New Amsterdam: Tess (6 page)

“Touché.”

Thessaly’s smile fades, thinking of all the wasted hours she spent pining for Mason. Studying his pictures, memorizing his LinkedIn profile, searching for ways to prolong their connection, and hoping for the future he once promised. Sighing, she concedes, “I guess you’re right.”

“Give me your phone,” Seth orders. “We start now.”

Standing from the table and removing her phone from her pocket, Thessaly whines, “I meant theoretically! We need to go anyway – it’s almost nine.”

Seth tosses the garbage and recycles their cups while Thessaly scrolls through her emails.

“Hey, I need to pick up the new labels at the print shop on Frankfort.”

Over his shoulder, Seth replies, “I have to run back to The Hive and grab the jam wagon.”

“Shit, Seth! You better hurry.”

Thessaly and Seth file through the door and out onto the sidewalk, smack in the middle of a hurried rush of morning commuters.

Digging in his pocket for the store key, Seth says, “I’ll leave my pantone color deck behind the counter. The colors I chose for the website have smiley face stickers.”

Walking backwards in opposite directions, they continue to shout off a list of reminders to one another.

“The compote! Ask Lois to jar half and store the other half in the fridge.”

“Tell Meg to stay away from Cherry Bomb.”

“Take a short video at the market and I’ll post it to the website.”

“I want a BLT with avocado for lunch,” Seth demands.

Nodding and waving him off, Thessaly turns and walks toward Frankfort Street.

In a rush, Seth cups his hands around his mouth and roars, “Hey, Tess?”

“Hey, Seth,” she answers, spinning around and walking backwards.

“Stay bold, Pony Boy. Stay bold.”

Laughing, she corrects, “I think the phrase is, stay
gold
, Pony Boy.”

“Nope – stay
bold
.”

“Yeah, I like nice things. I work hard, so why shouldn’t I enjoy the very best? Money buys happiness. Or at the very least, money makes me happy.”

Chapter Four

Same Day Delivery/No Surcharge

Glancing at the time on his titanium watch, Mason Andrews opens the door to the upscale floral shop on Nassau Street. Inhaling the aromatic mix of fresh flowers and sub-zero air-conditioning, he approaches the counter and rings the bell.

“Hello?” he says.

Appearing from behind a floral curtain leading to a storage room, a gorgeous woman in her early thirties approaches the counter. Mason immediately runs his eyes over her petite frame, carefully following the shape of her hourglass curves while leaning against the counter.

Smiling, she positions her long, brown hair over her shoulder, and then takes a single rose bud and fastens it above her exposed ear. “Hello,” she replies. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’d like to send a gift,” Mason answers.

“Do you have any flowers in mind?”

“Pink.” He smirks.

“Is this a gift for a girlfriend?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

The complexity of that question forces Mason to consider the actual definition of his relationship with Thessaly. When they met as college freshman at a fraternity party, their attraction was immediate. He was intrigued by her refined personality and delicate features, and she liked having a confident and ambitious athlete by her side. Thessaly was different from the other girls Mason had dated – she was sweet and classy, and naturally pretty. But Thessaly could also drink liquor like a frat boy, and her sexual appetite complemented Mason’s need to constantly get laid.

For seven years, they were friends and lovers – but rarely sharing intimacy beyond sex. They were a couple, and they each contributed to their pre-determined roles. And even now, as Mason gazes at the exotic beauty with the impressive body standing before him, he only imagines a future with Thessaly by his side.

Literally.

“She’s a very special person,” he finally answers.

“Then you’ll need peonies.” She turns toward a wicker rolling cart and takes a bucket of large, delicate blooms. “From my garden in Bridgehampton.” She smiles. “The blush color is so light and feminine – do you think she would like something like this?”

“I do. Tess loves pink.”

Proud of his selection, Mason makes arrangements for the flowers to be delivered to Thessaly’s store – a romantic gesture to kick start the next phase in their lives. The few friends that know of his intentions, question why he would give up the playboy lifestyle of Wall Street to settle down with his college girlfriend.

His answer?

“To quote Jerry McGuire,
she was loyal
.”

Mason pays for the flowers, smiling at the seductive florist, and then takes out his phone to text Thessaly.

Mason: Dinner tonight?

Several blocks away, as she’s leaving one of the Seaport’s original printing shops, Thessaly stops on the sidewalk and studies her phone. She lowers her sunglasses over her eyes, almost as if she’s blinded by the text. Several pedestrians, unprepared for the interruption in the flow of traffic, swerve around her mumbling nasty expletives. A woman bumps into her shoulder, causing her to drop the package of freshly-printed labels.

“Tonight?” she whispers to herself.

Unaware that she’s missing the envelope, Thessaly take a few steps forward and shouts, “Why dinner?” Stopping abruptly and trying to type a response, a man taps her shoulder and passes her the envelope. She tucks it under her arm as the man mumbles under his breath with a deep scowl.

With her head down, plagued with anxiety, Thessaly continues along the sidewalk like a tourist with an outdated map. Her footing is jumbled, her balance is off, and she misses the crosswalk to Fulton Street.

“Lady!” someone barks.

In a daze, Thessaly looks up to discover she’s standing on the mechanical lift to a seafood delivery truck. “I should want bold, right?” she asks the delivery man while taking a few awkward steps sideways to get to the crosswalk.

Trudging through a swamp of sweaty people, Thessaly finally makes it to the yellow door of The Hive. She extends her free hand to pull the lever of the main door, but it’s met with another hand – large and tan compared to her bony, alabaster skin.

“Allow me,” offers a smoky voice.

“Huh?” Thessaly shifts her weight and slides her phone in her pocket.

“Aren’t you going in?” he inflects with sarcasm.

Turning to acknowledge the polite gesture, Thessaly tries to form words. “Yaw-eh.” Her reply incomplete and muddled, she’s now a speechless idiot with a gaping mouth.

The smiling stranger holding the door towers over her, at least five inches taller than her five-nine frame. He’s lean and muscular – dominating without being a beefcake. His hair is the color of candied pecans, and his eyes mimic the shade of Midnight Blue from a box of Crayola crayons. Leaning closer, Thessaly inhales his intoxicating scent of sea salt and musky masculinity while trying to form a smile. Her eyes wander, from his perfect teeth, to his snug-fitting T-shirt, and then back to stare into the deep waters of his blue eyes. And he does the same – mentally checking off the amazing qualities of the slender blonde blocking the doorway.

“I’m melting,” he declares quietly.

So am I
, thinks Thessaly.

In a swift motion, he brings his other hand between them, shaking it gently, and then raising it to his lips. Thessaly watches with delight . . . gazing as his mouth swipes his thumb . . . fantasizing as his tongue circles a scoop of soft, pink ice cream . . . dissolving as he takes a tiny bite, not with his teeth, but by pinching the ice cream between his lips. Eventually, the sugar cone completely disappears inside the grasp of his large hand, making the action even more sensual – a necessary tactic in which the mouth just takes what it wants.

“Shall we?” he asks, nodding toward the door.

Blushing, Thessaly bobs her head robotically as she walks through the vestibule. Leaving him to roam the shelves of blueberry jam, she bolts straight to the counter and exhales deeply.

Behind the register, Meg looks up from her iPad and smiles. “Tess? You’re flushed. Humidity is not your friend.” She returns her attention to the tablet and adds, “Lois had a family emergency – she left about an hour ago.”

Placing the envelope of labels and her polka-dotted clutch on the counter, Thessaly asks, “Is everything okay with Lois? I’m concerned.”

“I’m not sure, but she seemed really stressed.” With a devious smile, Meg strikes the screen of the tablet violently. “God, that Seth,” she mumbles. “He’s the most annoying child sometimes.”

“What’s up?” Thessaly asks, watching as the man with the ice cream cone picks up a jar of infused honey and holds it to the sunlight.

“He wants lunch and company. Do you need me here?” Meg snaps her fingers in the air and quips, “Earth to Tess?”

Thessaly pivots so that she’s face-to-face with Meg. The two women are pressed closely against each other, an image Seth would kill to see. “Look over my shoulder – discreetly!” she demands through an excited whisper.

Meg leans to the left and surveys the showroom. “Gray T-shirt?” she asks.

Thessaly nods.

“Da-yum!”

“What’s he doing?” whispers Thessaly.

“He’s carrying a shopping basket.” Meg pauses and lowers her voice. “He just placed a jar of jam – apricot, no peach – inside the basket. Nice forearms.” Another pause. “Okay, that’s hot, Tess, really sexy.” Meg’s eyes expand as her volume returns. “Holy hotness, he devoured a sugar cone in two bites. Shit!” Meg ducks behind Thessaly. “He’s looking over here!”

Leaving her friend exposed, Meg darts into the kitchen, the door flapping behind her from the hard push. Thessaly takes a deep breath and then spins around.

Bold, Tess, be bold,
she chants
.

“Hi. Is this your store?” He places a basket filled with random items on the counter and picks up a petri dish near the register.

“That’s raw honeycomb,” Thessaly asserts.

Placing the delicate object back in its place, the man leans against the counter and smiles. “I’m familiar.” His mouth curls slightly to the left, just enough to make him appear naughty. “Let’s start over. I’m Levi, and you must be Tessaly, or Shelby?”

Confused by Levi’s assumptions, Thessaly hesitates before replying. “It’s actually pronounced Thes-sa-lee, but everyone calls me Tess. My little brother is Shelby – how did you know our names?”

Raising his eyebrows and pointing over his shoulder to a family photograph, Levi adds, “That’s you, right – in the overalls and Doc Martens?”

Thessaly quietly whimpers as she realizes that the picture Levi’s referring to was taken during the unattractive phase of her adolescence. It’s a typical photo of farm life – Kip and Shelby standing in the bed of a pickup truck with crates and buckets. A cardboard sign leaning against the back bumper that reads:
Sinclair Farm. Kip – President, Thessaly – Vice President, Shelby – Treasurer
. Perched on a bucket near the sign, is a teenaged Thessaly, dressed in overalls, combat boots, and a face with enough angst to start a girl band. The only reason the photograph is hanging in her store is because she loves the field of sunflowers in the background.

“The tomboy with the scowl? Yep, that’s me.” She reaches into the wire basket and removes the jars of jam. “Good choice, peach is my favorite. I add a dash of cinnamon to the recipe,” she blurts without thinking.

Impressed, Levi confirms, “Wait, you make the jam and honey here?”

Relieved that he appears interested, Thessaly answers, “Most of it. I buy local fruit and prepare the jam in the kitchen. The honey comes from my family’s farm in Asheville, but sometimes I infuse seasonal fruits and herbs into the raw honey.” Thessaly pauses, studies Levi’s perfect smile, and fights a fit of nervous laughter. “It’s really simple.”

“Tess, can I be honest?”

“Maybe.”

“I really don’t need four jars of peach jam. And six jars of honey seems like a lot for a single guy.” Picking up the expensive set of sterling silver jam spreaders, Levi adds, “And what do I do with these fancy little knives?”

“Okay, we can put a few things back.” Thessaly lowers her head, slightly offended, but mostly embarrassed.

“Thing is, I followed you in here.”

“Oh?”

“Well, not like a creeper. You bumped into me – at the crosswalk. I almost dropped my cone.”

“I was distracted,” she defends.

Meg charges from behind the kitchen door, flashes a sly smile, and then bursts out in song. “This piggy is going to the market!”

With a high, crackly pitch, Thessaly shouts, “Um, have fun.”

As she passes Levi, Meg cranes her neck to check him out. Stopping at the screen door, she spins around and mouths,
holy shit, that ass,
before turning to leave the shop.

Wanting her undivided attention, Levi moves directly in front of Thessaly and clears his throat. He smiles, and she smiles, and then he repeats, “So, Tess, you bumped into me.”

“And I’m sorry! I can offer you something at a discount – but since you don’t
need
jam, would you be interested in a cookbook or a honeypot?”

“Yours?” he asks with a smirk.

Blushing, Thessaly sputters, “Le Creuset.”

“I meant the cookbook.”

“Oh,” she says.

Crossing his arms and showcasing his tan, muscular forearms, Levi asks, “How ’bout you go out with me and we call it even?”

“Oh, I um, have these new labels and cornbread . . .” Thessaly trails off.

Furrowing his brows and scratching his chin, Levi says, “Huh, I don’t know what that means.” Reaching for his wallet, he removes a business card and slaps it on the counter. “But cornbread has to be the best excuse a woman has ever used.”

Thessaly picks up the plain white card with a single green stripe and reads, “Levi Jones, Director and Managing Partner, Brooklyn Soil.” She glances at Levi and asks, “The rooftop farm?”

With hooded eyes and a velvety voice, he replies, “So you’ve heard of me?”

Fighting a smile, Thessaly deadpans, “Sure – most of the fruit I buy comes from your farm.” Testing the frisky banter, Thessaly adds, “And the name Levi Jones sounds familiar, too – like the leader of a religious cult.”

Leaning against the counter again, Levi whispers, “What if I told you my sister’s name is Dandelion?”

Thessaly leans toward him and matches his whisper. “I’d wonder if there were marijuana crops in your rooftop greenhouse.” Placing a jar of jam and the set of silver spreaders inside a small, brown shopping bag, Thessaly rasps, “Enjoy your peaches.”

Levi hugs the bag to his chest with an adorable smirk just as a customer approaches the counter.

“Is this honey kosher, dear?” asks the lady with brightly-patterned culottes.

Turning to the customer, Levi asserts, “Kosher honey is great for seasonal allergies.”

“Oh?” She beams.

“But you’ll need to buy a ton in order for it to work.” Nodding his head while turning back to Thessaly, he hums quietly, “Gonna eat me a lot of peaches, Tess.”

Arching an eyebrow, Thessaly places Levi’s business card in the slim pocket of her black pants and hooks the wire basket on her arm. She watches as Levi walks backwards out the door, clinging the paper bag to his chest, and mouthing, “All honey is kosher.”