Five Roses

by Alice Zorn

  He didn’t tell Anouk about sneaking into the house where the new people lived now. He hadn’t been back since the hippie caught him. It didn’t feel safe anymore — especially now that he had Anouk to think of and was about to get married. No way did he want to get into trouble.

  Still. He should go back and fix the boards on the deck. He could look through the gaps in the hippie’s fence and check if her bike was there. He would walk through the house one last time, then throw away the key.

  Anouk pinched his arm, recalling him to the important task of grocery shopping. “Ben! We’re not even married yet and you’re not listening. I asked if you wanted crackers.”

  He leaned forward and pecked her on the mouth. She turned her face away but he saw how she’d made dimples. She liked finding fault and bossing him around. He, too, felt content, pushing the cart down the aisle with Anouk beside him. She dropped a box of Special K onto the cans of creamed corn, peas, soup, foil wrap, and other necessities she claimed were missing from his kitchen.

  He had a good job and a credit card. She radiated that wifely, proprietorial air that would have made him feel shoved into a corner a couple of years ago, but that warmed him now from head to toe. If he hadn’t already asked her to marry him, he would ask her at this very moment in the aisles of the grocery store.

  Spanish guitar plucked from the CD player. Fara sat in one corner of the sofa with Frédéric’s feet in her lap, massaging them through his thick socks. She had her head tilted back, eyes on the ceiling.

  Suddenly, she frowned. This was the first room she’d painted. When she’d bought the paint, she’d thought all whites were white — and that words like ecru, linen, ivory, and eggshell were marketing gimmicks. In the store she’d grabbed cans of white, regardless of their fanciful names, knowing only that she had to paint coat upon coat to cover grim brown, green, and grey. Only after she’d finished the front room did she notice how the light from the street picked out stripes in the paint. What the …? She looked at the cans again. She’d begun with Linen and finished with Du Jour. Weren’t they all white? What a dumb lesson to learn the hard way! She had had to repaint the room in a single tone of white. She hadn’t bothered with the ceiling because who looked up there? Well, she could see it now. A brighter swath across a more sedate white.

  Head still tilted back, she swallowed, wondering if she was getting a sore throat. She swallowed again. Definitely an itch there. She could use a couple of days away from the Alice-in-the-madhouse circus at work.

  And what was that noise? A light, intermittent scratching through the mournful music. She looked at Frédéric, who lay with his eyes closed. It was coming from behind him — behind the sofa along the floor. “Do you hear that?” she whispered.

  “A papaya.” He sounded half-asleep. “It’s trying to get in.”

  “A what?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  She had no idea what he meant.

  “I’ll get a trap.”

  “Is it a mouse, do you think?”

  “Or a papaya.”

  “Stop it.” She gripped his toes. Whatever the joke, she could tell she was the butt. “I saw Maddy today. She wants to start a business in her house — making cakes and delivering them to restaurants. She’s got a friend who’s a pastry chef.”

  “Maybe they’ll need a taste tester.”

  “I doubt that’ll pay enough that you can quit your job.”

  “I wasn’t going to charge. I’ll do it for free.”

  “Free, my eye. You’ll get fat.”

  “We married for better or worse, remember?”

  “Why do people always pull out that better-or-worse line when all they mean is worse?”

  He pushed himself up from the cushions. “I’m falling asleep. If you want me to rub your back, you’d better come to bed.” That was the deal. His feet, her back.

  He trudged up the stairs. She wanted to follow but felt too lazy — or was she getting sick? She swallowed again. No doubt about it, her throat was swollen.

  Fara woke, rolled onto her back, blinked at the curtains. Her mouth was dry, her throat sore. She’d called work in the night to tell them she wasn’t coming. Frédéric had gone … minutes or hours ago.

  She dozed, then woke again. She should get up and make herself tea or drink some juice, but the kitchen was all the way downstairs. So far away. She glanced at the clock. Almost noon. If Frédéric called, she would tell him to buy lozenges on his way home. Come home earlier. Make her soup. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten breakfast. Which was it, feed a cold or feed a fever? She thought she had both.

  She propped herself upright and let her legs dangle. She felt woozy. Where were her slippers? The floor was cold on her bare feet. She groped for yesterday’s socks and had to sit again to pull them on.

  She shivered as she walked to the stairs and grasped at the rail for balance. Her stocking feet were so quiet that she felt unreal, not like herself at all. She pressed her palm to her forehead and swallowed. Maybe she was really sick and needed antibiotics.

  She stepped into the hallway and saw … the hanging body! No. She widened her eyes, disbelieving. The body wasn’t hanging! It stood against the light! Legs on the ground, head lifted, staring at the French doors. She shrank back, expecting it to wheel around and accuse her of … of what? Not letting it hang?

  She swayed, heart thundering, and must have gasped, because it turned to face her, but against the light she couldn’t see its face. She didn’t have to. She knew it was the boy. It staggered away from her, charged to the kitchen, banged the back door open, and ran out. Through the window, she saw it leap off the deck — and only then understood it wasn’t a ghost but a man who’d been in the house while she’d been sick upstairs!

  She flailed, scrambling to the door to lock it, grabbed the phone, and punched in Frédéric’s number at work. “Fred!” The force of the word scraped her throat, made her start coughing.

  “How are you feeling? I didn’t call because I didn’t want to —”

  “Home,” she choked out. “Come home now! There’s — there’s a man in the house. He was —” She recalled how he’d been standing, staring at the French doors. He hadn’t heard her on the stairs, hadn’t known she was there until she gasped.

  “What do you mean, a man? Who? Is he still there? Fara!”

  “I think he broke in. A thief, I don’t know. He ran away.”

  “Call the police. I’m coming.” He’d already hung up. She still clutched the receiver. An inert piece of plastic that linked her to the world.

  Out the window she saw the gate ajar. She had to lock it so he couldn’t get back in.

  She fumbled Frédéric’s jacket off the hook and shoved her feet into his clogs. She stepped out the back door, then froze when she saw the boards lifted off the deck. The hole into the dark beneath.

  Frightened again, she stumbled back inside. Was she even safe in the house? Maybe someone else was in the cellar. Suddenly she realized she hadn’t called the police. The police! She snatched the phone and called 911.

  Maddy

  From Wellington, Maddy saw the police car angled across the head of the alley. She cruised to a stop. “What happened? I live here.” She pointed. “The house with the balcony.”

  The officer asked if she’d seen any suspicious activity at the house next door.

  “Suspicious?” She immediately thought of Ben. What had he done? Why hadn’t she warned Fara and Frédéric? Damn, damn, damn!

  Then Frédéric stepped out of their gate, and though he didn’t look happy, he also didn’t look as if he or Fara had come to harm. He told her they’d had a break-in through the cellar window. He was going to have to get bars on the windows. Fortunately, nothing was missing. Fara had interrupted the thief because she’d been home sick and had surprised him. He didn’t know if it was her fever or the shoc
k, but she was still trembling.

  “I’m really sorry this happened.” More than sorry, Maddy was appalled.

  “Have you heard about other break-ins along the street? Do you think it’s because we’re new here?”

  Maddy shook her head. The police wanted to talk to Frédéric again, so she said goodbye and wheeled her bike to her gate. Through the fence she could hear the police telling Frédéric they’d found a handful of screws under an upstairs window. “That’s me,” Frédéric said. “I dropped them.”

  She didn’t want to talk to the police, but she felt she should tell Frédéric and Fara about Ben. They might — or might not — understand. Ben wasn’t a thief. He only wanted … who knew what he wanted? She guessed he felt something confused and impossible about the house.

  The subway slowed as it entered the station. Maddy had to manoeuvre a path past a man transfixed by his phone, and a clot of teenage girls transfixed by themselves. She was careful of the small pastry box she held, making a shield of her arm when the doors slid aside and a woman tried to barge in, determined to get a seat. Urban fact #4: you had to let people off the subway before you got on. To Maddy that seemed such an obvious basic rule of civilized behaviour, but all too often she felt she needed to shout, Make way!

  She’d taken the subway rather than cycle so she wouldn’t arrive at her brother’s sweaty and dishevelled. Stan would not be impressed, and today’s visit was all about making the best pos-sible impression. He was a cautious, easily skeptical man. Even as a boy, he could only be attracted by a tangible sense of advantage. She and Yushi had drafted concrete plans with figures, percentages, and demographic profiles. The pastry box held a tiny cake called a nouméa. Circles of baked almond meringue were layered with mango mousse and toasted, slivered almonds. From the top pillow of whipped cream poked three fingers of caramelized pineapple. The meringue was crisp, the mousse velvety. Maddy thought there were too many steps involved in making this single small cake, but Yushi said the leftover mousse, toasted almonds, baked meringue, and glazed pineapple would be put to good use in other desserts.

  As Maddy walked, she eyed her reflection in the glass storefronts of the flower shop, the kosher deli, the pharmacy. She’d had her hair cropped in a style she’d let the hairdresser convince her looked neater. Plus propre. She should have known from past experiments that when her hair was this short, the curls bobbed crazily. The explosive mop made her look wilder, but younger, too. She wore her short leather jacket and dress pants. She had to look the part, if she wanted Stan to listen.

  She turned the corner onto his street, heels treading purpose and decision. For twelve years she’d been serving glazed and filled cakes, chocolaty creations adorned with chestnut purée, berries, more chocolate, and whipped cream. Hadn’t Stan asked her more than once if she didn’t want to do more with her life? Well, okay, brother dearest, are you ready to invest?

  Stan had a mock Tudor townhouse with half-timbered gables. Out front were stone pots of pink and white asters. Their parents would have been so proud of his success. She had a house, too, but hers was yet another brick row house in the Pointe. Stan had moved up in the world. Oh yeah, parents didn’t have to be alive for the old triggers to kick in — which child had pleased and which disappointed. To do Stan credit, he rarely mentioned the past. It suited him to behave as if he’d been born complete and installed among his beautiful, expensive possessions.

  Stan had told her Gaylene wouldn’t be home. This was her … something or other night. Pilates? Knitting? Books? Maddy liked Gaylene well enough, but they never seemed to speak the same language. Gaylene said sweater and Maddy thought of a garment that kept her warm. Gaylene meant a circular needle, Italian hand-dyed merino wool, stylish ribbing, and bone buttons that cost three dollars each.

  Stan opened the door and Maddy handed him the pastry box. “I brought you dessert.” Stan was taller than their father, though still not tall. A daily battle at the gym gave his naturally squat solidity a tight-fleshed, hungry, even predatory look. He still wore his dress shirt from the office, though he’d loosened his tie.

  As she stepped in, they kissed cheeks, which was funny since they’d never kissed as children. But as adults, the social convention of living in Montreal had overtaken family habits. Now, not kissing belonged to pickled beets, rosaries, unheated bedrooms.

  “How are you doing?” she asked.

  “Good, good. Nothing new. We redid the breakfast nook since you were last here.”

  She followed him to the kitchen with its butcher block island and granite countertops. Copper-bottom skillets hung on the wall. All the appliances were in brushed steel.

  She and Yushi planned to redesign her kitchen to maximize space and utility. Broad stainless steel counters and cooling shelves. The size of the stove was more important than its design features. A larger refrigerator would be necessary, though white was fine. Theirs would be a working kitchen, not a magazine showpiece.

  The new breakfast nook was styled in oak with a granite-top table. A window the exact width of the table faced the garden out back. She slid onto the bench, which was upholstered in faux suede. Or maybe it was suede. “Nice,” she said, as he seemed to be waiting.

  “Do you want coffee? A glass of wine?”

  “I’ll have what you’re drinking.”

  “Scotch?”

  “Sure.”

  She heard him take glasses from a cupboard, the churn of the refrigerator plonking ice cubes into glass, Scotch being poured from a bottle. With so much stone and metal, the least sound echoed. He set coasters on the table, then her glass and his. If he was curious that she’d asked to see him, he didn’t show it.

  “Do you want water or soda?”

  “Ice is fine.”

  One side of his mouth lifted. “Like me.”

  Maybe not like him, because she couldn’t recall when she’d last had Scotch, but if it made him feel brotherly, all the better. She looked around for her pastry box. “I want you to taste the cake I brought.”

  “I’ll have it later with Gaylene.”

  “No, I want you to have it now. That’s why I’m here.”

  That got a quizzical look. She pushed herself off the bench, too impatient to wait any longer. She had to open a few cupboard doors before she found the plates. He’d put the box in the refrigerator. She undid the string and lifted out the nouméa. It looked perfect. She scanned for drawers until, enjoying her puzzlement, he said, “Next to the stove.” She grabbed a fork, tore a piece of paper towel off the roll, brought the plate, ad hoc napkin, and fork to the table.

  “From your patisserie?”

  “Nope.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  He might be able to restrain himself while Gaylene was around, but she knew he loved sweets. “Taste it and I’ll tell you.”

  He nudged a baton of pineapple with his fingers, dabbed it deeper in the cream, bit into it. “Mmm.”

  “You should try the cake.”

  The tines of the fork crunched through meringue, then slid into the rich mousse. He tasted it, feeling the textures on his tongue, raised his eyebrows. He took another bite. “Wherever you got this, you should work for them.”

  Maddy grinned. He couldn’t have said it better if he’d cracked a fortune cookie and read the message out loud.

  “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

  “My friend makes these. She used to work as a pastry chef in Toronto. I want her to start a business here — as an independent, selling directly to restaurants.”

  “Why doesn’t she?”

  She wanted to reach across the table and knock on his forehead. Hello in there? Since he had investments and capital, he assumed everyone did. She restrained herself and said calmly, “We need funds. She’s a pastry chef. I want to use the downstairs of my house for a kitchen.”

  He set his for
k on the plate and put his hand on his glass as if to lift it, but didn’t. He twisted it half a rotation on its coaster, twisted it back again. “Before you start anything, you should approach some restaurants. Get a list of customers.”

  “Okay. And then?”

  “You start small. Get a reputation. You’ve got a product. No doubt about that.” He took up the fork again, swiped it through mousse, and put it in his mouth.

  “But the …” She wished he would say it first.

  “The what?”

  “The money.”

  “You’ll need money,” he agreed.

  Exasperated with how easy it seemed to him, she blurted, “Will you lend me some? Will you invest?”

  “I thought you told me you paid off your mortgage.”

  “Ages ago.”

  “So you’re sitting on three hundred K of home equity. Even in the Pointe. It’s inner-city real estate. Property prices are going up. The bank will give you money against it. Didn’t you know?”

  She stared at him. “No.”

  “Just don’t get yourself in too deep. Ask for a hundred and see if you can stretch it.”

  She and Yushi had calculated that it would cost forty thousand, including the renovations to her home, to get underway.

  “Start by finding customers. Get papers drawn up. If this woman —” He pointed at the remaining morsel of meringue and mousse. “If she isn’t bringing any cash in, she only gets a small share.”

  “She’s bringing her expertise.”

  He nodded. “You work that out. I’ll give you my account-ant’s number.”

  From his tone she could tell that he believed this would work. She felt excited and proud — and useful in a way that was new to her. “You’ll have to meet her,” she said, though she’d always taken care to keep her odd assortment of friends to herself.