by M. J. O'Shea
“Good evening, sir. If you’ll follow me.”
Henry rolled his eyes and followed Hudson to the same damn room he followed him to every single time he came for dinner. The formality always made him uncomfortable and he typically tried to fight it, but Henry wasn’t in the mood. It still annoyed him that he had to be led around the house he’d grown up in like a guest, but he just let it go. Hudson wasn’t going to change, his parents weren’t going to change; he just wanted to get the damn dinner over with and get back to Tristan.
His family was seated in their usual spots, with their usual cocktails and their usual expensive clothes. Trixie, as always, bounded over and gave him a big hug and a kiss like they hadn’t spoken for weeks, when she was the only one he ever saw outside these painfully formal dinners.
“Hi, Trix. How are you tonight?”
“Good. I just spent the weekend at the spa with Felicity Harcourt. Do you remember her? She’s Darren Harcourt’s wife, from Charlie’s in the Hamptons two summers ago?”
Henry didn’t know why she kept asking. Of course he didn’t remember. He never remembered any of her vast revolving circle of acquaintances.
“I’m glad you had fun” was all he chose to say.
“How’s Tristan?” Trixie asked. Henry had to give her credit. She always remembered the names of everyone in his life. Since he could count most of them on two hands, that wasn’t nearly the same feat. Henry wasn’t quite ready to bring Tristan up yet. He wanted to savor him for just a few minutes more.
“He’s good,” Henry said quietly. He gave Trixie a look that said not to push it. She nodded.
“Shall we go through to dinner?” his mother asked after Henry greeted her and his father. Henry still thought the whole process was ridiculous, always had, always would, but he nodded his assent and let Hudson lead them into the dining room.
DINNER WAS mildly pleasant, delicious, and still slightly uncomfortable like it always seemed to be. Trixie and their mother made light, polite conversation about people they both knew but Henry and his father didn’t really care much about. Henry mostly sat quietly, not really worried that he wasn’t participating. He mostly fantasized about what was waiting for him at home.
“Henry, darling?” He realized his mother was talking to him.
“Hmmm?”
“Trixie said you’ve met somebody?” She asked.
Was I that out of it that I didn’t notice them talking about me? Henry felt a bit sheepish. It was time, he supposed, as much as he didn’t want to get his family involved in his relationship. “Yes. I have. His name is Tristan. He’s from England.”
“How did you meet him?” His mother had long since perfected the socially interested look. She probably cared who Henry was dating, to a point. Other than potential embarrassment if the man was totally unsuitable, it really didn’t make any impact on her life.
“He stopped by the bakery. We got to talking and ended up getting along really well.” He left out the part about how it’d been the middle of the night. He figured that wouldn’t sound very good. Plus, his mother really didn’t like reminders of that fact that Henry worked all the time. At least it had gotten a little better since Rose came along.
“That’s nice, dear. Maybe you’ll have to bring him for dinner the next time you come.”
“Mmm hmm.” Henry tried to sound as noncommittal as possible. It was inevitable, especially if he and Tristan really became something real, but he wanted to put it off.
“You really should!” Trixie was as enthusiastic as always. Henry wished the table weren’t so massive. He’d kick his damn sister if he could reach her. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
“Next time,” he murmured. He shot Trixie a look, which she clearly chose to ignore. Instead, she took a pointed bite of her frisée with raspberry balsamic, and grinned impudently at him. “He’s still getting settled in his job.”
They ate quietly for a few minutes. Salad was removed for soup, then the main course of cheese soufflé, autumn vegetable gratin, and roast squab. Henry did what he always did and let his family’s chatter wash over him and contribute when he had to. His father spoke of some drama with the company, how they’d been having a hell of time finding the right firm to take their advertising to a larger market. Henry didn’t care. He never cared when his dad went on about Livingston’s. He was quite sure his father wanted him to care; that’s probably why he brought it up on a regular basis when Henry was there. It wasn’t ever going to work. Instead of getting involved, he let his mind wander to where it usually did—a constant rotation of baking and Tristan. He was quite alright with that.
Henry was relieved when dinner was over and he could make a quick exit. Of course, he didn’t bet on Trixie following him out to the car and sliding in with him.
“What’s going on?” He asked her.
Trixie grinned. “I wanted frozen yogurt. I don’t care what Mom says. Fruit and cheese will never be dessert.” She leaned over the seat. “Ollie, can you take us to Pinkberry?”
“Trix, I’ve gotta get home.”
“Please. I just want a cup of yogurt with some mochi and marshmallows, and then you can go back to your hunk of burning British man love.”
“You didn’t just say that.”
“I totally did.”
Henry groaned.
She sat back in her seat with a smug smile for a few minutes. Henry watched as the lights went by, wishing the car were heading back to the village instead of on one of Trixie’s whims.
“You know,” she said after a block or so. Henry nearly cringed. He knew that voice. “You should try harder with Mom. She wants to know you better.”
Henry sighed. He and Trixie had been having variations of the same conversation since he’d gotten back from college. Even longer, probably. Usually she wasn’t quite so blunt about it. Maybe he’d gotten even worse lately at communicating. What little patience he’d had for their whole world had completely gone down the drain when it meant losing precious Tristan time.
“Mom and I don’t have much in common. You know that. I’m never going to fit in with the social crowd, and I don’t really want to. She’d never fit in at the bakery, and I think I’d keel over in shock if she ever tried. It’s better the way it is.”
“Millie said you were working on hiring a new baker. Maybe if you do, then we can all go skiing this winter. Telluride is beautiful at Christmas.”
“Trixie,” he warned.
“What? You could even bring Tristan. I’m sure he skis.”
Henry highly doubted it, to be honest. “Tristan’s not like that. He’s… different.” Besides. Henry was hoping Tristan would want to take him somewhere for the holidays. Like home to meet his family. It was way too soon to be thinking those things. But he was.
“You should see your face when you talk about him. I need to meet this guy soon. He’s turned my brother into a sap.”
Henry swatted at his sister. “See if I ever bring him up here now.”
She scoffed at him. “Like you were going to.”
Ollie pulled the car over in front of the frozen yogurt shop. “Just pull around the block. I’ll be quick,” Trixie promised. “You want anything, bro?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
TRISTAN WAS asleep when he got home. Naked, like he’d asked, with a tray full of lopsided but very tasty cupcakes on the bedside table—Henry had to try them, of course—but asleep. Henry smiled, probably quite a bit too fondly, and pushed his sandy hair off his forehead. He stripped out of his dinner clothes, tossed them on top of his dresser to deal with in the morning, and crawled into bed behind Tristan, snuggling into his warm skin and springy, muscled body.
“Henry?” Tristan’s voice came out as a thick, hoarse whisper. Henry kissed the back of his neck.
“Go back to sleep, babe.”
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I made cupcakes.”
Henry held back a chuckle and brushed another kiss across the back of his neck.
“Shhh. I know.”
Tristan mumbled something else that was unintelligible, then wriggled back into Henry’s lap. Henry groaned, frustrated after a night of picturing a very different scene when he got home, and rubbed Tristan’s hand. “Night. See you tomorrow,” he whispered.
HENRY HAD been rushing back and forth all morning, ferrying new racks of croissants filled with squishy chocolate, little autumn-themed petits fours, pumpkin-shaped cookies, pumpkin, zucchini, and gingerbread muffins, and thickly frosted cinnamon date rolls he couldn’t seem to keep on the shelves. Rose and Millie were bustling about, filling orders and counting change. Still, the line grew, and he could barely keep up with the demand.
“Okay, that’s it for today. Just sell out whatever’s left.” Henry felt like he’d been in a triathlon all morning, running around and spinning his wheels.
“Babe, you need to hire another baker,” Rose clucked at him when he came to the front with a heavy tray of cinnamon date rolls. If he were lucky, he wouldn’t drop them by the time he got to the display case. Apparently, Rose had been taking lessons from Millie.
“Is that new ink?” Henry asked, pointing to a cluster of aster flowers coming out from underneath her T-shirt.
He didn’t think he’d seen it before, but who knew. Besides, it was a diversion. Millie had helped him deal with finding Rose, who had turned out to be a gift from some other benevolent universe. Finding another baker? One who did things his way and could function without Henry breathing down his or her neck constantly? That would be a nightmare. He was so picky about flavor and texture and presentation. That was the reason his crowds were growing by the week. Just following his recipes wasn’t going to be enough for him. He didn’t even want to think about it.
“Rose is right, love,” Millie chimed in.
They always used pet names when they were about to start bullying him. Millie and Rose hadn’t been a team all that long, but they’d bonded scarily fast. They used all that combined power against him whenever they could. Henry hadn’t had much practice, but he was onto their little tricks.
“Hiring a new baker is going to be a nightmare, and you both know that. I’ll start looking into it. I promise.” He also promised to be a seriously picky pain in the ass when it came to finding someone. He just wasn’t going to tell them that.
Another hour, and two batches of special-order fall-themed cookies for a midtown book club meeting had just come out of the oven golden and buttery soft. Henry was about ready to collapse, but he wasn’t done yet…. He could leave soon, when the leaf-shaped cookies were frosted in orange, yellow, brown, and green and dusted with colored-crystal sugar. Nearly finished.
He stood and got bowls out to start mixing colored royal icing when he noticed Trixie at the doorway. She rarely came back to the kitchen, preferring the prettily decorated and furnished front room. She must’ve been watching him for a little bit before he noticed. Rather than her typical flurry of brightly colored scarves and expensive shoes and bags, she was still. Pensive.
“You okay, Trix?” Henry asked. He walked around his island and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“You look worn out, bro. I feel like I should be the one asking if you’re okay.”
Henry shrugged. “Business is good, I just keep running out of product hours before the bakery is due to close. I can’t keep up.”
“Rose and Millie said you were looking into hiring a second baker.”
Henry sighed. “I am, but it can’t just be anyone. You know what happens when a restaurant gets a new chef and things aren’t the same.”
“Widespread revolt. Scathing reviews in the Times.” Trixie nodded knowingly.
“Exactly, and Honeyfly might not be scathing-review worthy yet, but I’ve got a growing customer base, and they like what they like. Which is me.”
Trixie shrugged. “So you hire someone green and make sure you train them to be your little clone. No diva attitude and lots of enthusiasm.”
“Easier said than done.”
“I can do it for you, if you need me to. I’ve never hired a baker, but I’ve interviewed caterers lots of times, and I know how to find good help.” Trixie flipped her hair. “It’s probably not a skill to brag about in normal crowds, but it’s something I can do and do well. You know that.”
Henry knew she was right. Trixie, along with shopping, lunching, socializing, and getting her way, was amazing at finding people to do things to her exact specifications.
“Lemme see if I can’t find the right fit, and if not, I might put you on it.”
“Always ready to help, H.” She looked down at the cookies. “Can I have one of those? I’m on a splurge day.”
Henry rolled his eyes at her never-ending diet circle. “Do you want to wait until I’ve frosted them? It’ll add more calories, but it’ll be better.”
Trixie grinned. “Yes, please.” She hopped up on the counter and swung her booted feet back and forth. Sometimes Henry could tell the seasons by Trixie’s clothes. Fall meant riding boots and tailored jeans and cozy scarves. Summer was long dresses with decadent ropes of designer jewelry, in the spring, flowers seemed to sprout everywhere all over her clothes, and winters were tailored jackets, thicker boots, and an array of hats. It was comforting, in a way, to know that some things didn’t change much.
He and Trixie chatted while he frosted and sprinkled cookies. She ate one, then caved and had another before she told him to cut her off. It seemed like Trixie was coming to his bakery more and more often lately. Henry didn’t mind. He liked his sister’s company. He just wondered what the reason for it was. Maybe she was getting tired of the social merry-go-round uptown just like he had years ago. He didn’t blame her, if that was it.
“Henry, are you back here?”
Tristan. Henry had almost forgotten he was coming to the shop after work to grab the keys to Henry’s flat. He’d promised to start dinner—chicken parmesan and roasted potatoes, one of the few things he said he couldn’t screw up. Tristan stuck his head around the corner of the doorway and smiled. The poor guy looked totally deflated, probably from a long day like Henry’d had.
“Hey, b—” Tristan must’ve caught sight of Trixie because he went silent. “Um, hi, there.”
“Let’s see, tall, adorable, amazing accent…. You must be Tristan.” Henry’s sister hopped down from the counter and reached for a fashionable kiss. She was substantially shorter than Tristan, but he leaned over and exchanged a cheek kiss. Henry hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until they both pulled back.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” Tristan said. The way he stretched out his O sound always made Henry smile. Obviously it worked on Trixie too, because she giggled.
“Lovely to meet you,” She replied.
“Aw, Jesus, is she going to mimic me too?” Tristan asked Henry.
“Probably.”
Trixie came over and laid her head on Henry’s shoulder. “Good work, bro,” she said. She didn’t even try to keep it down. Tristan blushed, the pink flush creeping up his pale skin. “How old are you?” she asked. “You look like you’re just out of college.”
“Twenty-four next month,” Tristan said. He got pinker, if anything.
Trixie grinned up at him. Henry knew what was coming. “Seriously. Good work, bro.”
“What? I’m only twenty-seven. Please don’t make me sound like a cradle robber.”
“Sometimes I forget that I’m the older one.” She sighed. “Must be my youthful glow.”
“Or the fact that all of your friends are mentally still in prep school.”
Trixie elbowed him in the side. She hadn’t taken offense at that. They barbed each other constantly about shallow friends and angsty hipster tendencies. It wasn’t mean; it was just the way they were.
“Hey, when are you bringing this one home to meet Mom and Dad?” Trixie asked.
No, no, no. I was trying to avoid that. “Um, we hadn’t really discussed it, why?”
“Because you have to
, obviously. I mean, how long has it been since you two met?”
Not very long in the grand scheme of things, really. It was weird that, after only a month or so, Henry couldn’t imagine his life from before he and Tristan had been together, and he didn’t even want to think of the possibility of an after. Tristan had seeped into every crack and crevice of him, from the bakery and his apartment to the neighborhood and his plans for the future. Crazy, right? Henry couldn’t seem to help it.
“You totally need to come to dinner at the house, Tristan. My mom will love you,” Trixie went on. Henry wondered when she’d started doing hallucinogenic drugs. It wasn’t that Tristan was inherently unlovable or even someone his parents wouldn’t approve of—it was just that his mother didn’t ever “love” anyone. Especially not in the all-encompassing, adoptive way Tristan’s exuberant parents seemed to love, according to everything Henry had heard so far.
“Tr—”
“Sure, if you wouldn’t mind.” Tristan looked sweet and shy. Henry wanted to shield him from the world he’d grown up in.
“Fantastic! Well, I really do need to go. I’m having tea with Cornelia. How continental of us.” She giggled, kissed both of them on the cheek, and was off in her typical blur of fabrics and handbags and loud shoes.
“Your sister is….” Tristan looked like he didn’t know quite what to say.
Henry laughed softly. “I know. Gotta love her, though.”
Tristan nodded. “She seems lovely.”
“Yes. Lovely.”
Tristan elbowed Henry. “Quit copying me.”
“Never.”
BANOFFEE PIE
Bananas, toffee, and a chewy graham-cracker crust
It’s a treat kids can’t resist from our friends in the UK.
Crust
1½ cups graham-cracker crumbs
10 tablespoons butter, melted
Filling
2 (14-ounce) cans sweetened condensed milk
