled floor. The walls were tall covered in heavy floral wallpaper and dark cherry-stained wainscoting. Stiff. Formal. Cold.
Welcome home.
“Hey, Hudson.” Henry knew it drove Hudson insane when he was so casual, just like Ollie refused to call him by his name. It was part of the reason why he did it. He smiled to himself. The little rebellions felt so good, and really, everyone needed to loosen the hell up.
It had been weeks since Henry had made it back to the Livingston townhouse. He’d grown good at excuse making, and the old place made him itch. He started toward the sitting room, where his family was sure to be enjoying heavily poured before-dinner cocktails, before Hudson had a chance to close the door and lead him in. It was another tiny rebellion. It felt as good as the first one.
“Sir, if you’ll follow me,” Hudson said, walking quickly to get in the appropriate and proper position to escort Henry to the sitting room. They’d probably all been waiting for him for at least half an hour. He did feel a little guilty about that.
Henry succumbed to politeness and let Hudson do his job, even if Henry had lived in this house until he turned eighteen and he knew damn well where he was going. He found his family exactly where he’d expected them to be, seated with cocktails in the peacock blue sitting room, waiting for their perpetually late and infuriatingly quirky son.
Their words. Not his.
“Sorry I’m late, guys. Bit of a disaster at the bakery.”
He saw his mother flinch when he used the word “guys.” Henry smiled. His mother and sister got up to hug him. They’d both long since learned there was no point in trying to get him to close the bakery and move back uptown where he “belonged.” Veiled reminders aside, they no longer put much effort into trying.
“Hello, darling. You look well.” His mother’s voice was welcoming. Social. Not exactly maternal.
They liked each other in small to medium doses, and he supposed they loved each other as well, in a way, but he didn’t know his mother much better than he knew any of the other socialites in her circle. He might as well have been greeting any of them. She was dressed immaculately, as usual. Champagne-colored Chanel pantsuit, beige patent pumps, gold jewelry, chignon without a single flyaway strand. Perfect.
“Hey, Mom.” Henry leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
He was pretty sure he didn’t imagine her momentary flash of distaste for the use of “hey.” It was probably similar to “guys.” Once he’d asked his mother “What’s up?” and she’d nearly passed out. Henry had to hold back a grin. It wasn’t that he hated it here; he just had fun trying to loosen them up a little. They could use it.
Well, except for his sister, of course. Trixie came bounding over when he was finished with his mother and smacked a cheery kiss on his cheek. “What happened? Is Millie going to kill you when she finds out? Did this have to do with a boy?”
“No. No boy.” Henry rolled his eyes. “And someday, the two of you are finally going to realize she works for me, not the other way around. I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to come to terms with that.”
Trixie rolled her own eyes just as hard as Henry. Even if it weren’t for the dark hair and matching big, dark eyes, there was not a single question they were siblings. “So what was this big disaster?”
“A bag of flour fell and exploded all over the kitchen. But it’s okay. Millie offered to clean it for me.”
“That’s not going to come for free.” Trixie laughed. She tossed her hair over her shoulder in a perfectly lovely, perfectly practiced move. On the surface, he and Trixie could nearly be twins, even though she was three years older than Henry and far more acceptably groomed and dressed. Below that, they weren’t very much alike, other than a few odd mannerisms. Still, they somehow managed to be really close friends. Henry was glad he had her.
“I know it’s not going to come free. It never does with Millie.” Henry gave her a knowing and rueful smile. “Gotta love her.”
Henry’s father stood, then, and shook Henry’s hand. Bradford Livingston the third. He lived up to that honker of a name. Even Henry was a bit intimidated by his steely hair and stern demeanor.
“Hi, Dad.”
“It’s nice to see you, son.” He nodded at Hudson. “Let’s go eat dinner so Hudson doesn’t miss his show. You know he hates that.”
“What’s Hudson addicted to now?” Henry asked.
Trixie giggled. “The Voice. He’ll lie if you try to get him to admit it, though.”
Henry looked back. He thought Hudson might have cracked a smile. He’d always loved Trixie, even when he was helping to drag her in the door from one sloshy society party or another all through her teens and twenties.
They trailed into the dining room after the butler and took their habitual seats. Sometime, Henry thought he might sit at Trixie’s spot and shake things up a little. Then he thought that would probably be too much. He didn’t want to make their world come tumbling down. Better not.
Henry let his family’s polite chatter wash over him through the soup course while he stared at the ornate floral wallpaper and tried to count the pink and red roses. He’d never bought in to their whirlwind social scene, no more than he’d had to, at least. It’d actually been almost a relief when he’d come out to his mother when he was seventeen. That had been the end of his enforced presence at all her social functions. Why bother dragging him along when there was no hope of finding him the perfect Park Avenue princess to dangle on his arm like some shiny exclusive Birkin bag in human form?
“Oh, H. Babe. I have great news for you.” Trixie reached over and swatted his arm.
“Christina,” his mother admonished.
“What?” Trixie gave their mother her patented cherubic smile. It worked on nearly everyone. “It’s just the family. We don’t have to be so formal.”
Ophelia Livingston knew better than to fall for Trixie’s charms. “It’s not proper, dear.”
“Okay, Mom. Won’t happen again.” Henry thought he saw Trixie rolling her eyes. Clearly she’d spent too much time downtown with him. “Anyway, I have a fun
job for you, brother. She said she’d give you a call in a few days.”
Another big job? Henry didn’t know whether to be ecstatic or horrified. Trixie had been dragging more and more of her upscale friends into his shop to bump up business. Henry was fairly sure he didn’t need her help. Or the pressure. “Who? What is this job?”
Trixie waved him off. “Oh, I can’t ever remember those things for more than ten seconds. But it’s Cherish’s cousin Poppy’s daughter’s thirteenth birthday or something. You know how those things go. She wanted the best in the city. I told her you were the best. You know Poppy, right? She’s up from Kentucky for the fall.”
Not really. But he figured he’d let that go. Henry could never keep up with Trixie’s never-ending kaleidoscope of social contacts, especially since most of them seemed to come and go with the wind, blowing around to whatever fabulous location suited them for the moment.
“The best at what, Trix?” He chose to focus on the part of her rambly speech he’d sort of understood.
“What?” Trixie cocked her head. Her dark waves tumbled down over her shoulder and over what was probably an eight hundred dollar blouse. At least.
“You said I was the best at what?”
Trixie looked confused for another moment, like she was trying to remember some insignificant detail like what kind of torture she’d just signed her brother up for. Her face brightened, and she snapped her fingers. “Oh yeah, I remember. Macarons. Poppy wants macarons.”
Tristan Green leaned back in his chair and let the sounds of a bustling office ebb and flow around him, echoing off the charming but loud wooden floors. It was supper time, far past it by the small-town standards he’d grown up with, but the offices of Blanchard and Star were still packed with ambitious junior ad reps who worked long hours in the hope that someday they’d be one of the senior ad reps, with a posh corner office, big salary, and a portfolio of lucrative accounts.
