Macarons at Midnight

by Anna Martin

  * * *

  Tristan wasn’t quite sure Henry was real. Even in broad daylight, grumbling at New York traffic, he still seemed a bit like an apparition, something Tristan’s sad little attention-starved psyche had procured out of nothingness to save him from his pathetic life. Please. You’d never be able to imagine a guy this fit. Henry was literally the hottest guy Tristan had ever seen. By far. For the life of him, he hadn’t a clue why Henry was paying attention to him.

  “Have you spent much time on the Upper East Side?” Henry asked.

  Tristan wasn’t very familiar with the parts of the city that didn’t contain his flat, his office, or the curry takeaway he’d practically moved into. He shook his head. “I did a bit of sightseeing when I first arrived, and I’ve been to Central Park a couple of times, but I don’t really know my way around my own neighborhood. I didn’t want to wander too far.”

  “It’s a different world,” Henry said. “The people are….”

  “Well off?”

  “That’s a word for it,” Henry replied. Tristan thought he might hear a little bit of bitterness in his voice.

  “I mean, I’ve seen it in films. Looks a bit stuffy. Too posh for me.”

  At that Henry smiled. “Too posh for me, too.”

  “Are you mimicking me again?” Tristan asked. His belly warmed at the thought of Henry teasing him.

  “Maybe a little. Are you going to tell me to piss off again?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  They were quiet after that. Tristan watched block after block pass, numbered streets getting higher, buildings getting taller. He’d always liked the buzz of the big streets of New York. London was big and busy too, but it never felt quite the same, like there was this current of energy pushing the whole place along and everyone with it. He supposed it was easy to get lost in the shuffle, to forget yourself in the crowd. He’d been doing that for weeks, slowly blending into the scenery until there wasn’t much of him left. He’d felt a little of himself coming back after the previous night. Maybe, at least.

  “You said this woman is friends with your sister?” he finally asked. They’d made it through what he knew to be midtown. The buildings were slowly pulling apart, not as squished, not as tall or crowded. He thought they might be getting close.

  “She is friends with Trix. I’m not sure how close they really are. Trixie tends to collect a lot of frenemies. This Poppy woman might be one of them. Honestly, I’d never heard of her until the other night. That doesn’t mean much, though. I tune Trix out a lot when she starts on her friends.”

  “Why?”

  Henry looked uncomfortable. “Not really my scene.”

  “I get it. Who is your scene, then?”

  That got a smile. “I have some really good friends who I went to culinary school with. I’m a little older than them. They all went right after high school, and I wasted four years at college first. I think you’d like them. Great people. They all love food.”

  Tristan chuckled. He liked the idea that Henry wanted to introduce him to his mates. “I’d love to meet them,” he said.

  They were quiet a little longer, letting the navigator perched on the dashboard lead them through block after block of tall, looming buildings, a mix of brick and stone and glass. Finally, the rather intimidating voice informed them their destination was on the right. Tristan gawked at the huge stone townhouse. They pulled around back to the alley entrance where Poppy had instructed him to go.

  “Seriously? This is where she lives?”

  Henry sighed. “Seriously.” He looked like he was psyching himself up to go inside. Tristan couldn’t blame him. “We’re dropping the macarons off, doing a little setup, grabbing a check, then leaving. Our mission, if you choose to accept it, is to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

  Tristan looked at the resignation on Henry’s expressive face. “Why do I have the feeling that’s not going to happen?”

  “Because it usually doesn’t. We’re going to make it happen, though.” In their short-lived time together, Tristan hadn’t seen Henry look so determined. He must really not like his sister’s friend.

  “Mission accepted,” he replied with a serious face. At least he made Henry smile.

  “I like you,” Henry said. “I’m glad you’re with me.”

  He reached out and brushed gentle fingers along the top of Tristan’s wrist. The touch seemed tentative, as if he weren’t certain how it would be received. Tristan wanted to tell him to touch more, touch as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted. It probably wasn’t the time for that. If Tristan had his way, they’d already be kissing. Probably not something Henry wanted to do right in front of one of his clients’ houses.

  “I am too,” he decided to say. Talking was better than doing what he wanted to do. At least at the moment. And he was telling the truth. His short time with Henry was the best Tristan had had since he moved away from London. By far.

  * * *

  There really were no adequate words to describe the inside of Poppy St. Clair’s townhouse. Tristan, who described things for a living, had nothing. It was the stuffiest, most elegant, most beautifully unwelcoming place he’d ever been, and one of his uni friends had been ridiculously well off and had taken Tristan to meet his parents in their massive Belgravia mansion. Even that house had nothing on the museum-level decor in the St. Clair townhouse.

  They’d been ushered into the back hall with their boxes of macarons by a whirling dervish in a bright-pink dress and matching sweater and heels. It was a lot of pink and perfume and hair. Lots of hair. Tall, puffy hair. The woman, probably Poppy, had grinned. Her smile had been more calculating than welcoming, toothy judgment hidden under a peeling veneer of restrained graciousness. Tristan didn’t like her. He understood why Henry wanted to get out as soon as possible.

  “Hello, sugar,” she’d said to Henry. Her smile had turned warm and gooey when she’d looked Henry up and down in his smart, body-hugging jeans and that blue shirt that did amazing things for his dark eyes and hair. Tristan wasn’t stupid. He knew why she smiled the way she did. Then she’d taken a long look at Tristan as well, her smile growing, if anything. “And who do we have here?” she asked. “I’m Poppy.”

  “Um, hullo. Tristan.” He stuck out his hand, unsure if he were even allowed to touch the likes of Miss Poppy. “I’ve lent Henry a hand for the evening.”

  She took his hand and shook it daintily. “Well, aren’t you too cute! We have a boy who sounds just like you on the derby circuit. His father raises some beautiful steeplechasers. I do love an English accent.”

  Tristan wanted to run away already. She’d been nothing but polite, more than, but he was unnerved by her perfect, gigantic hair and flawless dress and clickity-click heels. He got the sense that if he turned away from her long enough, she might take the opportunity bite his head off like some sort of praying mantis. He saw Henry watching both of them closely.

  “Well, come, darlings, I have a place ready to set up the macarons.” She opened one of the boxes and giggled, pressing her fingers to her collarbone. “Well, those are bright.”

  “Just like you asked for,” Henry said. He had a tiny bit of steel in his voice underneath the politeness. Probably reminding her he’d done exactly what she wanted, and bitching would not be appreciated.

  “That I did. I’m sure they’ll be wonderful. Follow me.”

  They followed, as commanded, in silence, through to an elaborately decorated living room at the front of the huge house. The overwhelming color was white. White everything, in varying shades and textures: pale pinkish white on the walls, champagne-colored carpets all over the floors, opulent, ornate, satiny white furniture. An explosion of sophisticated blandness that didn’t exactly suggest this magazine-ready house was a homely place for a teenager.

  For the party, the white had been overlaid with kitschy bunting in different fabrics, garish colors that matched the biscuits they’d been up all night making―well, Henry had, at least. The ce
nterpiece of the room was a huge round table where piles of gifts, all elegantly wrapped, bordered the space Tristan guessed would be for the macarons.

  “Can you set up here?” Poppy asked, gesturing to the table.

  Henry nodded. “No problem.”

  “Excellent. I’ll leave you to do what you do, if that’s okay. Plenty still to organize!”

  She shot them a sunny if slightly terrifying grin before clipping away through the house.

  “I’m scared to breathe,” Tristan said in a low voice, leaning into Henry. “I might get something dirty.”

  Henry snorted and took Tristan’s arm, leading him back outside to the van.

  “Wait till the kids arrive. Then it’ll be even worse.”

  “How can it be worse than all that white?”

  “Girls. Screeching girls.” Henry made a face.

  Tristan shuddered. “I’d like to avoid the screaming teenage females if at all possible.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.” Henry winked.

  It was a throwaway comment, but Tristan grinned to himself, stupidly happy to be there, even if it did mean interacting with a level of society he never thought he’d be exposed to, never even wanted to be exposed to. Really, he wasn’t sure he’d ever really thought about how these sorts of people existed. Yorkshire and the common, normal folk he knew seemed a really, really long way away.

  They carried the pastry boxes from the van into the house stacked up in their arms, and Tristan started piling his on the floor while Henry got to arranging. It didn’t take too long to unload the van, and once they were finished, Tristan wasn’t really sure what to do with himself. He went out to the alley, locked the van up using the keys Henry had given him, then ambled slowly back through the big house, trying not to look too much like a country bumpkin who had wandered in off the street and didn’t belong. He didn’t belong. That much was certain.

  “How’s it going?” Tristan asked when he returned to the room of mind-numbing whiteness.

  Henry was piling macarons onto stands in the middle of the table, all two hundred of them. The Honeyfly Bakery boxes were rapidly emptying—it seemed Henry worked quickly. If anything, the super-bright macarons helped the room, made it look more like somewhere actual humans would be welcome. Tristan was tempted to filch a few of them for the ride home. The black licorice. And pistachio. Surprisingly, he’d really liked that one as well. He could almost taste them, plump and crunchy in his mouth, dissolving into sweet nothingness. Maybe Henry would have a few extras.

  “Not bad,” Henry said, shooting a grin over his shoulder. “Hey, could you grab some of my business cards for me? They’re in the glove compartment in the van.”

  “Sure.”

  Pleased to have another task so he didn’t have to stand around like a halfwit, Tristan quickly made his way back to the van and dug through the mess until he found a small box with a stack of business cards inside. They were nice, Tristan thought. Simple but effective, the color of honey, with Henry’s logo on them and the bakery name in a good, clean font. Tristan told himself to stop doing his day job and do what he came here for.

  He grabbed a few of the cards, not sure how many Henry wanted, and was just straightening up again when a soft female voice said, “Hi.”

  “Bollocks,” Tristan muttered, banging his knee from straightening up too quickly. Oh. Um. Hi.

  A girl stood in front of him, next to the bumper on the van. She had very long, very dark hair, tasteful makeup, and a pretty dress that covered her from her collarbones to her midthighs. The birthday girl? Tristan wasn’t sure. If she was Poppy’s daughter, she didn’t look much like her. Both hands were clasped behind the girl’s back, and she was thrusting her chest forward. Tristan thought she might be trying to make up for the dress, which was high cut enough that it looked like her mother picked it out. He really wasn’t interested in what she had to show him. For so many reasons.

  “Did you make the cookies? For my party?”

  Her voice was light and slightly flirtatious, but mostly polite. So this was the birthday girl, then. She seemed harmless enough compared to her tightly restrained viper of a mother.

  Tristan locked the van and shook his head. “Not really. Well, I helped.”

  “Oh. Thank you, then.” She smiled hesitantly.

  “You’re welcome,” Tristan said, feeling extremely awkward. He wasn’t great with women at the best of times, let alone small ones with whom he had nothing in common. “I, uh, need to take these inside,” he finished lamely, holding up the business cards.

  The girl nodded, and he felt heat rise in his cheeks. For fuck’s sake. Tristan stomped off in the direction of the house without a backwards glance. The day he got flustered by a kid just because she lived in a nice house was probably the day he needed to quit life.

  “You okay?” Henry asked when Tristan almost barreled into him.

  “Yeah. Fine. Couldn’t find them at first,” Tristan said tersely.

  Henry gave him a funny look and took the cards, then gestured to the grand display of macarons. “What do you think?”

  “It looks amazing,” Tristan said honestly, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

  Henry had set up the stands so there were alternating rows of colors on each level, the pinks, oranges, greens, and purples clashing delightfully with each other, riotous and cheerful against the white-white-white of the living room. It was the burst of color Henry had promised back in the bakery—what had he called it? Like the eighties had exploded. Well, something surely had. Anything would be an improvement over the severity of the room before.

  Seemingly happy with the praise, Henry gave Tristan’s arm a quick squeeze before leading them through the house.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Tristan asked, keeping his voice low again.

  “Not really,” Henry replied in another soft whisper. “But all these houses are set up pretty much the same. Kitchens are at the back, out of the way, where the staff lives.”

  Tristan wasn’t sure if Henry was joking or not, and gave a weak smile in response. He couldn’t imagine having staff, although he knew people who’d grown up with them. It seemed preposterous to have servants waiting on him hand and foot. It probably seemed preposterous not to have them to these people. He tried not to be disgusted by that fact.

  Sure enough, there was a large, open kitchen at the back of the house behind the staircase, where Poppy was drinking something fruity from a martini glass. The place had been meticulously updated, so everything was top of the line but classic in style so it blended in with the rest of the house. Tristan bet she was rarely in the kitchen other than to pour herself some wine every once in a while or maybe grab a midnight snack, though. Poppy St. Clair didn’t seem the sort for cooking. It was almost surprising to see her drinking like a normal human.

  “You’re done already?” she trilled. Her cheery crust only barely stretched, cracking, over a sharp edge of stress that had clearly already been dulled by vodka. Tristan was more than ready to get out of there.

  “Yup,” Henry said, giving her a winning grin. He held out the business cards. “Would you mind taking these?”

  “Of course,” Poppy said, and tossed the cards carelessly on a counter. “You know I already recommended you to all the girls, darling. You really do need to set up a shop in a more convenient location.”

  She said the word convenient like it meant “acceptable.” Tristan watched the exchange in silence, noticing how Henry’s smile became a little more strained as the conversation went on. Apparently, Henry was more than ready to get out of there too.

  “We’re going to head out,” Henry said, ignoring her subtle barb about his location’s suitability. “Good luck with the party.”

  “Oh, you’re not staying? I told Marissa you’d be here. She was hoping to talk to you about doing her granddaughter’s wedding cake. It’s in September of next year, so you’ve got plenty of time to plan around it.”

  “So
rry,” he said, standing his ground. Tristan was proud of him. It would be easy to let these women steamroll right over any protestations. “I need to prep for the rest of the week. Could you give her my card? I’m happy to take her call.”

  Poppy nodded. She looked vaguely annoyed in a reigned in sort of way, but she let them leave and waved them off anyway with a red-lipped smile from the front doorway of the house. As Henry turned the corner, Tristan caught sight of the dark-haired girl watching them leave from the living room window. Poor kid. She looked a little like a prisoner, maybe in her own life. There wasn’t anything either he or Henry could do about it, though, so there wasn’t much point in worrying.

  It was only when Henry pulled onto Park Avenue that he let out a heavy breath.

  “Okay?” Tristan asked.

  Henry laughed—a full belly laugh that stretched his lips into a wide smile. He looked over at Tristan and squeezed his knee.

  “I am now,” he said. “God, that place was awful.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  * * *

  Grasshopper cupcakes

  * * *

  What’s better than moist chocolate cake with piles of lush, minty frosting? Not much! Coffee brings out the flavor of the chocolate in the cake, and pretty green frosting is great for spring.

  * * *

  Cake

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  ¼ cup dark chocolate unsweetened cocoa powder

  ¼ teaspoon kosher salt

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon baking powder