Macarons at Midnight (21 page)

Once both the crust and filling are cooled, spread half of the filling inside crust. Slice the bananas and layer on top of filling. Pour remaining half of filling over bananas, spreading evenly. Whip the cream with the confectioners’ sugar and vanilla and spread on top of toffee filling and bananas.

Easy as pie!

T
RISTAN
SIGHED
and squinted, leaning in to better peer at his computer screen. He was fiddling with backgrounds in InDesign, something he normally hated doing, but that day it was the perfect, mindless task.

His mind kept wandering, all the way back uptown through the streets of Soho, right into the West Village and into Henry’s bedroom. There, his imagination took over, filling his mind’s eye with the sight of Henry sprawled naked on expensive sheets. Or Henry naked, water sluicing over his gorgeous, even skin. Or Henry in the kitchen, naked but for an apron, flipping pancakes on a hot griddle.

Tristan had been forced to explain about the pancakes his mum made every year on Shrove Tuesday—Pancake Day, for most of Britain—which were more akin to thin, papery French crepes than the thick breakfast treats that were served on this side of the Atlantic. At home, they ate pancakes liberally doused in lemon juice and sprinkled with sugar. Henry covered his with butter and strawberries. Tristan wasn’t yet sure which version he liked better.

The task at hand meant moving images by impossible margins and changing colors by the tiniest variation of hue, as if the consumer would absolutely not buy the damn brand of glassware unless his blue was the absolute perfect shade. That was absolute rubbish, and everyone knew it, but the client got what the client wanted, and what they wanted was for Tristan to develop a permanent squint.

“Hey, Tristan.” A smooth, familiar voice disrupted his work.

“I’m busy, Jordan,” he said, his voice monotone and expression grim.

“Didn’t you hear?” he continued, ignoring Tristan’s protests. “We just won another account. A big one.”

“Great.” He’d tried to sound enthusiastic but the word fell flat.

“I’m sure you’re a shoo-in to be involved.”

Tristan looked up then to the smarmy git who had been making his job—and therefore his life—an utter misery. For some reason, though, now that he had Henry and everything that came with a new relationship, the people here didn’t seem to be able to hurt him anymore. Not really.

He grinned widely, showing off because he could, even though he never normally would. Jordan was a special case. “I’m sure I am too.”

T
HAT
NIGHT
, Tristan had a Skype date with his parents. They caught up fairly regularly, chatting for a couple of hours one night in the week, then again on the weekend if they had time. Since Tristan had become more involved with Henry, he’d missed one or two of the dates, and he felt wretchedly guilty about it.

Because of the time difference, Tristan waited until five until he turned his laptop on, when he knew his parents would be settling in for the night, about to go to bed. The little icon for “Mum and Dad” glowed green, and he hit the call button, stupidly excited to see them.

“Tris!” his mom crowed when they finally connected.

“Hi, Mum,” he said, throat suddenly thick.

Tristan’s mother still worked at the primary school where she had been a teacher since before he was born. Although she’d moved around some over the years, teaching different age groups and taking on responsibility for different things—most recently, the school choir—there had never been any danger of her leaving the profession. The local school where she worked had always been sought after for the excellent teaching standards and small class size. And for Mrs. Green, who was patient and kind and made learning fun.

“Your dad got caught up at the pub with the boys,” she said. “He told me to tell you he loves you and he’ll catch you on the weekend.”

Tristan nodded, disappointed but understanding. His dad worked in a local building firm as a project coordinator and contractor. Often, when builds ran over schedule or over budget, he got caught at the office trying to settle disagreements between the different parties. Typically, those nights, he ended up getting roped into going to the pub after and wouldn’t pour himself into bed until nearly midnight.

“Okay. Tell him I love him too.”

“Will do. How are things?”

“Good,” Tristan said automatically, then leaned back against the wall and grinned. “Really good.”

“Oh? I don’t suppose this has anything to do with this Henry?”

He’d already told her the basics—that he was dating someone called Henry, who was lovely. That was usually all he would say about boyfriends when it came to his mum. She didn’t have any problem with whom her kids dated, male or female, but they weren’t the sort of family that overshared about their sex lives.

“Henry, yeah. He’s really brilliant, mum.”

Her face flushed pink with happiness. “Is he really?”

“Yeah. One night, I’ll get him to come over, and you can talk to him.”

“That would be nice.”

They talked about everything and nothing during these conversations. Life back home was slow, it always had been, the reason why an eighteen-year-old Tristan had been itching to get away. Things didn’t change from one week to the next, but his mum still filled him in on the “hatches, matches, and dispatches”—births, marriages, and deaths, to everyone else. He didn’t really care that Donna from work was now a grandmother for the third time, but he liked listening to his mum talk, so he let her chatter on about things in the town.

Hearing a familiar voice was a soothing balm on the jagged edges of Tristan’s day, and he leaned back, content to listen to his mum’s broad Yorkshire vowels rounding out all her words. She reached and touched the screen, probably to his cheek.

“I miss you, sweetheart.”

“Miss you too, Mum. I’ve got holiday time coming up, I’ll try to get back home and see you.”

“Well, me and your dad were talking, and I thought we could come out to you too. Do some Christmas shopping in New York.”

“That would be amazing,” Tristan enthused. “There’s not a lot of room here, but I can make space for you, so you only need to get flights. And you can fly direct from Birmingham and Manchester these days, there’s no need to go all the way down to London.”

“We’ll sort something out,” she said gently. “Maybe we could meet your Henry.”

“That would be good.” Christmas was a long time away, but something instinctive told Tristan that Henry would still be around in a few months’ time. Maybe for even longer than that. “Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. Henry made Bakewells from your recipe, and now he’s selling them in the bakery. They’re really popular too. He put your name on a little card and everything. I need to send you a picture.”

“Really? Imagine that.”

He could tell she was pleased as punch with her name in a fancy, big-city bakery.

“He’s messing about with flavors and stuff. But yeah.”

They talked for nearly an hour more until Tristan was yawning a little and his mum was making noises about doing some tea for his dad, and they said good-bye with real regret. It was only when Tristan closed the laptop down that he saw the missed call from Henry. Only ten minutes ago.

“Hey,” Tristan mumbled when Henry answered.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Was just talking to my mum. Are you getting ready for bed? I forget if this is an early night.”

“I slept for a couple hours this afternoon, I’m fine.” The warm voice was as soothing and comforting as his mother’s, just in a completely different way. “How’s your mom?”

“Good. She’s good.”

The homesickness was a hot twist in his belly, and Tristan felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“Babe?”

“Sorry,” he sniffed. “I just miss them.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Tristan huffed a laugh. “You don’t have to do that. I’m okay.”

“Five minutes.”

And he rang off. Tristan couldn’t be bothered to go around the flat and tidy up; instead he quickly used the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and was just changing into his pajamas when the buzzer went off.

Henry arrived looking like the cavalry. Warm. Soft. Safe.

“Hey.”

Like he was taking care of an actually sick person, Henry guided Tristan to bed and started to strip off his own clothes, sweatshirt and jeans and socks, then crawled into bed behind Tristan wearing a T-shirt and boxers.

“You didn’t have to come over.”

“I know,” Henry murmured. His lips were close to Tristan’s skin, a puff of warm air over the back of his neck.

“Thank you for coming over.”

“Anytime, baby.”

T
HEY
SLEPT
until Henry’s alarm went off at four, and then he slid out of bed, leaving Tristan with warm kisses on his shoulder before slipping back into the cool predawn.

There was something to be said for being someone’s comfort—not just a fun person to date or a really awesome fuck buddy, but meaning something to a person who meant something to him. It felt like they were building the very strong foundation for a relationship, a real romance that would last, well, longer than his previous romances.

That morning, Henry worked without the usually familiar sound of the radio playing music for him to sing along to. He would never achieve complete silence, not in the middle of the city, but he actually embraced the noise of an awakening New York as he worked.

The back door to the kitchen was propped open, providing the soundtrack to a morning that Henry spent in his own head, thinking about things. When his phone rang at nine, he answered to his sister, only then realizing he’d been frowning hard. His forehead ached.

“Hi, Trix.”

“Hello, darling. I have an appointment this morning in your neck of the woods. Will you still be at the bakery at, say, eleven?”

“Almost certainly,” he said with a laugh, and made a tentative date to see his sister for lunch. Trixie hardly ever made anything more than the lightest of pencil marks in her diary; of course, there was no way of her knowing what better offer might land on her lap in the next couple hours.

He worked on a batch of Moravian spice cookies, fiddling with a recipe and adding flavors until he was happy with it, then shoved the first two dozen into the oven. They’d be ready for the lunchtime rush, but he’d have to rely on Millie’s feedback from the customers since he’d be gone by the time they started selling.

When he’d finished the rest of the cookie dough, Henry made a batch of Bakewells just to fill up some time. He’d only do the one batch today—when they were gone, they were gone.

“Knock, knock!”

Trixie stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen, a bright pink, half-eaten macaron in hand.

“You better have paid for that,” Henry muttered.

“I’m a backer.”

Henry snorted. “You are not. Unless you’d like to pony up.”

“I never said financial backer. I’m an emotional backer.”

“You are that,” he said, relenting, and crossed to give her a hug. “I even changed for you. Where are we going?”

“Oh, I just thought we’d grab a sandwich somewhere.”

“Works for me.”

He’d be back later to start on the doughs for the next day, so Henry didn’t shut the kitchen down completely like he did at the end of the day. It was warm enough still, at least on some days, that Henry didn’t need a jacket. Trixie was wearing a gauzy cream-colored dress, another flowy scarf, and her fall boots—completely impractical, but that never seemed to stop her.

“So, how’s your boyfriend?” she asked, looping her arm through his as they walked up through the Village in the direction of the park.

“He’s good, thank you,” Henry said. He didn’t acknowledge the “boyfriend” comment at all, which caused Trixie to stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Henry Livingston,” she said dramatically, her hand at her chest. “You haven’t had a boyfriend in
forever
.”

“Jeez, thanks, Trix. Wanna shout it a bit louder? There are folks in Jersey who didn’t hear you.”

“When are you bringing him to brunch? Dinner? Cocktails?”

She started walking again, and it was Henry’s turn to drag his feet.

“Um, the Sunday after for-never, Trixie.”

Henry’s sister gave him a pointed look. “He’s a nice guy. You know Mom and Dad will want to meet him.”

“Because that’s turned out so well in the past. Look, I like Tristan a lot. I don’t want to expose him to the asshattery that will surely occur if I bring him to any Livingston social occasion. He’s too nice for them.”

“You should give him more credit,” Trixie said airily as they crossed over Seventh. “Sure, he’s got that sweet charm about him, but I bet he’s got balls of steel.”

“Can we please not discuss my boyfriend’s balls?”

“Can we please?” she said, flipping Henry’s words back on him. “I’m always up for details.”

Henry elbowed her. “I plead the fifth.”