A Pinch of Ooh La La (15 page)

“I can't wait to try them.” She hummed a merry tune, then paused in a way that said something was on her mind. She smiled, head tilted. “I'm sure we must seem peculiar to you with our beliefs, Abbey, but this is a special family for a reason. The girls graduated from their nursing program top of their class. And we are all so very proud of Samuel.” She stepped closer and her voice
dropped. “I wanted to tell you that we know about your family. Samuel told us you come from a broken home and your father lives a musician's lifestyle, and I just wanted you to know that that's okay. I know Samuel thinks highly of you. He doesn't bring female friends home to meet the family, so you must be very important to him. But I want you to understand that we have strong beliefs about marriage and commitment. If you two continue on this journey, you'll have to accept that.” She stopped short. “Nothing against your family. I only mean . . . you see . . . the prophet wants us to raise kids in a two-parent household. And to be respectful and urge them to be the best they can be. In our church, all the children are in the top of their classes. Isn't that amazing? Every one. This is what we would want for you and Samuel—if I don't speak out of turn. But I can see how much he cares for you.”

Once her speech was over, her face brightened and I could see her shifting back to fairy-godmother mode. She picked up the plates and began humming.

I considered telling her that my family was anything but “broken.” I thought of telling her that the prophet could kiss my relatively flat ass. But I was tongue-tied and unsure of what to do, and Phyllis was already walking away. “Dessert is ready!”

You Don't Know Me

I
told Bendrix about dinner with the Howards the next morning. I told him all about the silent eating and that after dessert we sat in the living room watching TV sitcoms without much conversation, except for Samuel and Mr. Howard, who briefly talked baseball, another story in itself.

We were in the kitchen at Scratch. Bendrix had stopped by before going in to the hospital. He sat in a chair I'd brought from my office, eating a brioche and drinking espresso while I regaled him with stories.

Rows of cupcakes lined several large baking sheets. I squeezed the pastry bag I was using and crowned each cupcake with a thick layer of ganache. The twist with these particular cupcakes was that I'd made a well in the center when baking them, then used a variety of pastry tips to make the ganache look as if it were rising from the middle in several swirls of rich chocolate. We called the cupcakes the Cannonball Adderleys, and they were heaven to any and all chocolate lovers.

I squeezed the pastry bag just so and watched the ganache ooze from the tip. “And his mom was going on about how if we have children, they have to be successful. It's part of their religion or something. She comes across like this perfect mother—except she locks her kids in the closet. Do they expect me to stay at home like she did? I want to stay home, but I want to be here at the bakery, too. I can do both; I'll just cut down on my hours.”

Bendrix took his time with his espresso. “Jumping ahead, aren't you?”

“She brought up children, not me.”

“Did you talk to Samuel about any of this?”

“Not really. He was happy with how things went.”

“You still have to let him know how you feel and”—Bendrix shook his head as though flabbergasted—“share your thoughts. I think that's how relationships work. I think I read it somewhere.”

“I didn't even tell you the worst of it. Mr. Howard said my génoise was too rich! Can you believe that? My génoise is
not
too rich. It's supposed to be rich and moist and chocolaty. It's a génoise, for goodness' sake.” I stopped what I was doing and pointed my finger into the table. “And you know what that man had the nerve to do? He brought out a plate of boxed cookies and ate cookies instead of my génoise. Right in front of me! And of course the evil sisters wanted cookies after they saw him. Mind you, I was trained at the École Nationale Supérieure de Pâtisserie in France—”

“That's a mouthful.”

“—by none other than Madame Pauline, and my génoise is not too rich. My génoise is perfection.”

“I'd have to agree with you there. It's incredible.”

“Of course it is!”

“So what happened when you went home? What did Samuel think?”

I quieted when Beth walked in and took down a tray of muffins. She was getting the front of the bakery ready, and I didn't dare speak until she was gone. I waited until I could hear her footsteps fade.

“He was in a
mood
.”

“What kind of mood?”

“You know.”

Bendrix laughed. “You mean he brought out the rope?”

“It's not funny.”

He laughed some more.

“Bendrix.”
I glowered, then went back to making swirls.

“I'm sorry.” He caught his breath and waited before speaking. “Abbey, you need to start talking to him. You do. You tell me everything, but you're in the relationship with him. Talk to him.”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. It's just easier to leave things alone. He's happy. And I'm happy, too. I just need to let off steam.”

His phone vibrated. He grinned when he saw the message. “Speaking of letting off steam. Check it out.”

I set my pastry bag aside and stood behind him.

On the screen a man flexed his muscles in front of a mirror. His nipples stood erect underneath an extra-tight mesh shirt. His hair was dyed blond even though he looked of an ethnicity where he should have left the color alone. His jawline was scary sharp. “Who's that?”

“
That
is Manuel. He's a personal trainer and we have a date later tonight.”

“He looks like a dum-dum.”

“He's not that bad. I'm thinking about bringing him to the ballet next month.” Rita and Doug had given tickets to any
family member who wanted to attend the annual fund-raiser and benefit for the Oakland Ballet.

I looked at Manuel. “Now you're the dum-dum.”

“Why shouldn't I invite him?” Bendrix asked. “I want to see what he looks like all dressed up.”

“What do you have in common with him?”

He raised a brow. “Do I need to have something in common?”

I went back to my cupcakes.

Beth walked in and Bendrix held up the picture. “Take a look.”

“New boyfriend?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

She headed to the rack of muffins and traded the empty trays for a tray of fruit Danishes and almond croissants. “I'm pretty sure I saw your ex the other day,” she said to Bendrix. “He was walking down Piedmont.” She started back to the front of the bakery. “What was his name again?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Anthony,” I said. I reveled in an excuse to say the name I was never to speak again. “His name is Anthony Wilson!” I called out. “He was in Haiti doing volunteer work. But now he's back.”

I returned my gaze to Bendrix, and he glared, mouth tight.

“She asked.” I shrugged.

•   •   •

A
t home that night, I wanted nothing more than to order pizza, open a beer, and watch a movie. Samuel was spending all his time with me, and he was already at the house by the time I made it home that evening. I'd been thinking off and on throughout the day about Bendrix's suggestion that Samuel and I talk. We'd been dating for almost a year, but when I thought about it, we never really
talked
talked. He told me about his cases and we discussed my customers and we watched TV together,
but serious talks were growing few and far between. Why, for instance, was Samuel wasting his money paying rent on an apartment he never used? Why hadn't he told me about the prophet before yesterday? And now that I thought about it, he was on his laptop too often. And why were his sisters so evil? I could go on. Not that I wanted to point fingers, but that was the purpose of talking, right? He could let loose on whatever bothered him about me, too.

By the time I made it home, I wasn't so sure why I'd been so reluctant to talk in the first place. Samuel was on the couch with his laptop by his side and didn't look up when he greeted me. I cut him some slack. How was he to know the laptop bugged me if I never brought it up?

Carmen was watching TV. “Hey,” she said.

Jake popped up from the couch. “Hey, Abbey, don't look so crabby. Your cakes? They ain't shabby. Ahhhhh!”

“Hi, Jake.”

Samuel started to get up, but I told him not to bother and went to him instead. I moved his laptop to the end table and plopped down next to him. When I asked Carmen and Jake to what we owed the pleasure of their visit, Carmen explained that they were coming from seeing friends and thought they'd stop by. She had a few ideas to run by Samuel. Spring semester had started, but she was concerned that her grades from her previous semester—two As and two Bs—would hurt her in the long run, and they were discussing her signing up for extracurricular activities like joining the campus newspaper or running for an office.

Considering her miscarriage and all the stress of last semester, I thought two As and a couple of Bs sounded great, but I left it alone. I did wonder aloud, though, if writing for the school paper or running for student government, plus classes
and her internship, would be too much. That's when Samuel said, “Everyone has a solid GPA these days. Carmen has to show she's well rounded. Besides, the girl is smart and going places. Right, Car?”

“That's right.” Carmen smiled.

Samuel's influence was definitely rubbing off, and I had to admit that I liked seeing her growing more confident.

Jake leaned over and kissed her. “My girl is smart and she looks good whether she's in jeans or a suit. Proud of you, babe.”

“Thanks, Jakey.”

I noticed Samuel stiffening. Jake had long since charmed me, but not so much Samuel. It didn't help matters when Jake said, “You guys got anything to eat?”

“Got any money?” Samuel retorted.

“Ahhhhh!”

“I'm in the mood for pizza,” I said.

“Sounds fine with me,” said Samuel.

“Me, too,” said Jake. “Pizza has all the nutrients I need.”

Carmen poked him with her elbow. “We were actually about to leave.”

Samuel said, “Stay if you want. May as well—pizza for all.”

“And beer,” I added. “And a movie. I just want to chill.”

“How did it go meeting the family?” Carmen asked.

Samuel put his arm around me. “Abbey wowed them, of course. My mom already called me to say how much she liked her.”

“She did?”

“She called today at the office. Said she thinks you're
amazing
, and she loved your desserts.”

“I'm glad someone did,” I muttered.

Samuel pulled me closer. “Don't be like that. Dad just likes the basics.”

He planted a kiss on my cheek, but I kept my arms firmly at my sides. I was resolved to have that talk.

•   •   •

L
ater in bed that night, I couldn't quite figure out how to start the Talk, which was what it had become in my head. My position on the bed, however, far enough away from Samuel that I threatened to fall off, surely signaled that something was on my mind, and eventually he did notice that I wasn't in my usual spot, right by his side.

“You all right?”

“I'm fine.”

“You don't sound fine. Why are you so far away?” He closed his laptop and set it aside. I did the same with the book I'd been pretending to read. It was now or never, I thought, and started by telling him that I'd felt uncomfortable during dinner and that he should have told me about the prophet sooner. I told him that his sisters had been rude and mentioned a few of the things his mom had brought up in the kitchen. It seemed the more I talked, the more Samuel withdrew. I couldn't blame him. Listening to myself ramble, I realized the problem with holding off on having a talk: If you didn't discuss real issues often enough, you risked unleashing a disaster, unleashing your inner Aunt Nag.

Poor Samuel sat next to me looking stunned. After what felt like several minutes he said, “I was afraid to tell you about the prophet sooner because I knew it would scare you.”

“But that's actually my point, Samuel. I want us to be able to talk about anything.”

He folded his arms and fell silent, then said, “The prophet means a lot to my parents. You're only hearing bits and pieces of his teachings, so try not to judge. I don't agree with everything the man says, but I do agree with what my mother told you. I want my kids to be successful and I'll be ready to do
anything to help them achieve that success. Any parent would want that.”

Angry and irritated, he rolled onto his side.

I didn't want to give up, though. “If we're going to be close, you have to talk to me. And I have to talk to you.”

I let my gaze fall to the scar on his back, shaped like a half square. I touched it now and felt him wince. If we loved each other, we needed to talk. I said, “Does the prophet teach that it's okay to hit children?”

Silence.

“The scar, Samuel, is that from your dad?”

He rolled onto his back. “It is, Abbey. And you know, I'm starting to regret ever telling you about any of that.”

“Have you ever talked to anyone about what happened? Like a professional?”

He sat up with a loud sigh. “Why are you always putting this in my face?”

“What do you mean? We talked about it in Yountville and that's about it. I just met your parents, so it's kind of on my mind.”

“If I ever feel the need to talk to someone, I will. Until then, you need to drop this. My parents were nice to you.” He started to turn on his side but changed his mind. “Maybe they took the teachings too far, but you have to look at the results: I didn't end up on drugs, in jail, or on the streets. No, I'm the opposite of all that. If anything, I owe them. And you see how proud they are of me.”

“You guys hardly talked. You hardly have a relationship.”

“That's just the way it is.”

“Samuel, you have to trust me. I just want us to be able to talk.”

“I
knew
you wouldn't like them.”

“I never said that.”

“You're implying it. My parents are good people. Hardworking. Still married, and they raised me the best they knew how. I know you're used to loud and crazy, and people telling jokes over dinner and people coming and going, but everyone wasn't raised the same way as you. Hell, no one was raised like you were. And your family is far from perfect. At least Father takes responsibility for the children he brought into the world.”

“That's not fair. My dad takes responsibility and you know it.” Now it was my turn to roll onto my side in a huff.

So much for talking. Jerk. I never wanted to talk to him again. If he wanted to stay closed off and shut down and live behind his stupid computer—fine with me. Asshole.

After a few moments of seething, I felt him give me a shake. “Abbey.” Getting no response, he shook me again.
“Aaabbeeey,”
he sang.
“Abbey Lincoln.”
I'd never heard him sing like this before and felt myself give a little.

“What?”

“Sit up so I can see you. Please?”

I sat up. I refused to look at him, though.

“The point of meeting each other's families is to move forward. I wanted you to meet my parents to see what they're like because I wanted you to get a sense of why I am the way I am. One of the teachings from the prophet I do appreciate is that cohabitation breeds problems. If you love someone, you love them enough to marry without any need to practice beforehand. I like that teaching. You love someone and you're in it for life, or you don't. I didn't mean to start coming over so much. I have to admit I don't feel comfortable living together.”