A Pinch of Ooh La La (8 page)

“Is that the kind of music your dad plays?”

“It is. He's actually well-known. Lincoln T. Ross?”

His face remained blank.

People either freaked out when I told them who my father was or they responded like Samuel, clueless to the jazz world. (I will confess that I was disappointed, however, because if he didn't know Dad's name, that meant he didn't know jazz.)

“Can't say that I know the name,” he said. “I'm not a big fan of jazz. I don't like it.”

“How can you not like jazz? That's like saying you don't like happiness.”

He grinned. “I don't know. All that tootin' and blaring.” He wiggled his fingers in the air and made loud noises like a player high on acid. “It's too much.”

I sucked in a breath. “I'm trying my best not to judge you right now.”

He laughed. “Thanks.”

I sighed. First red flag of the night and it was a doozy. Of course, whether a guy I dated liked jazz wasn't all that important, except—it was really, really important! I was from a jazz family. I spoke jazz. Hell, as many exes and wives as Dad had brought home, they all shared a love for jazz—well, everyone except Dahlia, who was an oddball anyway. Even Avery, for all his problems, loved jazz. It was as if we could always fall back on our two private languages—art and jazz. During the heady days of money and fame, we went to see Jason Moran at the Village Vanguard. Moran was lost in every song, and whatever he was feeling he sent through his fingers and onto those piano keys and out to us. Avery and I didn't touch or look at each other for the entire set, we were so transfixed. Once we were home, though, without warning, Avery kissed me hard on the mouth, then pushed me over the couch headfirst, and somehow my pants were off and he was behind me and—
Hell, Avery was a liar and a cheat and a lying cheat, but, oh glory, he was so good in
—

Anyway, enough of Avery. There was a red flag on the table I had to deal with. Samuel didn't like jazz. Not the biggest problem, but it was a problem, and I could feel the doubt creeping in as different parts of me bounced off one another.

My heart:
He wants kids and he's great with his mother and he's so cute. Who cares that he doesn't like jazz?

My head:
Slow down! You haven't known this guy for two hours. Give him time. It's just the first date. You can
teach
him about jazz!

My gut:
Date's over. I'm out. This is bullshit. I don't want to date anyone who doesn't like jazz. And I don't trust the whole uptight thing you find so charming. Something seems off, like he's too rigid. Check, please!

I considered my options until he took my hand.

“Hey,” he said. “You okay?”

Suddenly nothing else mattered except the feel of his skin on mine. “I'm fine. Except I have one more question: You don't like smooth jazz, do you?”

“No, not really. That's not a problem, is it? Does your father play smooth jazz?”

I almost choked. “Never. Ever.” I sighed, relieved. “Well, that's a start. Not all jazz is like what you think. Ever hear Bill Evans play ‘All of You' or Miles Davis's version of ‘My Funny Valentine'?”

“Can't say that I have.”

“Good. I'll have to play a few songs for you sometime. Open up your world.”

The waitress appeared with the dessert menu. Bucciolio's was perfectly fine for dinner, but not the best when it came to desserts. I didn't know their pastry chef, but he or she tended to pair odd ingredients for the sake of surprising the patrons and not from any sense of taste.

“I wouldn't mind sharing something,” Samuel said, looking over the menu.

“How would you feel about a pear tart served with crème fraîche?”

“Sounds good, but I don't see it listed.”

I looked at him from over the top of my menu and smiled. “It's not.”

In the Middle of a Kiss

I
turned on the lights at Scratch, and my bakery was instantly flooded with a soft glow, as if lit by candles. It was after eight, and even though the rooms were empty and silent, I liked to think that the wood tables and floral bouquets in mason jars helped the place emanate warmth and comfort.

Samuel walked around taking everything in—the mahogany bar and exposed brick behind the register, the display cases and the artwork. Scratch was my second home, and it meant a lot that I'd brought him there. “This is nice, Abbey. Very nice. It has an old-timey vibe, but it's hip, too. I like it.”

“Thanks.” I walked behind the counter, where we kept the stereo, and found the song I wanted. I hit “play” and a melancholy trumpet filled the bakery. I raised my finger in the air as I walked back toward Samuel. “That,” I said, “is Miles Davis. To make a horn sound like that? My brother says the trumpet has to have voice.” I closed my eyes briefly. “Hear the tenderness? It's like being wrapped in velvet.” I took in a breath; then, remembering
myself, I opened my eyes and saw Samuel staring. Embarrassed, I went for my apron. “Coffee?”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

•   •   •

T
he only good thing to come from my breakup with Avery was that it helped me to afford pastry school and the down payment for Scratch. Sales for Avery's original artwork skyrocketed once everyone realized he was never coming back from Mexico, or wherever the hell he was hiding. The story of Avery Brooks Gone Missing added to his notoriety, which added to the value of his
original
work. I owned several of his paintings by then, all gifts and never shown. Can you say
ka-ching
? I took every last piece to his manager and told him I wanted top dollar. Not a month later, what I called my Avery's Artwork Sucks Fund was born. I had enough money to afford a house, or a year of travel around the globe, or both. I chose instead to move out of our loft and rent a studio apartment in a so-so area of Oakland. Thanks to the Fund, I had enough money in the bank to lie on my couch for years, and I was so depressed, I planned to do just that.

One day I happened to watch a cooking show because I was too tired to pick up the remote and change the channel. I watched a woman bake dinner rolls. Seems simple now, but back then I was fascinated.
That's yeast?
What?! Bendrix's mother, who'd passed only a year before, had made everything from scratch, including dinner rolls and buttermilk biscuits and cinnamon buns dripping with icing, but I'd never actually watched her make anything. In her honor, I copied the recipe, got off my butt, and went to the store to purchase ingredients. My rolls came out like rocks, surely hard enough to knock someone unconscious, but I hadn't felt as excited about anything in years. Baking gave me that old feeling I'd had when Bendrix and I were graffiti artists.
How to describe it . . . ?
Joy
might be one word. There was the added bonus that baking was something I'd found for myself and had nothing to do with Avery, or his career or his art. I began teaching myself to bake—
everything
. All too soon I was in charge of baking my family's birthday cakes and all other treats and desserts. A year later, I decided to attend pastry school.

I gave Samuel an edited version of my story. Much edited. When he asked how I became interested in baking, I took a sip of the cappuccino I'd made and told him that I'd discovered I had a talent for it and left it at that.

We headed to the kitchen. I brought out one of the chairs from my office for him to use while I took out the tray of single-serving tart crusts and grabbed a handful of sliced pears. After arranging the pears, I coated the tart with butter, sugar, and cinnamon. As I worked, I told him about Art Tatum, whose song “In the Middle of a Kiss” was now playing.

“You really know a lot about jazz.”

“My dad isn't just any old musician; he's kind of a legend.” I sounded irritated.

“I think I've heard of him, now that I think about it, but I don't know his music.” I could tell he was scrabbling, which irritated me more. I didn't like that he'd lie just to be polite, especially when it really didn't matter.

“Seriously. Don't worry about it.” But I could still hear the tightness in my voice.

I shaved cinnamon on top of the tart, my movements less fluid than before. The mood between us grew solemn. I'd been irritated with him for maybe a second, but now I was angry with myself for coming across like I was looking down on him and for basically ruining what had been such a pleasant evening. I could already see myself telling the wives and Bendrix how I'd ruined the date with my mood and how the night took a turn
for the worse. I saw myself in the wives' room at Dad's house, clutching a pillow to my chest as I whined,
He was so handsome and interesting. He was just the kind of guy I'm looking for. He wanted kids! And I could tell he was trustworthy and decent and sexy. And I blew it! I came off like some uppity jazz fanatic who looks down on people who don't listen to jazz!
And then Bendrix's reply:
You are an uppity jazz fanatic who looks down on people who don't listen to jazz.

I knew it was my responsibility to turn the tide, to say something—anything—that would put Samuel and me back on the road to romance, but I couldn't think of anything and continued torturing the tarts. I kept moving, happy for an excuse not to look at him. Art Tatum, sounding like he was banging on the piano now, was the only sound in the bakery.

I was so intent on the tarts, I hadn't noticed that Samuel was on his feet.
Here we go,
I thought. I waited for an excuse about why he had to leave—
Hey, listen, my mother just texted me and I have to bolt. Catch you another time?
Whatever. Fine. I'd finish the tarts and take them to my house and eat them with Carmen. Men were jerks. Men sucked. Just because I sounded a little annoyed, I was suddenly too much to deal with or whatever he thought. He was probably looking for some placid woman who he believed was born to serve him, a woman who had his dinner ready and waiting as soon as he was home from work. Well, that wasn't me. I had a business to run. I had opinions, and, yes, damn it, I had mood swings.
It's called being alive, Mr. Howard. . . .

He stepped closer. I felt my heart skip when he stood behind me. I stopped all my fluttering about as soon as I felt his hand on top of my hand. I felt like a character in a nineteenth-century novel where handholding was as sexually charged as a full-blown kiss. He brought his face so close to mine, I could feel his breath
against my cheek and his chest touch my back ever so lightly. I inhaled the scent of his aftershave. He didn't say a word, just laced his long fingers through mine and held on. “I think this music is working on me. Who did you say this was?”

I snorted, unladylike and loud: the sound of relief. “Art Tatum.”

I turned and he touched his nose to mine and we kissed. I kept my hands in the air so I wouldn't get flour all over him—not that he seemed to care. I was soon falling back against the counter. “The tarts.” I laughed.

He smiled and pulled away. “I want to tell you something.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Try not to be so negative, Abbey.”

“You're right.” I grabbed a towel and wiped my hands. “So?”

“Well.” He picked up a ladle and positioned it next to one of the tart pans. He then dug his hands in his pockets. “I just want to tell you what a nice time I'm having tonight. I love what you've done with this bakery and that you own your business. You're smart, bright, and like I said, I feel relaxed around you and you seem like a very together woman.”

I decided to help him along: “Buuut . . .”

“But . . . nothing. I was going to say, I'd love to see you again.”

I felt the crease in my eyebrows collapse. “Really?”

“Yeah. Would you want to see me again?” I watched his face for some clue that he was joking with me. Then he cut his gaze as if my answer might be anything other than an emphatic yes, and looked down at the ladle and moved it again with his thumb so that it was even with one of the tarts. It was then I remembered the boyish nerd in him. He'd mentioned during dinner that his parents were so strict, so concerned with his doing well and getting into the college of his choice, that he hadn't been allowed
to date much. He'd laughed it off when he saw the surprise on my face, and the subject was dropped. I imagined that he'd been forced to wait so long to date that he was a nervous wreck around girls and so unsure of himself that by the time he turned sixteen he hadn't wanted to bother; he was too busy by then with his studies. I saw him neatly dressed every day, always the first to raise his hand in class, always in the front row. While other kids were making out and doing drugs, getting pregnant and going to juvie or zoning out on all the things teenagers zoned out on, Samuel was on the debate team and played chess and kept up with his studies. He had one goal in life: get the hell out of Alameda High and make something of himself. How else did you get into Stanford Law? How else was it that here was this man who seemed to have it all together yet was actually nervous about asking me out on a second date?

I touched the lapel of his jacket and pulled him close. “Of course I'll go out with you again.”

We kissed, and I found my hands reaching up to hold either side of his face. I heard Shirley Horn singing “My Heart Stood Still,” in her slow, breathy voice. Perfect.

•   •   •

N
ot thirty minutes later we sat at the counter taking our first bites of the warm pear tart. He wasn't a big fan of jazz, but he had confessed to having a sweet tooth. I fed him another mouthful and he chewed slowly. I felt dazed as I looked into his eyes. Now that we'd kissed, we couldn't stop touching each other. We'd talked enough. We never wanted to talk again. In fact, after a few more bites I was staring at his lips as they moved closer and closer to mine.

I'm not sure how I ended up off the barstool and on my feet, but I no longer cared who heard me moan; I no longer cared that I was grabbing hold of Samuel's back.

“Four years . . .”

“What's that?”

I mumbled a breathless “Nothing,” then grabbed him by the collar and forced him to continue kissing me; my body was a wild bucking horse let out of the gate. My leg hooked around his thigh. Samuel took the move for the hint that it was and, after pausing to catch his breath, ran his finger down the length of my throat in a singular journey that ended at the tip of my collarbone.

His expression grew stark.

“What?” I whispered.

He tilted his head slightly, then took both my hands and pulled my arms out wide like a man finally taking control of his assailant. My chest jutted forward as his knee separated my legs and he pressed his body into mine with what felt like everything he had, harder and harder, while his lips kissed me everywhere—my face, my neck, back to my face again.

Four years!
Now I wondered what the hell I'd been waiting for and let my body relax. I closed my eyes and rammed my tongue into his mouth.
The dry season ends right now. Tonight. Right here!
I heard him moan loudly as he cupped his hand over my breast. And then . . .

Then . . .

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No hands pinning me down. No lips pressing against mine. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. I then shot my head from left to right.
“Samuel?”

I hoisted myself slowly up, only to see Carmen of all people staring back at me. She was breathing heavily and wielding a rolling pin over her shoulder like a batter at home plate.

“Carmen?”

“Are you okay?”

“Am I okay? Wha—?”

Finally, I saw Samuel standing off to the side of the bar, holding his hand to the back of his head while raising the other toward my sister as if to ward her off.

When he stepped forward, Carmen braced herself to take yet another swing. “Get back! You want some more of this, huh? I'm calling the police on yo' ass! You mess with my sister, and you mess with me! You best believe that shit!” If she sounded stilted, it was because her only knowledge of “street life” came from watching episodes of
The Wire
.

Samuel's eyes drooped. “I feel sick.”

“Oh my God! Carmen, what did you do?”

She ignored me and moved closer to Samuel with her weapon, and trust me, we used professional pins made from marble, so depending on how you were holding them, they most certainly could be used as weapons.

I rushed over to Samuel. “Are you hurt?”

His head lolled one way, then the other. “I think I need to sit down.”

“You know this guy?” Carmen asked.

“Of course I do!”

“But I thought he was trying to attack you!”

Samuel wobbled off to his left as though hoping to find footing on a sinking ship. “Hardly,” he said.

“You should sit down.” I took him by the elbow and led him to the nearest table. His head circled in a wide arc and he moaned.

“Carmen, look what you've done!”

“I barely hit him! He's exaggerating!”

Samuel looked up from where he sat while rubbing his head. “She hit me more than once. I think I feel something on the back of my head.” I stood behind him and began searching for injuries. It wasn't long before I saw a small bruise about the size of a quarter. I immediately brought my hand to my mouth.

“I thought he was attacking you!” Carmen whined.

“Attacking me? Carmen, he's my date!”

She blinked. “Since when do you go on dates? Oh, is he from online?”

“What does it matter? Why are you even here? I thought we were meeting at my house.”

“I went there first, but you were taking so long I figured you'd be here.”