Sweet (10 page)

Everything in my life,
Teddy thought,
is measured in forms of distance.

Though th
ere were not many people in the world from whom Teddy expected to hear on any given day, there had recently been Jules, with whom he’d exchanged volumes of messages and with whom he had spoken for two golden hours one evening as he bent over his table and tried to mold marzipan into something that
didn’t
look sloppy or amateur. Jules’s voice, thin and dreamy with memory, coming from somewhere across the city, across the hiss of the cell phone connection, across buildings and parks and darkening playgrounds, across garbage trucks and alleyways, across scuttling rats and the rickety snap of the subway, across pavement and cobblestone and brick, across the distance of everything unnamed and anonymous and rushed and blank that was New York, had felt so near and so present that Teddy could almost feel him breathing next to him. And Teddy couldn’t shake the habit, now, of looking for him.

I’m sorry I was heretofore an idiot. Please, stop by the bakery tomorrow after you are done with work. I’m leaving a gift with ‘Trice especially for you.

And after that, a long string of messages, which Teddy read eagerly, his relieved laughter cascading, tinny and joyful, like a shaking string of bells.

I really didn’t know it was you.

Both of you, I mean. Grasshopper. You.

I’m not making sense. I apologize for the nonsense texts. I’m texting a lot here, and you’re probably ignoring me because it’s probably
getting creepy.

I can be, very often, a complete dolt.

Because I use words like “heretofore” and “dolt.” Please don’t judge me.

I’m trying to be lighthearted here. :)

I apologize for the emoticon. I don’t ever use emoticons. I was going for light-hearted, and landed somewhere around twelve years old. I don’t know what got into me there. Probably the spirit of Avon. You met Avon.

One last try and then I’ll stop, I promise. If you don’t
come pick up your gift tomorrow, I’ll have to eat it myself, and that would be the saddest picture ever. I hope you’ll save me from that.

That was the last of the messages, and Teddy felt torn and aching, relieved and sad at all once, though he couldn’t have explained it. He sent a single message, and then forced himself to pocket the phone and not look at it again for the rest of the evening.

I’m sorry for leaving you hanging all day; I wasn’t ignoring you. We’re not allowed to exchange personal messages during the workday. Company Policy. You have nothing to apologize for, but I’m coming to get that gift tomorrow anyway, because who would turn away your baked goods? Not me, that’s who. I promise, I’m coming to save you.

***

Because this is a story, we can reel quickly through a day which, for Teddy and Jules both, was agonizingly long and uneventful. We can skip ahead to the good part, the part for which we’ve been hoping, when, at five o’clock, Teddy carefully packed his bag, left the office and walked swiftly those many dark and rainy blocks. It was raining that day, pelting and icy and unrelenting, and Teddy’s cheap subway-vendor umbrella, the black and flimsy kind every New Yorker carries on such days knowing full well it won’t last more than one or two rains, didn’t even last the one but was blown inside out by the fourth block, so that, by the sixth block, he was blistered with ice and wet and cold, balancing his bag over his head to provide any protection—too little and too late as it was—against what seemed to be the universe throwing itself against him and his efforts with all its might. (This was
not
the case; as we have said, the universe did not understand that Teddy existed, being as vast and busy and ignorant as it is, and was simply tossing its storms as it might. But to Teddy, scurrying desperately down the unnaturally dark streets, thinking only of the warm yellow light and tinkling glass of the bakery glowing like a hearth at the end of a long journey, it felt very much as if the universe were specifically pelting
him
with its million tiny, icy hands, shrieking
turn back, don’t go, we are entirely against this
!
)

Despite the rain, he went, and by the time he arrived at the gold and glass door, he was shivering, blue-lipped and pitiful; his coat was clammy against him and his pants and shirt clung to his skin like, well, like a second, slightly loosening and oozing skin. He pushed his way into the bakery.
The sweet-smelling warmth and the tinkling music of the glass overhead and the softly shaking fringe on the lampshades brushing the low light felt much more like home to him than home did, he thought, and fought the start of something sob-like in his throat, which mystified him, because he was happy here. He stood, dripping and waiting, at the counter while ‘Trice poured coffee for a woman—perfumed, draped in scarves and shopping bags, her hair swept up neatly in a too-tight chignon—who waited, tapping her long nails against the counter.

“Thank you, darling, see you tomorrow,” the woman said and turned and almost slapped straight into Teddy, who may, he admitted to himself, have been standing a bit too close in his eagerness
.

“Good god!” she said, jumping back, one hand covering the top of her coffee carefully. “Are you always soaking wet and banging into people, or is it just me?”

It was Irene.

“Irene, leave the poor guy alone,” ‘Trice called, winking at Teddy and smiling. She turned to the coffee machine and started what Teddy assumed was a coffee for him, because ‘Trice always seemed to know without asking exactly what he needed.

“I will
not
leave this man alone,” Irene said, huffing in an exaggerated manner that Teddy knew had to be her attempt at flirting with him. “He is clearly determined to sweep me off my feet. And,” she poked his chest with a red nail as she gnawed the lid of her coffee cup open, “he has yet to call me.”

“I’m sorry.” Teddy felt sheepish and lost and a little afraid. He glared over Irene’s shoulder to send a look of distress to ‘Trice, but her back was still turned. He could swear, however, he saw her shoulders shake. “I—”

“I know, I know,” Irene said, patting his arm. “You lost my card. Or you have been very busy with work, which apparently you do on a boat of some kind on the open ocean, you poor, wet puppy. Or you have been out of town on business during monsoon season. In any case, I am sure you have a good reason for disregarding the chemistry between us and discarding me like so much trash.”

“Irene, knock it off!” ‘Trice hollered, finally turning around. “He’s not interested! He’s
gay
!
”

“He’s right here,” Teddy mumbled, then reddened considerably when both women turned to look at him as if they had forgotten he was standing there. He looked at his shoes, unpolished and squelching water, and said, “I mean—”

“That,” said Irene, fluttering her eyes at him, “is really a waste of a very good man. Isn’t it always the way? Call me anyway,” she called over her shoulder as she left the bakery in a flurry of perfume and paper bags and the slightly bitter scent of coffee.

“That,” said ‘Trice to Teddy, “is really a waste of a very good hat. She fills it out, but she doesn’t fill it in, if you know what I mean.” ‘Trice slid a cup of coffee at him and waved away his attempt to pay. “Are you kidding? Since when? Besides, Jojo, how can I charge you for that when you look like somebody ran over you with a submarine and then took all your toys away and kicked your dog?”

Before he could respond, ‘Trice held up a finger, then disappeared behind the pastry case to reemerge with a small, white cardboard cake box wrapped with a gold ribbon. She placed it on the counter in front of him.

“It’s from You-Know-Who,” she said, raising her eyebrows and nodding toward the kitchen. “I think they are I’m Sorry Cookies. Or something like that. He was mumbling.”

Scrawled across the top of the box in black marker was a note:

Dear Teddy:

I baked these for you because I am (check one)

X
an ignoramus who can’t see what’s in front of me, even when it’s entirely obvious to everyone else

X
a dumb bunny incapable of acting like a human being in front of people I like

X
really in need of a social life

X
very sorry for acting like a total idiot

X
a brilliant baker but in all other respects a very flawed doofus who needs ‘Trice’s help to do even the simplest of things, like talk to a nice guy whom I would like to get to know a little better in the near future

Please forgive me. Yours, Her Royal Majesty Chef Jules James “I’m Sorry” Burns

All the boxes were checked. Teddy looked at ‘Trice.

“I did that for him,” she said, nodding. “It’s what he should have said, anyway. I think he thinks the cookies will say everything for him. Clearly, he’s putting too much pressure on the cookies, so I helped.”

“Is he here?”

“No, he went home earlier.” ‘Trice sounded mechanical but widened her eyes and jerk
ed her head, almost imperceptibly, toward the kitchen. “He
definitely
wouldn’t stick around to make sure I gave this to you, because
he trusts me and he is not a creepy stalker or anything like that
!
” She shouted that last bit, and widened her eyes again at Teddy, then laughed when they both heard a faint thump from behind the kitchen door. “It’s too easy,” she whispered, then raised her voice to a normal volume again. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me today,
amigo
.”

“Thanks,” Teddy said, starting to gather the box and the coffee, his broken umbrella and his bag.

“You might want to sit and have one or two of those with your coffee before you go,” ‘Trice said. “While you dry off a bit. And, you know, so that I can tell Jules if you liked them or not.” She faced him with her back to the kitchen, and widened her eyes at him again. She looked, Teddy thought, as if she might hurt herself if she glared at him any more meaningfully and so, although he would have run back out into the pouring
sleet and walked all the way to Long Island rather than stay for another minute in the bakery, where ‘Trice and Jules and who-knew-who-else were watching his every move, he sat at his usual table by the window, sighed and started to remove his coat.

“You probably don’t want to sit so close to the door,” ‘Trice said, raising her eyebrows. “You’ll probably be warmer if you sit over there, closer to the kitchen.” She cleared her throat loudly, ignored the series of dull thumps coming from behind the kitchen door and gestured with her head at a table at the back of the bakery. Teddy gave her his most pitiful look before scooping everything up and switching tables.

He peeled off his coat and hung it over the second stool at the table. He blotted his hair and shirt with a handful of napkins. He wiped down the table, settled himself in his seat and took a long drink of coffee before he could bring himself to glance at the kitchen door and pull open the gold ribbon on the box.

Inside were a dozen little heart-shaped cookies, each oozing red jam and dusted lightly with powdered sugar.

They tasted, he thought, when he lifted one to his lips and bit a tiny piece, casting his eyes tableward and not glancing at the cracked kitchen door, they tasted bright and sharp
with sweet, tart fruit soaring over the warm bitterness of pecans. Sugar was the first touch, powdery and light, softly coating his tongue, softly, softly cradling the sharp and the sweet and the bitter so that every taste was left lovingly balanced, still real, but muted and made kinder and more beautiful. They tasted, he thought, so
good
.

*

Pastry-Whipped: Adventures in Sugar by a Dedicated Crumpet Strumpet

by Chef Jules Burns of Buttermilk Bakery

April 19: I’m Sorry (The Story of Fruits in the Kitchen)

I seem to be saying that a lot lately, and mostly, I seem to be apologizing for my awkwardness when it comes to dealing with the outside world. I spend so much time shut up in the back of the bakery with my head in the oven (not in a Sylvia Plath way, I assure you) that when it’s time to come out, I often don’t know how to act like a regular person. At least, this is what ‘Trice, my assistant, tells me all the time. I think I’m so odd, I barely even notice my own strangeness anymore.

This week, I’m apologizing to you all for having shirked my online duties and neglected to post something on this blog last week. Whatever did you do for an entire week without my sugar-induced rambling and sanctimonious,
butterier-than-thou ingredient snobbery?

If you’re reading this, then clearly you survived, for which I am truly grateful. Nevertheless, I’m sorry for my inattention, my neglectfulness, my long silence. As a peace offering this week, I’m giving up my recipe for Linzer tarts. Don’t expect me to turn over the recipe for my secret filling, though… I’m not
that
sorry. I suggest indulging in your favorite jam or compote for the purpose, and visiting Buttermilk if you’re curious to see what I put in there.

I’ve gotten very good at apologies over the years, having often been in the position, due to my awkwardness, my eagerness, my stubbornness or my meanness, to make amends. What I’ve learned, aside from the value of baked goods on these occasions as a kind of delicious wheel-greaser,
is that a good apology is one that simply expresses regret for some bad behavior or lack of insight on my part, and does not ask for forgiveness. A good apology is like a steam valve, letting out some of the pressure, de-escalating the moment, unknotting things. A good apology expects nothing in return. It’s a gift, freely given, and it must be freely accepted in order to work.