by M. J. O'Shea
Shatara cracked a smile, which wasn’t common for her. She was fair, but not what Tristan would call friendly. Maybe his new romance was enough to bring out the softie in her. You never could tell what people’s buttons were.
“Are you worried about it?” she asked. “You shouldn’t be. They’ll love you.”
Tristan shrugged. “It’s just that they’re a bit posh, um, well-off. Very well-off, actually.” Tristan cleared his throat. “I’m intimidated, you could say. I haven’t spent much time on the Upper East Side with people like that.”
All of a sudden, he felt like half the floor was staring at him. “Is his family, like, society?” one of the women asked. Her name was Cassie, Tristan thought. They hadn’t exactly spoken very many times. Or ever.
“Yes. I think so. Trixie looked like she’d fit into that crowd, at least.” Tristan had really liked Trixie. He knew better than to think Henry’s parents would be as warm and welcoming.
“Trixie Livingston?” Cassie muttered. “Is that who you’re talking about?”
“You know who she is?” Tristan wasn’t a moron. The society princesses had graced the papers back in London as well. He’d probably be able to pick Alexa Chung or Camilla Al Fayed out of a lineup, but Trixie was just Henry’s sister. He’d never considered her that way. He knew they were rich, but were they like that?
“Everyone knows who she is. That would mean you’re with the brother….”
“Henry.” Tristan felt a little weird talking about it with people at work, people he didn’t really even know. It made him a little sick to his stomach. Brought things to the surface, reminded him there was a lot more to Henry’s life than his idyllic bakery and beautiful flat Tristan had already made himself home in. “I’m with Henry,” he said again, quietly. All of a sudden, he went from wanting to get home to just plain wanting to get out of there. He practically felt the waves of whispers that swept through the office.
“Anyway, Shatara, the proofs are in your inbox, and I need to go get ready for dinner, so I hope you have a lovely weekend.” He stood and shoved his papers into his bag and slung it across his body. He waved to the people who were all staring at him. “Uh, night, everyone. Have a great weekend.”
Get out of here. Get out of here now.
Tristan breathed a sigh of relief when he got to the main doors of the building and pushed through to the outside.
TRISTAN STILL hadn’t shaken the weird feeling two hours later. He was freshly showered and just about ready to go. He’d worn his best button-up and sweater and the nicest trousers he owned. For nowhere near the first time, Tristan wished he could fit his huge shoulders and monkey arms into Henry’s beautiful designer shirts and jackets. He might not feel like quite as much of the poor relation if he hadn’t bought most of his outfit from the sale rack.
“You look adorable,” Henry muttered. He came up behind Tristan and adjusted the collar of his shirt and helped him into his blazer.
Not exactly an ego boost. “Adorable. Not quite the word I hoped to hear from the guy who had three of my fingers in him just thirty minutes ago and his d—”
Henry choked and flushed visibly. “I take it back. Not adorable. At least not then.”
“How did I look?” he asked. Tristan tried to keep an innocent face, but even he remembered Henry perched on the edge of the counter, cream cheese frosting smeared down his stomach, sweat gleaming on his skin.
“Fuck. You’re gonna make me hard and Ollie will be here in five minutes.”
“Oops,” Tristan said with an unrepentant smirk. That’s what Henry got for calling him bloody fucking adorable. Adorable…. At least teasing Henry made him feel a little bit better.
“So, Ollie is one of my oldest friends. He’s been working for my parents since I was a mere chap.”
Tristan groaned, even though Henry had been getting better at his accent. Still. Chap? Good God. “Please tell me you didn’t just say ‘chap.’”
“Young lad?”
“Better. You’re never gonna pass, though. I don’t know why you bother trying.”
“Because it’s fun.” Henry grinned. “Are you saying that when you take me to meet your parents, I’m going to be the obnoxious American everywhere I go?”
Tristan smiled too. He couldn’t pretend his stomach didn’t warm at the thought of Henry visiting home with him. At the thought of Henry wanting to visit home with him. He might not come from a palace in the middle of Manhattan, but he thought Henry would like his family, at least.
“Yes, you’ll be the obnoxious American. The adorable obnoxious American.”
Henry attacked Tristan’s neck with tickling, biting kisses. They were both a bit red in the face and laughing by the time Ollie buzzed from downstairs.
THEY LAUGHED all the way to the car and smiled huge smiles through Henry’s introductions to the family chauffeur. Ollie seemed like a good guy. He talked familiarly with Henry but seemed insistent on calling him “sir,” which made Tristan want to giggle all the more. The thought of Henry as a “sir” was ridiculous to him. The thought of Henry as anyone other than his Henry from the bakery who teased and laughed and wore ratty Converse and band T-shirts was still something Tristan was getting used to.
The Livingston town car was luxurious, to say the least. The interior was cool and dark from the tinted windows. It was refined. Expensive but not ostentatious. Tristan understood. He knew these people. Maybe not these exact people, but he’d met ones like them. Old money, not flashy. Conservative. He thought he could handle it. He’d done it before.
He and Henry talked on the way up to the Upper East Side. Their typical jokey banter had quieted, though. Tristan wasn’t sure if it was the car or some vague overtone of apprehension he felt and figured Henry felt as well.
He nearly choked when they pulled up in front of what must’ve been Henry’s parents’ house. Tristan hadn’t seen it, never even asked after he quickly realized how much Henry didn’t like spending time there. He’d known the place was going to be insane. It was.
“You ready for this?” Henry asked.
“Not exactly,” Tristan answered. His heart raced and he felt sweaty and clammy. He thought he might already feel the disapproval coming from inside the mansion. Yes, he’d met people just like these before, society-page, marble-façade-in-the-most-exclusive-neighborhood type of people, but he’d never met them as their son’s boyfriend. It’d never mattered so much before what people thought of him.
The door opened before they were even at the first step. A butler right out of one of his mother’s novels stood at attention, ready to invite them in, take their nonexistent coats…. Tristan wasn’t quite sure, actually.
“Hudson,” Henry murmured.
The butler looked surprised by Henry’s greeting. Tristan wondered if he and Henry usually interacted differently.
“Evening, sir.” He nodded at Henry. “Good evening.” He nodded at Tristan.
Tristan swallowed hard.
They followed Hudson into a room right off the main hall. Each item in the room was probably worth more than Tristan’s flat. The walls were painted a subdued Tiffany blue, the furnishings a mixture of gold and plush champagne. It was like Poppy St. Clair’s living room but ten times more intimidating.
“Henry! Tristan!”
Tristan breathed a momentary sigh of relief at the familiar voice.
“Hey, sis.” Henry kissed Trixie’s cheek and then passed her to Tristan for hugs and mannered cheek kissing.
“Mother, Father, this is Tristan.”
Henry’s parents stood from where they’d been hidden behind two massive wing chairs. His mother was a bit shorter than Henry himself, slim, hair a mix of brown and iron gray. His father was taller and broad shouldered, dressed impeccably and quite possibly the most intimidating person Tristan had ever encountered.
“Lovely to meet you,” he said quietly. He held out his hand to Henry’s father.
“Bradford. Good to meet you.” Tristan got
the typical strong handshake from him. He tried to shake back without squeezing too hard. He knew there was an art to it, not too overpowering, never weak. He hoped he passed.
Henry’s mother held her hand out gracefully. “Please call me Ophelia.”
THEY STOOD for a few more minutes, talking, he supposed, but a polite sort of social talking. Henry had warned him it wouldn’t feel like the kind of family Tristan was used to. He sure as hell was right. It was so awkward. At least, it felt awkward to Tristan. He was used to his boisterous family, with parents who would hug someone before they even knew their name and an older brother and little sister who didn’t know the meaning of the word stranger, friends and neighbors who’d come over to see the guest.
“Dinner is served,” Hudson the butler announced after a few minutes. Excruciating minutes.
Tristan was very happy to go sit and have something to do with his mouth other than stick his foot in it a million times in a row trying to come up with witty, intelligent cocktail talk. Tristan had never been one for the elegant repartee. Give him a beer and a pub any day. Luckily, Henry was the same. He looked a little bit more comfortable—it was his family, after all—but still he didn’t seem like real Henry. More like show Henry.
Tristan was quiet through the soup and salad courses. He offered a few comments but mostly let Henry and his family speak. Well, his family, to be honest. Trixie and Ophelia chatted on about their social group and Bradford interjected here and there, but Henry was mostly quiet. Tristan wasn’t surprised. Nothing Henry had told Tristan about himself would’ve ever led him to believe New York society was Tristan’s scene.
“What do you do, Tristan?” Bradford asked. Tristan was surprised he was being included. It was nice.
“I’m in advertising. I do a lot of the artwork for our various campaigns and some of the copywriting as well.”
“An adman?” Tristan honestly couldn’t tell if Bradford was impressed or not. “Done anything we’ve seen?”
“Not yet.” Tristan blushed. “I’m fairly new to the company. But Charity Parker, she’s a singer, has a fairly large fragrance campaign coming out soon. I did most of the artwork for that one.”
Bradford and Ophelia nodded. Trixie giggled. “I like her music.”
“I’d never heard it. I listened to a few tracks when I was working on the ads. Not exactly my style.” Tristan shrugged.
Henry looked perplexed. “Should I have heard of her?”
“Probably not. They don’t typically play her on the same stations as Death Cab For Cutie,” Tristan teased.
Trixie rolled her eyes. “Angsty hipster shit.”
“Christina!” her mother gasped.
Henry only chuckled. “Okay, Miley.” He reached over and poked her.
Bradford and Ophelia watched the two of them tease each other without even cracking a smile. Tristan thought of home again. It was so hard not to compare. He and his siblings would typically be fighting over the radio station at the top of their lungs while his mum went on and on about “that lovely Robbie Williams” and his dad tried to read the paper. Tristan felt a sharp pang, one he hadn’t felt when he’d first moved to London for uni, but had been feeling more and more often when he wasn’t with Henry.
“Where are you from, dear?” Ophelia finally asked. “I have some friends with property in Cheshire. Are you near there?”
Tristan shook his head. “Not really. I suppose in US standards, I am, but it’s a good two hours’ drive into Cheshire from where I grew up. I’ve not ever made it before. I’m from North Yorkshire. I went to school in London, though. It made my accent a lot lighter.”
“I need an English boy,” Trixie sighed.
“I have a brother,” Tristan teased. “He’s a right catch. Only snores a little.”
Trixie giggled, Henry smiled fondly at him, and their parents… didn’t. Tough crowd.
TRISTAN MAINLY listened through the main course and dessert, which was nowhere near as good as anything Henry made. He decided it was probably best not to share that information. Instead, he exchanged looks with Trixie, who made a face when she bit into the cake and mouthed, “Henry’s is better.” Tristan just nodded. He really liked Trixie. It was impossible not to. When dinner was over, they said their good-byes. Henry turned down cocktails back in the huge stuffy parlor, and they got polite good-byes from Ophelia and Bradford and big hugs and promises to visit from Trixie. He was glad to get out of there. Judging by the look on his face, so was Henry.
BAKLAVA
Nutty, sweet, and spicy, this gooey treat is both exotic and comforting. Always a favorite in the fall.
1 pound chopped nuts
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground cardamom
1 (16 ounce) package phyllo dough
1 cup butter
½ teaspoon orange zest (optional)
1 cup water
1 cup white sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ cup honey
Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter the bottoms and sides of a 9- by 13-inch pan.
Toss the nuts with cinnamon and cardamom and set them aside. Unroll your phyllo dough and cut whole stack in half to fit the pan. Cover the phyllo with a dampened cloth to keep from drying out as you work.
Place two sheets of dough in a pan. Butter thoroughly. Repeat until you have eight sheets layered. Sprinkle 2 to 3 tablespoons of nut mixture on top. Top with two sheets of dough, butter, and nuts, layering as you go. The top layer should be about six to eight sheets deep.
Using a sharp knife, cut into diamond or square shapes all the way to the bottom of the pan. You may cut into four long rows, then make diagonal cuts. Bake for about 50 minutes until baklava is golden and crisp.
Make the sauce while the baklava is baking. Boil sugar, orange zest (optional), and water until sugar is melted. Add vanilla and honey. Simmer for about 20 minutes.
Remove baklava from oven and immediately spoon sauce over it. Let cool. Serve in cupcake papers. This freezes well. Leave it uncovered, as it gets soggy if it is wrapped up.
Chapter 12
IT WAS quiet in the car on the way back to his apartment. Henry didn’t say much; there wasn’t really anything to say. He simply held Tristan’s hand, watched the streets go by, and hoped like hell that his family wouldn’t make Tristan run away like they had with the few people he’d brought home before.
Dinner had actually been quite a bit better than the usual family-boyfriend encounters had gone in the past. Trixie clearly loved Tristan, and his mother had been won over by his accent and self-deprecating charm and was nearly friendly, at least for her. His dad was… his dad. He’d been stoic and self-interested, but that wasn’t anything new, and it certainly didn’t say anything bad about Tristan. Over all, the evening hadn’t been a failure, far from it. Henry just wasn’t sure Tristan would see it that way.
From what he’d heard, Tristan’s family was warm and all-encompassing, adopting all his friends and boyfriends without question or pretense, pulling them in, making them part of the circus. Henry would kill for a family like that. At least he had a fraction of one. He’d never be able to say how grateful he was for Trixie. She might be flighty and shallow sometimes, and he’d never understand her lifestyle, but Henry had never wondered if his sister loved him, and he hoped Trixie felt the same way. Their relationship was the only thing that made him feel like he hadn’t been raised by some sort of benevolent but exacting corporation.
He pulled Tristan closer and tugged his hand onto his lap. “You did really well tonight, babe. I think Trix is going to try to steal you from me.”
Tristan smiled. His smile was still shaky. Nervous. “I like your sister. She’s sweet.”
Henry smiled back at him. “You don’t have to say anything else. I know how my parents are.”
“Yeah” was all Tristan said in response.
They rode quietly for a while, in the serene, shadowed interior of his parents’ town car. Henry was
n’t comfortable, even though Tristan was familiar and the car was the same as the cars he’d been in the back of for longer than he could remember. Something about the combination of them, plus the night they’d just had, was unsettling. The further they got from the Upper East Side, the better he started to feel. He rubbed his thumb across the back of Tristan’s hand comfortingly, but he wasn’t quite sure whom he was supposed to be comforting.
He didn’t breathe quite right until they were back in the Village. Even though he’d grown up on the Upper East Side, the Village had felt like home right away. He still remembered the day he’d signed for his apartment, twenty-three and just about to start culinary school, and he hadn’t known what he wanted to do or become. He’d spent four years at college and a year getting to know the kitchens in the city. None of it had made him happy, but his home had. It had been his favorite place in the world since the first moment he’d walked into it, and it still was. There was just an addition to it, now.
Tristan never felt like someone who didn’t belong, never felt like a guest. He’d spent nearly every night there for weeks, probably had more belongings with Henry than in his own place and possession of a freshly cut spare key. It just seemed right. Again, Henry pushed some silent plea out into the universe, for whomever might be listening, that his family didn’t make Tristan flee to keep his sanity. Henry nearly opened his mouth and promised they wouldn’t have to see them much. It was true; with the exception of Trixie, he rarely saw his family. Something about saying it out loud didn’t feel right, though.
“Hey, we’re almost home. You want to tackle cannolis tonight?” Some of Henry’s favorite times were in his kitchen, music playing, him and Tristan joking and touching and kissing over whatever baking lesson was on for the night. He thought maybe chocolate chips and mascarpone would erase the weird aftertaste of his parents’ palatial mausoleum of a house, that music and laughter would make Tristan forget how unwelcoming it was.
