Sweet (6 page)

“It seemed more like everyone in here lacked a soul,” Teddy said seriously. He nodded his thanks when ‘Trice slid him a fresh demitasse of espresso. She bent toward the pastry case, humming a bit.

“Oh, thank you, but nothing right now, please,” Teddy said, straightening the front of his suit jacket with a tug of both hands. “I’m really just running in to drop this off for Jules.” ‘Trice cocked her head and looked at him with one eyebrow raised. Teddy stammered. “Chef Burns. Chef Jules. For Pastry Chef Jules Burns. Whatever you call him, okay? I used his recipe, and he gave me a bunch of advice, and I actually didn’t burn it, and I’m a little proud that it tastes like food, so I thought I would share some with him.”

“Ohhhhhh,” ‘Trice sang, slowly standing up from behind the pastry case and raising her penciled eyebrows. The symmetrical piercings there glinted in the light like snake eyes.
“So. A gift from the Grasshopper
, eh?” Teddy reddened and averted his eyes, then picked up the espresso and downed it in one nervous gulp. “Can I have some, too, or is this meant only for His Royal Majesty Pastry Chef Jules James Burns, Boy Genius?”

“Of course you should taste it,” Teddy said, but it barely came out a choked whisper. “Thanks for the coffee,” he rasped. He stuffed a handful of bills into her tip jar and was out the door before ‘Trice could grab his wrist and drag him into the kitchen herself.

“If I on-ly had the noive,” ‘Trice sang under her breath and smiled.

*

“Gift for the Cowardly Lion,” ‘Trice called when she burst into the kitchen and tossed a foil packet in Jules’s direction.

“What?” he asked, mid-stir. ‘Trice was often confusing, but seldom was she completely mystifying. He laid down his wooden spoon and wiped his hands on his apron before beginning to peel back the foil.

“Your insect devotee dropped this off for you just now,” she said. “He was equal parts nervous and proud. He said he made it with your help.”

Jules finished peeling back the foil; inside was a sizeable chunk of bread pudding—yellow, with golden-brown patches on the top, almost perfect-looking in his book—and a little paper cup filled with what he could only assume was bourbon sauce. “Grasshopper?” Jules asked her, forgetting to be embarrassed for once. “Was here?”

‘Trice nodded, snickering a bit. “Can I taste some of that? Grasshopper has nice hands, so I bet he bakes real nice, too.”

“You can have some, yeah. I’m just going to steam it in the oven for a few minutes to reawaken it.” Jules put the hunk of bread pudding into a pan and bookended it with ramekins of water. He covered the whole thing with foil and slid it into the hot oven, then stood, very carefully modulating his voice. “So, nice hands, huh? What does he look like?”

‘Trice looked at him in surprise, before something seemed to click. “You weren’t spying for once?” she asked. “You’re growing up, little guy!” She tousled his hair, jumped back to avoid the swat she knew was coming and breezed out to the front of the shop. “I’ll make us some coffee to go with that!” she shouted. On her way out, Jules swore he heard her whistling the chorus to “If I Only Had a Brain.”

Clearly, she wasn’t about to answer him about Grasshopper. She seemed, in point of fact, to be having entirely too much fun teasing him about it.

‘Trice returned with two demitasse cups of espresso decorated with curls of lemon peel and set them on the steel countertop between them.

“Ready?” she asked, raising her eyebrows at Jules and grabbing a fork. “We’ll do it on the count of three. Let’s see if he’s worthy of you or just a lowly insect.”

“I don’t—” Jules started to protest, but ‘Trice pushed a fork at him and cut him off, loudly counting down.

“One!” she hollered, holding up a finger on her free hand. The other hand, holding the fork, hovered over the dessert. Jules sighed and took up his own fork and waited.

“Two!” she yelled. Jules rolled his eyes and motioned with his fork for her to get on with it.

“Two-point-five!” she said slowly, waggling her fork. “Will he be worthy of the great Chef Burns? Does he have the chops to deserve your cupcakes? Does he, in fact, have the choppers?”

“
‘Trice, I
will
fire you for this,” Jules warned, leaning heavily on the counter.

“You absolutely will not,” she shot back, but sighed and rolled her eyes again. “Okay, you big baby. Three.
Three! Taste
!
”

The two of them sank their forks into the pudding simultaneously. When they clinked against each other, Jules eyed her again with irritation and held his still. ‘Trice pulled her fork out, held it high, and said, “Here’s to you, BB!” With that, she popped the bite into her mouth and made an exaggerated face of delight. “Mmmmmm, good! Chops galore! He can eat my cupcakes any time!” When Jules glared at her, she said, “Taste it, you big chicken-baby. It’s not poisoned, if you’re worried about that. I have learned to detect Iocane powder.”

Just before he could answer, the bells on the shop’s front door jangled. ‘Trice hollered, “That’s my cue!” and was off,
leaving the kitchen door flapping in her wake and Jules holding a drippy bite of the pudding on his fork.

It was, for Jules, one of those moments that slows down so completely
that the dust motes floating in the air seem to freeze and turn into little stars in the sunlight, the sound washes away to background ocean noise and the breath slides out slowly, like a silk ribbon dropping off a package. It was one of
those
moments for Jules. He held the fork near his mouth and watched one glistening, amber drop of bourbon sauce slip and fall, watched it round itself into a perfect ball as it went, watched it splat down onto the top of the pudding, sending little spatters onto the counter and the back of his hand.

It shouldn’t matter this much,
Jules thought and shook his head. He slipped the bite of pudding into his mouth, deliberately unceremonious.

It tasted entirely different from his own version of the recipe. It was heartier, heavier (
the bread,
he thought), and smoky (
the bourbon
), with the faintest hint of orange (
improvising!
Jules thought and blushed just to picture this man tasting and imagining and playing as he went). It was a little rough, a little dry and certainly not very subtle, but it was, he thought, sliding his tongue against the thick, eggy bread—bread this man’s fingers had ripped and pressed—absolutely sexy.

He took one more bite and held it gently in his mouth, pressing with his tongue until the smoky syrup drizzled down the back of his throat, and then, from the walk-in fridge, he pulled milk, eggs and butter. Because he wanted to answer this, to make something that might hit the same notes, or make a harmony, something that would float above the husky roughness in a playful duet, something sweet and light and floral and beautiful.

***

Employees should refrain from displaying photographs, memorabilia, artwork or anything else that might be understood as “personal display” on their desks or in their cubicles.

This was the latest in a long list of emails which, lately, came almost daily from the Office of Company Standards, a new entity which had sprung up in recent months, poking itself into the cracks between cubicles and under the bathroom and breakroom doors like a sidewalk weed. It was, Teddy assumed, the latest result of the frequent decrees issued by what he thought must be the very bored, thumb-twiddling band of company heads whom, Teddy remembered, he’d neither met nor seen in person. Their pictures hung in the entryway, a short line of identical-looking tight smiles plastered to the fronts of identical-looking bald heads, all of which poked out of the necks of identical-looking navy blue suit jackets and stiff white collars. The picture frames, identical mahogany wood frames, looked as if they’d been hung with the help of a ruler and a level. On his way down the hallway to the bathroom that afternoon, Teddy had tapped them all slightly sideways with a fingertip. He’d glanced up and down the hallway first to ensure that no one was looking, of course, but he’d still felt a little thrill at the tipping.

For maximum work efficiency, employees should refrain from spending more than forty-five minutes outside the building for lunch. The last fifteen minutes of one’s break should be used for resituating oneself at one’s desk, so that one can begin working immediately upon the end of one’s lunch break.

Gentlemen Employees, please refrain from wearing ties or pocket squares of a color or pattern that might be understood as “distracting” to clients or other employees. Primary colors and pastels are acceptable choices. Shirts and suits, of course, should be of muted and un-patterned fabrics.

Female Employees, please refrain from wearing patterned or colored stockings, as these have proven to be distracting to both clients and employees. Nude, white or black stockings are acceptable if they have no obvious pattern.

Teddy had, on several occasions since the receipt of that email, daydreamed about showing up to work in a skirt and broad-patterned lace stockings, perhaps with a pair of kitten heels to boot, since no prohibition had been made against such stockings for Gentlemen Employees. Of course, he did not do so.

What he did do that afternoon, still a bit rattled
by the shot of espresso, ‘Trice’s rapier stare and his volley at the hallway picture frames, was draw a tiny cupcake on a yellow sticky note and pin it to the wall of his cubicle. It certainly wasn’t a photograph, and one would be hard-pressed, he thought, to call it “artwork.”

He glanced at it, that tasty little secret, pinned and re-pinned it to the wall, tapped it with his fingers in thought and focused on it like a mandala all afternoon, until he’d memorized the swipes of pen, until, when he closed his eyes, the cupcake danced a jaunty, defiant little dance to the maudlin hum of his computer and the copy machine and the fluorescents overhead.

He drew another cupcake on a sticky note and pressed it to his lapel. Another, he stuck to the left knee of his pants. He stuck two on the computer screen, one on his cheek, one on the pencil cup, one on the stapler (all still carefully placed at right angles), one to the back of his hand. He stuck and stuck, until the whole cubicle fluttered yellow. He was probably on camera, he thought, and removed three from his face, out of dignity.

I quit,
he wrote on another sticky note, then scribbled over the words until nothing was left but a ballpoint-blue smudge. He took another note and wrote it again:
I quit.
This one he pinned next to the cupcake.
What do I quit?
he asked himself silently, tapping the cupcake with the tip of his pen, keeping the rhythm of the copier’s clank-hum from down the corridor.

What, exactly, do I quit?

He didn’t know.

*

Teddy heard the tinkle of bells before he realized where he was. He didn’t remember walking to the bakery after work, hardly felt the weight of his bag on his shoulder, didn’t realize he was pushing on the door until he was inside the tiny shop and felt the door shimmer-slam behind him with a huff of air.
It’s as if
I’m in a trance.
Quickly, he dusted his hand over his suit and face to check that he’d removed the sticky notes and then dropped his briefcase at his usual table.

“I’m back,” he said to ‘Trice, who’d pushed aside her crossword puzzle and lowered the volume on the radio (jazz, he was surprised to hear, Coltrane; he’d imagined ‘Trice’s style to be more scream-and-drum) when she saw him come in.

“Long day, you poor puppy! Coffee for sure; I won’t even hear you say no.” She was already pulling a shot. “Can I talk you into something sweet now? His Royal Chefness was improvising this afternoon after your pudding, you know.”

“Yes,” he said. “I mean, yes, please, to the coffee.”

“Americano,” she said. “And this.” She was gone and back before he had time to blink, a little plate in her hand. Balanced in its center was the most delicate-looking cream puff, powdered lightly with sugar and topped with a sprinkling of tiny, crystal
lized lavender flowers.

“It
is
a cream puff, with some sort of lavender-honey cream filling, but once again, it is not a comment on you. Jules made them this afternoon, and he’s not selling these—he was just playing around in the kitchen and left the whole batch for me, and if I eat them all, I will literally do a Violet Beauregarde. And then you’d be stuck with Avon behind the counter forever. Or worse, Jules. So eat this. Save me. Save yourself.”

Teddy laughed and took the plate and cup in hand. Then he set them back down on the counter and steeled himself with a sigh. “Will you get him to come out here?” he asked her. “I’m dying to hear his evaluation of my bread pudding. He talked me through it. So I’m dying to hear.”

‘Trice looked at him, face stone-still and completely serious, eyes unwavering, for what seemed like forever.

“I’m dying here
.”

“Right, okay. Nervous wordplay. You two are made for each other,” she said. Then she relented and crossed two of her locks over her lip like a long mustache. “Zee gentleman chef eez not een.”

“I’m sorry?”

She dropped her hair and smiled in a way that Teddy thought was meant to be reassuring.

“The guy comes in at four a.m.,” she said. “He’s out of here by two or three. This is
n’t the droid you’re looking for. Elfis has left the building.” Upon seeing the expression on Teddy’s face, a look somewhere between squashed pumpkin and fallen soufflé, she softened. “I’m sorry, Cupcake. He’ll be back tomorrow, though. Meanwhile, I think he actually made these with you in mind, if it helps.” She pushed the cream puff at him for the second time.