Green Tea Latte To Go

by Ellis, Aven

  “Oh, Angus, I brought you treats, you love when Nanny brings you treats, don’t you?” she says affectionately.

  Then she stands up and looks at me, a smile passing over her face. “And you must be Payton.”

  I resist the urge to rub my palms against my dress to ensure they are dry and hope for the best.

  “Yes, I am,” I say, walking over to greet her. “I’m happy to meet you, Sylvia. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  She extends her hand to me and I shake it, feeling her delicate, paper-like skin against mine. I also notice she smells like a bouquet of roses.

  “Oh, I’m absolutely delighted to meet you, darling,” Sylvia says, her pale blue eyes lighting up as she squeezes my hand. Then she shoots a look at Brooks. “She’s absolutely beautiful. Payton lives up to the raves you have given me all week. Well done, you.”

  Brooks rubs his hand across the back of his neck in embarrassment, and I smile happily.

  “Yes, well done me, indeed,” he says softly. “Because she’s beautiful on the inside as much she is on the outside.”

  Feels, feels, feels.

  Then he clears his throat. “Let me start the gravy. The Yorkshire pudding should be ready to come out as well. Then we can have Sunday lunch.”

  “Another item that is called pudding but is not pudding.”

  Brooks reaches for my hand and I place it in his as we walk into the kitchen.

  “It is pudding.”

  “No, it’s not,” I argue. “It’s more like a popover.”

  “It’s pudding,” Brooks declares, bringing my hand to his lips and giving it a gentle kiss.

  Warmth radiates in my cheeks as I feel Sylvia’s eyes on me.

  “Sylvia, will you be having your customary red wine?” Brooks asks, shifting his attention to his guest.

  “Yes, please,” Sylvia says, setting down a huge tote bag and rustling through it. “Let me give my boy some treats first.”

  Angus is right by Sylvia’s side, his tail swishing, and I think it must be routine for Sylvia to always bring treats for Angus.

  I move to the cupboard and retrieve wine glasses while Brooks opens a bottle of red wine.

  He pours three glasses, and I take one to Sylvia.

  “Thank you, dear,” she says, smiling at me. “Come here, Angus. I love you, you cute piggy. Are the rabbits out? You know I must see my rabbit babies.”

  Angus finishes eating his Gerber toddler puffs and lays his head in Sylvia’s lap, snorting happily as she strokes his hair.

  And right on cue, Sherlock and Dr. Watson scamper across the floor, and Sherlock pops right up into a binky jump, which is so funny I burst out laughing at the sight of it.

  “Oh, my gosh!” I cry. “I just saw a binky!”

  Sylvia laughs. “Aren’t they fun? I so love my rabbits. That’s how I knew Brooks was a good man. He is obsessed with rabbits.”

  I shift my gaze to Brooks, who suddenly looks sheepish.

  “Oh, tell me more,” I say, loving that Brooks wants to die.

  “The first time I came into the clinic, Brooks was my vet. He was new, you know, but he has that sexy British accent so I had to give him a shot. If you’re going to have a regular vet, might as well be an attractive one with a British accent.”

  “Sylvia, stop,” Brooks says as he whisks some wine into the pan.

  “Oh, don’t Sylvia me,” Sylvia says, laughing. “But he was so excited I had Holland Lops, and when he realized I spoke fluent rabbit, I couldn’t get him to stop. But that’s what I love about that boy over there. His passion runs deep for things he loves.”

  My heart holds still. That’s what I love about him, too. And I hope one day I’ll be on that list of things he loves.

  “So Brooks tells me you’re a blogger,” Sylvia says, easing herself into a seat at the dining room table and interrupting my thoughts. “Tell me more about that.”

  Brooks laughs as he takes the Yorkshire puddings out of the oven. “One of Sylvia’s favorite sayings is ‘tell me more.’”

  I hesitate. Will Sylvia think I’m as ridiculous as my family does? Will she wonder why intelligent Brooks is with a woman who doesn’t have a more conventional career?

  I take a sip of wine for courage. “Um, yes. I operate two blogs, one devoted to the fashion of the Duchess of Cambridge and how to apply it to your own lifestyle. The other is more a lifestyle blog about my post-graduate life in Seattle.”

  “Interesting! So you’re a writer,” Sylvia says, nodding.

  “Yes,” I answer. “I am. But I’m also a businesswoman, as I operate the blogs to make money with advertising and sponsorship opportunities. And someday I plan on making enough so I can quit my day job.”

  “What’s your day job?” Sylvia asks.

  “I work as a concierge,” I say and then continue as I see in her face that she doesn’t understand. “I do errands and help organize for clients. Whatever they need. Like a personal assistant.”

  “Well, isn’t that fascinating?” Sylvia says, sincerity in her voice. “Has that always been your dream, to run a blog?” Sylvia asks, leaning forward and studying me intently.

  “Yes, it has. Since I was old enough to discover fashion blogs online, I knew that’s what I wanted to do.”

  “Then that is what matters. Always chase your dreams,” Sylvia says knowingly. “You never want to look back and wish you would have done something different with your life.”

  As I think about my answer, I feel good about it. I’m a writer. A professional businesswoman. I’m growing my business and have a plan to make it full-time. Confidence soars in me with Sylvia’s understanding. She’s not going to think I’m an immature college graduate with no ambition for a “real job.”

  Brooks begins whisking the gravy on the stove. “Sylvia, tell Payton what you used to do.”

  Sylvia smiles at me. “I was a floral designer. I love the happiness of being with flowers and envisioning them coming together in a way that celebrates an occasion. To me, they are life. And what a way to celebrate it in a beautiful, creative way.”

  I understand Sylvia’s creative joy. It’s how I feel when I’m putting together a post and I have just the right picture, the right words, and the perfect combination comes to life on the screen.

  “Creative joy,” I say, nodding.

  Sylvia’s eyes sparkle at me. “Yes. It’s wonderfully freeing to do what your heart tells you to do. My parents were appalled I was working. They only wanted me to be married, you know. They wondered why George was ‘making’ me work. They never got it through their thick one-tracked skulls that I wanted to work. I enjoyed it. So I did it. Just like how I put up this floral wallpaper in this kitchen. Nobody else got it, but I loved it. And it brought me joy.” She smiles happily. “I know Brooks wants me to take it down,” Sylvia says, shooting him a pointed look, “but I won’t do it. This is my indoor garden. When I would have coffee with George in the morning, we sat in this lovely garden at that little table, sharing our lives around the flowers. It was a happy time. And I cherished it every day until George passed.”

  My throat grows thick. I study the big flowers blooming on the walls and I want the life Sylvia had with George here. At that little table, surrounded by peony blooms, with the man I love.

  “Sylvia, you know whoever buys this house will change it,” Brooks says, reaching for some plates. “And you’ll get a better asking price if you make it neutral.”

  Sylvia tilts her chin up in defiance. “No. Someone will have to strip it when I’m not around. I won’t allow that to happen. I couldn’t bear it. And maybe someday the right couple will fall in love with this home and this kitchen, exactly the way it is. Imperfections and all. And start their story under the blooms.”

  My heart pounds in my chest. It’s us, I think, standing very still. Sylvia is speaking to us. This is our house. This is where we need to write our story together. In this kitchen, at that table, in this wallpaper garden.

  “Well, w
e can continue our disagreement later,” Brooks says, picking up a carving knife, “because now it’s time for Sunday lunch.”

  I put that thought aside, as I know Brooks is long way off from thinking about a life together.

  But I tuck it into my heart where I know the image will stay. And someday I’ll tell him I knew this was my destiny as we sat here sharing our first Sunday lunch together.

  “Payton, may I serve you some Yorkshire pudding?” Brooks asks pointedly.

  I laugh and take my seat. “Oh, what is life without pudding?”

  “And you get it twice because we have pudding after lunch.”

  “Oh, custard?” Sylvia asks, getting up and heading to the kitchen sink to wash her hands.

  “Not this Sunday. Banoffee pie.”

  “Oh, it’s a good thing I’m ancient and wear elastic pants. Your lunches make me go up five sizes.”

  “You look brilliant and you know it,” Brooks declares, placing a slice of roast on a plate.

  “That’s not going to lower your rent so stop it,” Sylvia teases.

  We all sit down at lunch, with Brooks placing a plate filled with roast beef, carrots, mashed potatoes, gravy and Yorkshire pudding in front of me. The roast smells amazing, pure comfort on a plate, and I can’t wait to try it.

  And this pudding that is not a pudding, too, I think, smiling to myself.

  Brooks takes the seat next to me and places his napkin in his lap.

  “I think you should do a little toast, Brooks,” Sylvia declares, lifting her glass.

  Brooks winces. “Oh, no. I’m not very good at toasts.”

  Sylvia rolls her eyes. “Brooks. I’m not asking you to give a toast at a White House dinner. Simply something before we eat. You can explain rabbit eye surgery in detail, so I’m sure you can come up with a toast before a lunch.”

  “Will I be graded?” Brooks asks.

  Sylvia throws her head back and laughs. “No.”

  “All right. I know not to argue with you,” he says, smiling. Then he clears his throat and picks up his glass. “While I make this toast under duress,” he teases, shooting Sylvia a look, “thank you both for coming and letting me cook for you.”

  We all clink glasses.

  “And Payton, I’m glad you are having your first Sunday lunch with me,” he adds softly.

  Happiness fills me. “Me, too,” I say.

  We take a sip and dig in. And oh, now I understand why people in the UK love their Sunday lunches so much. The beef is juicy and tender, cooked to medium-rare perfection. The gravy over the mashed potatoes is rich with flavor. And the carrots—straight from the Public Market—are delicious.

  “Now the test,” I declare, picking up my fork for the Yorkshire pudding. “The not pudding.”

  Brooks laughs. “You’re as stubborn as Sylvia.”

  “Which makes her marvelous,” Sylvia declares, taking a bite of her potatoes.

  I use my fork to break into my pudding, which is golden brown and crusty on the outside. I then take a bite of the Yorkshire pudding, and it’s light and fluffy on the inside. Oh, yum. Brooks has definitely mastered the Sunday lunch because this is amazing.

  “It’s delicious,” I say, smiling at Brooks.

  “I love the gravy on it,” he recommends. “That’s the best way to eat it.”

  I nod in agreement, as the gravy is crazy good.

  “You have mastered gravy,” I say. “That’s impressive. My mom’s been trying for at least thirty years now and hers is horrible. Maybe you can teach her,” I tease.

  Brooks immediately shakes his head. “Oh, no. No, no. I’m not going into your mother’s kitchen to teach Gravy 101. I want her to like me, remember.”

  “But the rest of the family would love you if we could be saved from lumpy, starchy, bland gravy,” I counter.

  “Let me consider that,” Brooks says, pretending to think on it. “Um, no.” Then he goes back to cutting his meat, and we all laugh.

  We continue the rest of the meal like this, eating, talking and laughing. Angus scores some carrots, and Mycat Holmes even comes out to grace our meal with his presence. But I suspect that has something to do with the fact that roast beef was being served rather than our company.

  “You know what I adore about you two?” Sylvia suddenly says.

  We both shift our attention to her.

  “That you are both sitting here at this table, with each other, and there’s not a single phone sitting between the two of you,” Sylvia says, smiling. “You are both living in the moment. Having a real conversation. It’s so refreshing. People miss so much life with those damn phones. Don’t ever do that.”

  “I like my moments with him,” I say boldly, and my heart sings with happiness when he squeezes my hand in response.

  “Good,” Sylvia says, smiling at me.

  “But he will have to put up with me being on the laptop very early next Saturday, because I have to work. It’s Trooping the Colour for the Queen’s birthday celebration. I need to have updated Instagram pics and tweets for my followers, and with the time zone change, it will be a very early day. And Brooks will be sleeping while I’m working I’m sure.”

  “Oh, this is like one of your Kate Super Bowl moments,” Brooks declares, grinning at me. He rises to pick up plates, and I move to help him. “Like whose hat will she be wearing?”

  “It is,” I say excitedly, moving around the table to pick up Sylvia’s plate. “I can’t wait to see what she will wear this year.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Sylvia says, patting my arm affectionately.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “So what is this event?” Sylvia asks.

  “It’s a military parade that takes place on Horse Guards Parade, which is near St. James Park,” I explain as I head over to the sink. “The Queen will inspect the troops of the Household Division. Then she will lead the troops to Buckingham Palace. The royal family will ride in carriages in the parade, and then members of the family will gather on the balcony of Buckingham Palace for the Royal Air Force fly-past. It’s beautiful pageantry. And I love the history of it. It started with Charles II in the 17th century.”

  Brooks pauses as he’s washing dishes and studies me, a look of awe on his face. “I didn’t know the history of it.”

  I blush as I hand him another plate. “I know people think I’m all about the fashion which makes my work seem frivolous to those who don’t like fashion, but I research a lot of history to do my work,” I explain. “People have been fascinated with the monarchy for hundreds of years. And fashion is a part of the fabric of that history and tells a story of its own. Like how Victoria wore black for forty years of her life to symbolize her grief over the death of Prince Albert. Or how Diana’s wedding dress was a reflection of the big, lavish 1980’s. It ties together.”

  I realize Brooks isn’t washing, but simply staring at me.

  “You’re passionate about connecting your work to history,” Brooks says softly. “And where Kate’s place in that history will be. But you see a picture beyond the dress and the shoes, one I never thought of before.”

  Unexpected tears prick my eyes. Brooks sees me better than anyone ever has. He not only sees the work I do, but he values it.

  And although I didn’t think I could love him more than I already do, I fall more in love with him in this moment.

  Suddenly his phone rings, but not with the Sherlock ringtone.

  “Ah, that’s Mum,” he says, shutting off the water. “I’ll call her back.”

  “Brooks, go talk to her,” Sylvia says. “It’s late over there, give her a few minutes. Payton and I can chat over coffee and pie.”

  Oy, pie. It’s a good thing my dress is flowy because I’m about to expand ten sizes.

  “Yeah?” Brooks asks, deferring to me.

  I smile at him. “Yes, go talk to your mum, as you say. I know she must miss you like crazy.”

  Brooks gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and retrieves his phone, heading i
nto the living room for a bit of privacy.

  I take the pie out of the fridge and turn to Sylvia. “I also made some banana pudding if you would like some.”

  “Oh, does it have Nilla wafers?” Sylvia asks.

  I beam at her. “Yes.”

  “Then dish me up some of that next to the pie, please.”

  “I will,” I say, putting the pie plate on the counter and going back for the dish of banana pudding. “Would you like some coffee or tea?”

  “Decaf coffee, please,” Sylvia says. “Otherwise I’ll ruin my eight thirty bedtime,” she says, laughing.

  I smile and set the pie down next to the coffee machine. I select a cup of decaf and pop it in. “Cream or sugar?”

  “Both. I don’t know how that boy of ours drinks it black,” Sylvia says, making a face.

  I laugh. “He likes full-throttle,” I say.

  I move back to the refrigerator and retrieve the half-and-half. Then I find some sugar in his pantry, dump some in a little dish and add a spoon.

  “Sorry, I don’t know if he has a proper sugar and creamer set,” I say, placing them down in front of Sylvia at the kitchen table.

  Sylvia smiles. “It all works the same, no matter what it arrives in.”

  I’m struck by her words. My mom always has things in the perfect container. And I admit, I know I want a Kate Spade sugar and creamer set someday when I have a house, but Sylvia is right, it doesn’t matter.

  I slice up the pie and again, against my grain and how I grew up, serve it on mismatched plates and our tea and coffee in Seattle Seahawks mugs.

  It’s not perfect.

  It doesn’t match.

  It doesn’t matter.

  A lightness sweeps over me. As if the burden of perfection I had placed on my shoulders for this lunch has been lifted. I can enjoy this moment just as it is, imperfections and all. I pick up the plates and happily return to the table, and place a slice of banoffee pie in front of Sylvia.

  “Thank you, darling,” Sylvia says, picking up her fork.

  “You’re welcome,” I say, taking the seat across from her.

  “I have to say I’m so happy you are seeing Brooks,” Sylvia says confidentially, leaning across the table toward me.