“Not everyone needs their pudding made from the finest chocolate in the world.” She reached over, a hospital tag on her wrist, and I gave her my mostly untouched pudding.
I thought about years before when she was taking a time-out from her mom and spent the night at the loft where Avery and I lived. We’d been in bed together watching a movie, pretty much like we were now, except we had a bowl of popcorn between us. A man I didn’t recognize walked in, and Carmen yelped and covered her mouth. “Oh my God!” Turned out he was an actor on a show she watched, there to buy one of Avery’s paintings. Avery made introductions and the actor gave Carmen his autograph.
Now Bendrix sat in the chair near the bed, dozing on and off. He’d been on twenty-four-hour call the night before and working on very little sleep when we’d contacted him from the bakery.
Carmen’s doctor had examined her and told us she would be fine, but we had to wait for the release papers. Once Carmen was feeling better, I told her she needed to call her mother (Dad was playing a gig in New York), but she refused. We quarreled about it, and she said she was an adult and she didn’t want her mother or Dad to know what had happened, adding: “I definitely don’t want Mom showing up here and talking about herself.” So we ate pudding. Or rather, she ate pudding.
Bendrix jolted from a snooze, then went into doctor mode and looked at Carmen with keen focus. “How are you doing? Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.” She set the pudding on the table and sighed. “I wasn’t going to keep it, anyway. I didn’t want it. Not even a little. My life would’ve been ruined. I kept hoping this would happen. Now that it has—do you think I’ll be punished?”
“For what?” Bendrix asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe I willed this to happen.”
“You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong,” I said. “Nothing. This kind of thing happens. Tell her, Bendrix.”
“Happens all the time.”
“And it doesn’t matter what you were going to do or not,” I added. “The only thing that matters now is making sure that you’re okay and you keep moving forward.”
“Punishment has nothing to do with it,” said Bendrix.
“Yeah,” she said. “It was for the best. Sorry about your date.”
I waited for Bendrix to tease her—Way to ruin a date, slugger—or I thought of making a joke, but it wasn’t the right time.
I doubted I’d see Samuel again, anyway. The lump on his head, my nineteen-year-old sister miscarrying, seemed like too much for him. When we’d said good-bye, in fact, he’d made no mention of our tart or kisses, nor did he offer his hand or say he’d call.
I rested my head on Carmen’s shoulder and she fed me a spoonful of nasty pudding. “Blech.”
• • •
Once we were home, I changed into a pair of sweats and made tea. I also checked once more on Carmen, who was in my bed, then found a blanket and stretched out on the couch with my tea. It had been a long night, and while I was exhausted, I felt wide-awake, too. I supposed that finally being kissed after so many years, having a date with Samuel, and my sister’s crisis were responsible. I wanted a moment to process it all. I clicked on the stereo and used the remote to find Charlie Parker. I was back to square one, but that was okay. My sister needed me. Tomorrow I’d spend the early morning with Carmen and go to the bakery at the very late hour of nine a.m. . . . I’d bake cinnamon buns, popovers . . . whatever she wanted. I curled up on my side. Now that I’d had a taste of male energy, I sure wanted more.
I hadn’t realized I’d dozed off until I heard my phone. I clicked off the stereo and answered.
“Apologies, Abbey. It’s Samuel.”
“Hi. Why are you apologizing?”
“The hour. I know it’s late, but I wanted to see how your sister was doing.”
“She’s fine, considering the circumstances. Thanks for checking.” I sat up and pressed the phone closer to my ear.
“Are you still at the hospital?”
“No, I’m home. How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“Now who’s apologizing? Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad your sister is okay.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Yeah. I was also calling because I’d still like to go out again and I was wondering if you’re free next weekend.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“My sister hit you over the head with a rolling pin. You seemed standoffish when we were saying good night.”
“I was worried about Carmen. I’d also been hit over the head. Abbey?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to overthink things so much. I like you.”
“You do?”
“We’ve only been on one date, but—damn—what a date.”
I laughed.
“If things work out, we’ll have a story to tell.”
I lowered myself onto the couch and smiled. “Yeah, I guess we will.”
“Besides, I never got to finish that tart. I’m hoping you’ll make me another one.”
“Anytime.”
“Are you tired?”
“No, not really.”
“You up for talking for a little bit? I like the sound of your voice.”
I dug myself deeper into the couch and pulled the blanket up to my chin. “I like the sound of your voice, too.”
8
I Fall in Love Too Easily
Almost two months later and I was meeting with Natasha and Kenny and discussing details for their wedding cake. It was an exciting time in my life. Finally, I, Abbey Lincoln Ross, was a wedding cake designer who was actually in a relationship—and, I’d daresay, a fabulous one. For once, I felt as happy as the couples who came to see me. A bonus: My wedding cake designs became . . . more—more romantic, more floral, more abstract, more of whatever the couple wanted, because that was exactly what I felt on the inside: more of everything. I, Abbey Lincoln Ross, had met a great guy, a gentleman, a grown-up; a guy who held a steady job and who was not interested in the art world and had never heard of the documentary I was in! Yay! He had a 401(k) and owned a house in Yountville. He downplayed it—“I’d say it’s closer to a cottage”—but it sounded lovely, and we were driving there later that night. The next day, Abbey Lincoln Ross would wake up in Napa Valley’s wine country and have a lovely breakfast of coffee and croissants she’d brought from Scratch, and then she and her boyfriend would visit one winery after another, all day long.
I was telling the couple I was meeting most of this—about Samuel and Yountville—when I noticed their rather apprehensive expressions. I supposed I had been rambling. “I’m sorry,” I said, catching myself. “This is your time, and listen to me going on. I’m usually not like this.”
Natasha told me not to worry. “I felt the same way when Kenny and I started dating.” She took her fiancé’s hand. She and Kenny had met while campaigning for Oakland’s recent mayor-elect and were now part of his staff. They were in their early thirties and wore the vibe of a couple that was going places. Natasha wanted nothing to do with traditional wedding décor and had chosen two shades of green as her primary wedding colors. She even planned on wearing a light green wedding gown. Earlier in the consultation she’d said, “I don’t care about white. I don’t look good in white. So why do I need to wear a color I hate on my most special day? I like green and I want to be surrounded by it. You know what I say? Green represents bling. And that’s what me and Kenny are about. Isn’t that right, baby?”
Kenny nodded. “Whatever you say.”
With her love of green in mind, I sketched a cake that would be made of pale green flowers of every sort with soft pink highlights. Since she wanted a cake that had, as she said, “Bam!” I drew tulips shooting from the top of the ca
ke and falling out and over. I explained how I’d make the tulips so that they’d stay in place. If her dress would cause an eye-popping reaction, so would my cake.
Near the end of the meeting, Natasha told me not to worry that I’d rambled on about Samuel. She gave Kenny’s hand a squeeze. “Just remember to stay in your man’s corner no matter what. Men need to be looked after. Isn’t that right, baby?”
Kenny looked up from his phone. “Yeah, baby. Whatever you say.” She grabbed him at the jawbone. He had huge walrus-like cheeks and puffy lips. He turned to me and said, “Is the sex any good?”
“Kenny!” she admonished. Natasha’s mouth remained wide-open as she groped for words. “Abbey, I don’t know what’s wrong with him. Kenny, what’s wrong with you? Apologize!”
“She’s the one yakking about her boyfriend on our dime. I should be able to ask what I want.”
“But that’s rude. You do realize that?”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude, but . . . whatever you say.”
“I shouldn’t have to say anything.”
“It’s okay. Really. Let’s move on.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Kenny. I’m so embarrassed right now.”
“Whatever you say, Nat.”
I felt bad for the guy. I had been running my mouth. I wiggled my index finger, indicating he should move closer. “If you really want to know, the sex is fabulous. Beyond great. We can spend hours together getting to know each other’s bodies. Samuel’s neck is a revelation, his back a newly discovered territory of muscles; his thighs are straits I trace with my fingertips.”
Did I say any of this? Of course not! I averted my eyes and mentioned something about the contract. I was too embarrassed to talk about my sex life with a complete stranger—a client, no less—no matter that sex with Samuel was great.
• • •
Bendrix texted soon after Natasha and Kenny were gone:
Still heading to Yountville tonight?
Yes! I’m so excited!!!!
Abbey, I know you’re happy and I’m happy 4u but can you cut all the !!!!! and the when you text?
No! I refuse!!! I’m so excited!!!! I like him so much!!!
Fine. I’ll see you when you get back.
Okay!!!! Yay!
• • •
Samuel held his hands over my eyes. “No peeking.”
“I’m not. I can’t see a thing.”
I heard the door close. “Okay. One . . . two . . . three . . .”
He removed his hands. The house was much cozier than his apartment, which was so bare I’d assumed he hadn’t been there long, and I was surprised when he’d told me he’d lived there for two years. The house in Yountville, on the other hand, felt homey and charming. It was dark outside by then, but at the top of the vaulted ceiling was a row of skylights. There was a fireplace, love seat, and sofa, and accents like deep-pile rugs and brightly colored vases.
Somehow he knew what I was thinking. “My apartment is where I sleep, but I like to think that this is my home. I come here whenever I can.” He wrapped his arms around my waist. “Shall I give you a tour?” I felt his lips on my cheek. He held me closer as he took a step forward. The house was small enough that he kept his arms wrapped around me while we explored, our legs pressed together in tight unison. He didn’t let go until we finished the tour—two bedrooms, two baths—and reached the kitchen. “Wine?”
“That would be great.”
He went to a cabinet that revealed itself to be a wine refrigerator. He took a bottle out and studied the label. “I’ve been saving this one for a special occasion.” I watched him take out glasses and a wine opener that looked like something designed by NASA.
We would have the entire weekend to ourselves. When I’d told my staff I wouldn’t be coming in, they’d stared as though something had to be wrong. Are you sick? Is someone in your family sick? Who died? That kind of thing. It had been a long time since I’d allowed myself a full two days off.
Samuel and I clinked glasses. Drinking the wine was like drinking in the entire Napa Valley, all the growers and pickers, the leaves dancing under the sunlight, all at once. But I lacked the proper wine lingo and just said, “This tastes really good.”
Samuel teased the wine on his tongue before swallowing. “Not bad. Solid concentration. Truffle-like aftertaste.” He thought for a moment. “Has fortitude. Reminds me of a pinot I once had in Vienna.”
I waited for him to make a joke that would signal he was merely parodying a wine snob. I mean, if any of my brothers had been there, they certainly would have given him shit. I could hear Dizzy raising a pinky: “Reminds me of the Ripple I had in Watts back in ’seventy-two.” And then we all would’ve broken into laughter. But something told me to keep my mouth shut. I could certainly be a snob when it came to jazz, after all.
Samuel joined me at the table. “We’ll have to hit a few of my favorite wineries tomorrow.” He gazed around the kitchen. “So, what do you think of my place? You like it here?”
“I love it.” I’d told him so several times already. I reached over and took his hand and kissed him. “I really love it here, Samuel. Thanks for inviting me.”
“It was a dump when I bought it. Needed a new foundation and roof. Everything. I’d come out here and it was like a second job. More like a hobby. And then there was picking out all the finishes. Anyway, I love living in a city, but I want my kids to have a place to run around. I’m not into the country life, but out here is the perfect mix of both. I like to think of them coming here one day.” He looked around the kitchen as though the kids were already creating havoc.
I joined him in the fantasy: a boy, a girl, racing into the kitchen and calling out for momma, Samuel telling them not to run in the house.
We grew silent. I listened to the quiet outside, a kind of quiet that a city like Oakland hadn’t experienced since the first settler arrived.
“I’m glad you’re here. Except for my sisters and parents, you’re the first woman I’ve brought here.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’m glad it’s you and only you.”
He ran his finger along the side of my face and kissed me.
He broke away and snapped his fingers. “I have a surprise for you. Stay right there.”
About a minute later, I heard “So What” from Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue playing through the speakers. Samuel stepped back into the kitchen. “Is that okay? I looked up ‘best jazz songs’ and downloaded a few albums. Do you like it?”
Kind of Blue was the album everyone knew, that and Dave Brubeck’s Take Five. So yeah, of course I liked it. It was a classic. But it was also—not to sound harsh, or like a jazz snob—overplayed. I appreciated the gesture, though. Besides, I actually hadn’t heard it in years.
“You don’t like it.”
Uh-oh.
“Of course I do. What are you talking about?”
“You sure? I just want you to have a nice time.”
“Are you kidding? Just being here with you is perfect. And this album is a classic.” I stood and went to him. After two months of dating, I was already learning that he was a perfectionist to a fault. He’d surprised me by buying me a blouse just two weeks before and I’d had to practically convince him that I’d liked it. I would’ve liked that blouse if it had a pattern of stripes and polka dots; it truly was the thought. But for all the money he made, and his handsome face and body, there was something inside Samuel that needed reassurance. We all need reassurance, sure, and I didn’t mind giving it to him, but I did wonder where that need in him to be perfect came from, and why he was worried about disappointing me of all people. Me. The woman who was happy to hear his voice, grateful that he always called and met me when he said he would. I suppose it just didn’t add up. He had everything, but when things didn’t g
o as well as he thought they might, he could become quiet and sullen, like right then.
I wrapped his arms around my neck and began swaying to the music. “Thank you. Thank you. I love your house and I love being here with you.”
I’m falling in love with you, I thought of telling him. I already love you. But I didn’t have the nerve.
• • •
After breakfast the next morning, we hit all of Samuel’s favorite wineries, then went to a few galleries and stores in town. After a late lunch, we drove to the next town and Samuel surprised me by stopping in front of a place that gave hot-air balloon rides. “Want to?” The reservation had already been made, but if I was afraid of heights or anything, not to worry.
All the guys I’d gone out with before Avery had thought having me over to watch them work on their art was romantic. Then I’d met Avery and we pretty much jumped into bed after the first night. I’d never been wooed before—not like this, with gifts and dinners and now a balloon ride. I leaned over and kissed Samuel. “Thank you.”
“We haven’t gone yet.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “Thank you.”
Later that night I surprised him by taking him to dinner at a four-star restaurant I’d always wanted to go to. When I said I was taking him to dinner, he tried to dissuade me, but I refused.
We took a shower and gussied up. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of Samuel in his suit. Just as we were entering the place, he leaned over and whispered in my ear: “Now I have to thank you. Thank you for taking me to dinner tonight, Abbey. I feel very lucky right now.”
• • •
I woke the next morning to the smell of bacon and coffee. The clock read nine a.m. I stretched and yawned and found my robe, then followed the sound of sizzling bacon. Samuel was at the sink facing the kitchen window. It was gray outside and the overhead light flooded the kitchen, making Samuel look like an actor on a set, a comedy where the handsome actor makes a total mess of the kitchen while preparing a simple breakfast. I’d trained under Madame Pauline, who was adamant that a baker must keep her workstation clean and tidy. The messy kitchen made me shudder, but that lasted only a second before I walked up behind Samuel and wrapped my arms around his waist.
A Pinch of Ooh La La Page 9
