Macarons at Midnight (14 page)

“I feel like I’m heading for a drug deal,” Tristan hissed. “Not getting my tea.”

“Your tea?” Henry asked teasingly.

“Dinner.” Tristan rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Grinning, Henry pressed his palm flat against Tristan’s lower back and guided him through to the small, pale pink waiting room. There were three huge boards on the wall, white with red writing that clashed with the pink décor.

“So, what’s good?” Tristan asked as they waited in line behind a group of college kids and a bedraggled-looking man in a pinstripe suit.

“Everything,” Henry said emphatically. But he talked Tristan through the menu, pointing out his own favorite dishes.

The woman who took their order, translating it onto a scrap of paper in spidery
hanzi
, wore her blue-black hair scraped back from her face in a severe bun, with an oversized Carrie Underwood T-shirt and a pair of hot pink Crocs. They waited next to an unnaturally green plastic potted plant, and Henry smiled to himself at the familiar way Tristan groped his ass absentmindedly. It didn’t take long for their order to be called, and Tristan seemed surprised at the size of the huge white bag that was handed over.

They walked slowly back through the Village to Tristan’s place. He felt like a total sap, but Henry wished Tristan lived further away so they could drag out the walk home together.

“Are you sure you won’t come in? I’ve got enough for us both. Maybe Millie too.” He made a show of hefting the huge bag.

“Maybe another time,” Henry said. He looked up at Tristan’s building and smiled. Dinner had been way too short, but he was about to pass out. “I need to get some sleep tonight, and I’ve got a feeling if I come up, sleeping won’t be on the agenda.”

He loved watching Tristan’s creamy-pale cheeks flush with color, and leaned in to press his lips to one.

“Another time, then,” Tristan said. Henry nodded. “When will I see you again?” he asked in a rush.

“Whenever you like.” Henry wanted to see Tristan all the time. If he weren’t dead on his feet, he’d have jumped at the offer of dinner.

“I’m free on Sunday.”

On Sundays, Henry often got summoned to brunch or cocktails with his parents. He declined more often than he accepted—it really wasn’t his scene—but there was always the possibility they would just send a car and expect him to show up.

Fuck it.

“Sunday sounds great. How about”—Henry reached up and brushed Tristan’s silky fair hair back from his face—“I come over with some ingredients after I get the bakery opened up and you can show me how to make propah English biscuits.”

“That was your worst attempt at my accent yet. Absolutely pathetic.” Tristan snorted. “You may as well give up. You’re never going to get it.”

“It was amazing. You just don’t understand my theatrical genius. So, biscuits, England style?”

“Henry… I burn toast. I can’t boil an egg. I have trouble heating water without something going disastrously wrong.”

Henry laughed, feeling his face crease into a genuine smile. “Okay. I’ll cook, you can watch. Or I could teach you? I’m an excellent teacher.”

“You could try,” Tristan said doubtfully.

“I’ll talk to you soon.” He reached out and touched Tristan’s arm again, and then, when Tristan didn’t seem to mind, leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips. “And I’ll see you on Sunday.”

“Great,” Tristan said. He looked a little dazed, and visibly shook himself before turning and walking up to the front door of his building. Henry watched for a moment, then headed back down the street.

O
N
F
RIDAY
afternoon, he met Trixie in Washington Square Park with her Boston terrier, Dolores, whom she called Lolly for short. Trixie had wanted to meet in Central Park, near the Met, which was closer for her. Henry had bitched that she never came down to his neck of the woods, and she’d relented.

There was a breeze that day that brought the temperature down enough for him to be able to bear being outside in the barely wavering early October heat. Henry wore khaki shorts and a pale blue shirt rolled to his elbows, and Wayfarers on his face to take the edge off the sun’s glare. For dog walking, Trixie had chosen a mint-colored tailored dress, a light cardigan, and wedges. She’d pulled her glossy dark hair into an intricate knot at the nape of her neck, and one of her typical scarves was wrapped around her head and flowing out behind her. Henry wondered if she even owned a pair of yoga pants, or maybe a nice warm-up suit. Some running shoes? He doubted it.

“So, how are things with you?” Trixie asked as Dolores sniffed at a bush that obviously had caught her notice.

“Good,” he said. He hadn’t talked to his sister nearly as much since Tristan had waltzed into his life. He could tell she was a little annoyed but trying to hide it. Henry wondered if a dinner date with just the two of them and maybe a new Louis Vuitton would work to soothe her. Assuming there even was one she didn’t already have.

“And the bakery?” Henry hadn’t been imagining it. There was a tiny bit of tightness in her voice.

“I’ve just hired a new front-of-house person. Her name’s Rose.”

“Rose,” Trixie mused. “She’s either an octogenarian who wants to be your grandmother, a Jewish mother of six, or some hipster kid from NYU.”

Henry laughed and pushed Trixie’s shoulder, just gently. “None of the above. Well, actually….”

“Wait, wait. I’m going with option three.”

Rose had a nose ring and waist-length dreadlocks she tied into a knot on the top of her head. One whole arm was covered with tattoos, and she had more rings than she had fingers. She’d had several stacked one on top of the other the day Henry met her. But she’d been impeccably dressed when she’d turned up for the interview, had good experience, and wanted to move into catering management. Henry thought if he decided to expand that area of his business, doing more events and parties and weddings, Rose could actually be an asset. He’d hired her on the spot. After a couple of days, it felt like she’d been there forever.

“She’s not at NYU,” Henry said. “And I think if you called her a hipster, she’d punch you.”

“I love being right,” Trixie said with a little self-satisfied sigh. “What about your love life? Dating anyone?” Trixie already knew that answer. Henry lied anyway.

“No.”

“That means yes. Tell me everything.”

Trixie looped her arm through Henry’s and let Lolly lead them through the park, sniffing the ground and wagging her tail. Trixie had always been very interested in Henry’s happiness, according to her, at least, and she took the opportunity to grill him about his love life as often as possible. Sometimes he thought she might take a little
too
much interest in his love life. It was probably easier than thinking about her own.

“Trix,” Henry sighed, trying to get her to back off. No dice. She wasn’t about to let this one go. The fingernails digging into Henry’s arm told him as much.

“Like ripping off a Band-Aid,” she said comfortingly. “Tell me everything.”

“His name is Tristan, he’s from England, and he works in advertising,” Henry said in a rush. “He’s very good-looking and his accent is adorable. I like being around him, and I’m seeing him again on Sunday.”

“There.” Trixie patted his arm gently. “Isn’t that better now?”

He laughed, but it wasn’t funny. Just the thought of Trixie meddling in this one made his heart palpitate. She was sweet but intense. Henry wasn’t sure Tristan was ready for his sister’s brand of intense. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if he was. “If you say so. Tell me what’s going on with you.”

“Oh, you know.” She waved one hand demonstratively. “The usual.”

Henry did know, and nodded sympathetically, making humming noises in the right places as she filled him in on all that was important on the Upper East Side. Boyfriend of the moment, fabulous trips with fabulous people to places where everyone was, you got it, fabulous. It all seemed so shallow, but apparently it made Trixie happy. To a point, at least. Every time he listened to one of her chattering, one-sided conversations, he got a little bit more grateful he was as out of that loop as possible. It annoyed his mother and sister both, but he wasn’t going to change his mind anytime soon. He’d go to functions when he absolutely had to, show up at dinner when they asked, and absolutely never allow his name to turn up in the gossip rags.

Trixie, however, was of course still right in the thick of it. Although she moaned and groaned about needing a break, Henry was starting to think she actually liked seeing her name in the society pages. It was too bad. Almost everything that was written about her was speculation and bullshit.

“Is that….” Henry pointed to a man wearing a black polo shirt and dark jeans, slightly overweight and holding a long-lens camera.

“Ugh,” Trixie said. “Yeah. Bastards.”

It was strange to think his sister was being stalked by paparazzi, and Henry immediately switched to her other side to try to mask her the best he could.

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Not really,” she said. “Ever since I broke up with Rocco, they’ve been all over the both of us.”

Rocco was the latest macho asshole ex-boyfriend who had called Henry “fag” at every opportunity, which thankfully wasn’t many. He’d done a lot of side-eyeing Henry’s ass when he wore the tightest jeans he owned to brunch one Sunday. He was also a billionaire heir to some shipping line. Henry had pegged the guy as a closet case within a few hours of meeting him and hadn’t exactly been a shrinking violet with this opinion. It had caused tension between him and Trixie for a while, especially when it looked like they were about to get engaged.

Trixie was everything a guy like Rocco wanted—she was pretty and well educated, not likely to ever have a real job, but intelligent enough to be able to hold her own in conversations about politics and world events. She was borderline anorexic, which was pretty much all anyone cared about, as far as Henry could tell. He blamed her friends for the obsession Trixie seemed to have about her looks. They, too, seemed to hop from manicure appointment to hair appointment to cocktails at the Four Seasons and purging afterward without anything meaningful to fill their lives. He hated it for his sister, but at the same time, doubted she’d ever change. Henry wasn’t going to try to force her.

A
FEW
days later, the pictures of Henry, Trixie, and Lolly appeared in the
Daily News
. Henry only knew because Trixie had a copy couriered to him, the pages folded back to the right page so he couldn’t miss it.

He scanned the first few lines of the article, then threw it into the trash in disgust. They had so little information about Henry to go on that they thought he was her
boyfriend
.
He couldn’t wait to explain that to his mother. Fantastic.

A favorite from across the pond,

and one of Tristan’s favorites as well :)

• 1¾ cups unsalted butter
  
• 1¾ cups fine sugar
  
• 1¾ cups plain flour
  
• 3½ tablespoons cornstarch
  
• Seedless raspberry jam (thicker is better)
  

Sift flour and cornstarch together. Cream the butter and sugar together until pale and fluffy, then stir in flour and cornstarch to form a dough, adding more flour if necessary. Chill the dough in plastic wrap for 12 minutes, then roll out to about 5 mm thick (I find it easier to do this between two sheets of plastic wrap or greaseproof baking paper).

Cut out twelve rounds (about 2½ inch diameter). Then cut a smaller heart shape (or circle if you can’t find a cutter) in the center, about 1 inch in size. Reroll dough if needed using the scraps to make twelve more 2½-inch rounds.

Bake for 8 to 10 minutes at 350°F, then cool on a wire rack. When cooled, sandwich together with a little bit of warmed jam and sprinkle with a bit of sugar, if you like.

O
N
S
UNDAY
, Henry arrived at Tristan’s townhouse, arms full of baking ingredients. He’d probably gone overboard…. Okay, he
had
gone overboard. It was probably a good idea to buy everything, anyway. He didn’t know what Tristan kept in his pantry—most likely not a lot, since he seemed to live on takeout.