Sugar: A Novel Part 5

He laughed, a low rumble. "That, and the fact you're holding a bag from the Met." He nodded at my bag. "And your gargantuan sungla.s.ses. People with big-a.s.s sungla.s.ses are typically from the East Coast."

I frowned. "Bigger frames mean better protection from sun damage." I took in his tan, ruddy cheeks, broad chest and shoulders. Sure, it looked great now-amazing, actually-but in thirty years, who would be wis.h.i.+ng he'd worn some big-a.s.s sungla.s.ses during peak sun times?

He set the bowl of berries on the table and held out his hand. "I'm Kai Malloy."

His palm was rough and warm in mine. "Charlie Garrett," I said.

"Fantastic name," he said, the dark brown in his eyes trained on my face. "It suits you."

I turned my face away from his open a.s.sessment of me and went back to investigating the strawberries.

"What brings you to Seattle, Charlie?" Kai said. He walked around the booth to resume his post. "Business? Pleasure?"

"Oh, you know," I said airily. "A little of both." This man was far too friendly, I decided. And too beautiful. Two of my favorite red flags when it came to men. I was not going to give him the pleasure of thinking he had me all figured out. Big sungla.s.ses indeed.

"Great," he said, a bit more subdued. "What's your line of work?"

"I work in food, actually," I said, pus.h.i.+ng my sungla.s.ses on top of my head.

"Really?" He smiled. "Are you a cook, then? Because if you are, I know of a new place over on Capitol Hill that's looking for-"

I wrinkled my nose. "I'm not a cook. I'm a chef," I said. "A cla.s.sically trained pastry chef, actually. High-end dining. Michelin stars. That sort of thing."

"Wow," he said, eyebrows up. "Sounds impressive."

I paused, trying to gauge if there was a touch of irony in his tone. "Well," I said with a slight shrug, "the pressure is pretty intense. It's not for the faint of heart."

He nodded in greeting to a man who had approached the stand and was fingering berries before adding them to his reusable cloth bag. I must have been scowling because Kai whispered to me over the pile of berries, "What's wrong?" His lips matched the color of the strawberries.

I watched the man sniff a berry, centimeters from his nose. He squeezed the fruit, and then put it back. I looked at Kai, motioning for him to move farther down the table so we could talk more privately.

"That man is bruising your fruit. You should stop him." I shuddered involuntarily. "And judging by how close he's holding the berries to his nostrils, I'd have to a.s.sume his hands are full of bacteria." I shrugged. "Cla.s.sic trifecta of gastrointestinal disasters: feces, fingers, food. I'd watch him or you might have a food poisoning incident here at Forsythia Farms. Blood on your hands."

Kai did exactly what I thought he would not do. He laughed.

"You are a piece of work, Ms. Garrett." He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded in appreciation. "I find you refres.h.i.+ng."

I huffed. "I'm not a gla.s.s of iced tea." Then I pointed at his chest with my index finger. "And I'm just trying to help you out. No farmer wants to be blamed for making the public sick."

He whistled. "Wow. Does it get windy up there on the pedestal?"

I blinked. "I'm not sure I understand your meaning." His cheekbones were utterly distracting, so I frowned at them.

His face remained serious, but he looked like he wanted to laugh again. "I thank you for your concern," he said, eyes big, "but I don't own Forsythia. I'm just helping out a friend. But I'll pa.s.s along your advice."

The snotty-sniffer held up his bag and caught Kai's eye, ready to pay. Kai turned toward the man, but I stopped him with my arm on his. I pushed two twenties into the pocket on his s.h.i.+rt.

"Sorry about the spill," I said and started back toward the entrance to the market.

"Wait a minute, New York," he called after me. "This is ridiculous. And way too much!"

"Keep the change," I said over my shoulder. I saw him shake his head, the bills still in his hand as I hurried away.

8.

I sat on my living room floor, looking at a rainbow of Post-its, papers, recipe cards, and newly printed labels. Only two days remained until my first night on the line at Thrill, and I had mountains of work to complete. Unable to sleep past five, I had risen in the inky gray light and waited only for my French press to do its work before tackling mine.

I heard the concierge's buzzer sound, signaling a visitor. I looked at my watch to verify the time.

Yes, it really was six o'clock in the morning, and yes, there was really a human being leaning mercilessly on the elevator buzzer downstairs. Was Omar gagged and bound, or who was being so pushy?

I pushed myself up with my hands and walked to the concierge phone in fuzzy socks-absolute necessities, it turned out, on the stunning but chilly marble floor of my new apartment. I reached to answer, but my thoughts lingered on what I'd been needling moments before: the merits of a Linzer torte versus lemon crpes with blackberry sauce.

"h.e.l.lo?" I said.

"What took you so long? Let me in." It was Manda.

Less than a minute later, she stepped out of the elevator, her curls gathered into a hasty ponytail. The shoulders of her coat s.h.i.+mmered with the rain that had been falling since the previous night.

"Normal people answer their cell phones. Normal people are reachable by the outside world." She strode past me and into the apartment, dripping and slos.h.i.+ng and making wet footprints on a floor that I had not Swiffered yet that day. "I thought all New Yorkers were obsessed with their phones," she continued, progressing quickly to the kitchen and pouring out the last of the coffee in my carafe. "But then, you've always been contrary."

"Good morning, Manda," I said, my voice droll.

She ignored me. "Thank G.o.d that Omar person wasn't at the front desk. He never would have let me through. Some hipster who looked even more exhausted than I feel was there and didn't give a rip that I wanted to go up to the penthouse." Her voice resembled that of a insouciant British lord.

I leaned against the counter and felt its cold surface beneath my sweats.h.i.+rt. "Lovely to see you at such an unG.o.dly hour."

Manda's head snapped up after splas.h.i.+ng her coffee with cream. "Did I wake you? Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I honestly forget that there are people in my age group who sleep late because they can." Her eyes took in a sweep of the apartment and landed on my work-rainbow on the living room floor. "You were not sleeping. You were working."

"True. I can't sleep. I start at Thrill the day after tomorrow." I walked back to the heap of papers. "There are so many decisions to make. Like this, for example." I brandished an updated printout of my spreadsheet and pointed to the column I had labeled SUMMER: FILLED DESSERT/BERRIES/INDIGENOUS PRODUCE. "A Linzer torte would present nicely, and the nutty crumb of the pastry would be a perfect pairing with Was.h.i.+ngton strawberry preserves, but lemon crpes with a blackberry sauce seems to just scream 'summer,' don't you think? I'm very particular about berries, though, and I worry that I couldn't get enough that were organic and local, as well as precisely ripe-definitely not under-ripe, so disgusting-each evening."

Manda was not often quiet, which was why I noticed.

She stared at me a moment and said. "Step away from the spreadsheet. We're going to breakfast."

I groaned. "No, no, no, we are not. I have so much work to do, and I don't feel like it, and I haven't showered for two days, and no."

"We're going to a diner, not the Four Seasons." She sipped her coffee and watched for my reaction.

"Absolutely not." I shook my head so fast I felt a twinge in a still-sleepy neck muscle. "Diner food is almost always disappointing ... and greasy and sad and flavorless."

"At least you're not an elitist."

I ignored that. "I already have steel-cut oats in my j.a.panese rice and porridge cooker. And I bought a local thick-sliced bacon I've been waiting to try." My voice had taken on a bit of a whimper.

"Diners have bacon. And you can heat up your precious fancy oatmeal later." Manda raised one eyebrow and gave me the same look that caused her children to wilt. "Charlie, you have to rest every now and then, even when you're working under a deadline. I used to have a job that paid me money, remember? I used to read books about life-work balance." She tossed me my new apple green rain parka that had hung on a silver hook by the door. "Hurry. I left Jack alone with the kids in the car. He hasn't had his coffee, so we need to pray for their safety."

I gave her my best withering glare.

She didn't even blink.

"Nice coat," she said. "A girl needs some color when living in a soaked-out city." The elevator began a wail of protest as Manda continued to hold the door ajar for too long.

"I'm getting concealer and lip gloss, and you can't stop me!" I called as I jogged to the bathroom.

"Meet you downstairs in two. Not joking, Char!" Manda called as the elevator door began to close. "This is not prom '99. It's only breakfast!"

By the time we pulled up to Howie's Diner, I had some kind of organic Oreo sludge stuck in my hair. Polly and I had shared the middle row of seats in the Henrick minivan, and I had made an absolute fool of myself blowing raspberries on her plump cheeks to keep her entertained. I didn't remember her eating anything during the car ride, but somehow I had dark brown, slimy crumbs woven into the right side of my hair when Zara rescued me and showed me how to open the sliding door.

I gagged and tried to think of nonslimy things as I pulled out as much as possible. "What is this stuff, anyway?" I grumbled, still peeved at getting kidnapped against my will. I sniffed my finger and recoiled. "Carob? Carob, Manda? You should be ashamed of yourself."

Manda adjusted Polly on her hip and placed a hand on Dane's head. "Dane, honey, will you please hold Aunt Charlie's hand? She's very cranky, and she's only going to get crankier when she realizes I have someone for her to meet."

I stopped in the middle of the street, ignoring Dane's pull on my arm.

"You did not."

Jack scooped Dane into his arms and nudged me toward the sidewalk. "Argue safely, please. Cars drive down streets."

I stared at Manda. "You are setting me up over breakfast at a diner? Surely you have not stooped to this level."

"There is no stooping." She circled an arm around my shoulders and shepherded me toward the door to the restaurant. "He might not even be here. And he doesn't know we're coming, so it's not like we'll share a table or anything."

I blew out a frustrated sigh. "Manda, we've talked about this. I can't date anyone right now. Men are difficult and moody and needy, and they don't understand my life."

Manda shushed me. I hated getting shushed. "Trust me," she said. "This one is at least worth a glance over maple syrup."

"Probably imitation maple," I muttered, but the door was open and a waft of b.u.t.ter and cinnamon escaped. I marched to my sentence in begrudging obedience. Jack held the door for us, and we stepped over the threshold. While jostling next to another large group in the minuscule hosting area, I took stock, trying not to look too eager in case Mystery Man was watching for us. Oh, for a stroke of good luck and a Mystery Man who was currently changing a flat tire on the side of I-5 and (darn it!) couldn't meet us after all! I sniffed and tried to look disinterested as I scanned the room.

b.u.t.tercream yellow on the walls, a nice counterpoint to the white wood trim around big windows and tall baseboards. Old, pocked tin ceiling painted turquoise. The room was short and narrow with booths down one side and a smattering of two- and four-tops down the center. A counter with spinning barstools ran the length of the restaurant and faced an expansive ledge separating the dining room from the kitchen. I could only see one cook manning the grill, and I wanted to roll my eyes in antic.i.p.ation of what could come from this kind of chaos. The restaurant was cozy-I allowed that much-but one cook?

"Auntie Charlie, do you have to go p.o.o.py?" Zara's voice rang out as a summons.

I shook my head. "Definitely not. But thanks for checking." I could feel the color rising in my cheeks, a sensation I had come to dread since I first noticed it in fifth grade.

"Oh, Char, The Splotch lives on," Manda said, her eyes just as empathetic as they'd been in elementary school. "I still think it's endearing."

"And a lot like having a quick bout of scarlet fever every time I'm embarra.s.sed." My voice sounded harsher than I'd intended.

"Char, you look great," Jack said, pulling me into a shoulder hug. "And we're all stoked to have you in Seattle so we can pick you up for breakfast, right, kids?"

Zara did a fist pump and started jumping, which inspired Dane to do the same.

I let Jack smush my face into his flannel s.h.i.+rt and caught Manda's smiling glance. Jack Henrick had been a camp counselor for a long slew of summers, and while at times I had found his optimism to be a bit like an a cappella Disney medley sung during a funeral, even then, I loved the man. Not only because he made me feel like a treasured younger sister, but also for the way he loved my best friend.

"Don't worry about the dude," Jack said into my ear. "This one is not nearly as creepy as the last one. I promise."

I groaned into his chest.

"Zara and Dane, party of six?" One of the three servers on the floor held a stack of menus and searched the crowd. She had piles of toffee-hued dreadlocks pulled into a ridiculously thick braid that gathered to one side of her head and down the front of her turquoise HOWIE'S DINER T-s.h.i.+rt.

"I'm Zara!" Zara said, too loudly and hopping now on one foot. "We are ready to eat! And don't worry because Aunt Charlie does not have to go p.o.o.py!"

And just as The Splotch was beginning to recede, it reappeared with a vengeance.

The server laughed. Her eyes were large and playful, a mix of grays and greens. "Well, we do have a restroom if she changes her mind."

Jack followed the server first, all three kids touching at least one of his limbs. Manda and I fell in single file behind them and navigated the tight spots between tables. I read the back of the server's t-s.h.i.+rt. In red lettering it proclaimed, HOWIE'S DINER. LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO EAT WHEATGRa.s.s.

"Ooh, he's here. I'm so excited." Manda's voice had gone up an octave in pitch. She poked me too hard in the side. "Nine o'clock, beautiful specimen working the griddle."

I rubbed my sore skin and looked through the peek-a-boo window to the kitchen. The cook caught my eye and lifted his chin in greeting. I felt my insides flip.

"You've got to be kidding me," I said in a low, strangled voice. I scooted into the booth next to Zara and Jack.

Manda must not have heard my anguish because she was practically high-fiving the waitress with glee. "Please give Kai a warm h.e.l.lo from us and tell him to stop by when he has a chance." Manda pried Polly's hands off her earrings as she talked. "How nice you get to work with such a lovely view," she added, eyebrows wiggling.

Our server followed Manda's gaze and then turned to me with a wicked grin. "He is a looker, isn't he? I'll let him know you girls were appreciative of G.o.d's handiwork."

She and Manda laughed together, while I sputtered my protest. I didn't remember saying anything about G.o.d or His handiwork! I just wanted to eat my steel-cut oats and thick-sliced bacon!

The server set down a galvanized tin bucket full of crayons, and the kids squealed in appreciation. "The good news is that there's actually a decent guy underneath all that exterior." She smiled toward the kitchen, her gaze lingering and affectionate. "Makes it even harder to hate him."

I wondered if I detected more than affection in her eyes, but she turned back to our table and pushed her heavy braid off her shoulder.

"My name is Suns.h.i.+ne, folks, and I'd love to bring you something to drink. Fresh-squeezed orange juice? Costa Rican coffee? Peach-mango tea?"

I squinted at Suns.h.i.+ne's nose stud. No Tang? Folgers? Lipton? What kind of diner was this, anyway?

When Suns.h.i.+ne had left to retrieve juices for the kids and hot java for the adults, I narrowed my eyes at Manda.

"How do you know him?" I said, sneaking a menu off the pile Suns.h.i.+ne had left at the end of the table.

Manda remained unruffled in the face of my sneering. "He lives on our block. Cute little bungalow, two doors down."

"Really nice paint job," Jack said. "And a killer front porch, though he had to strip the thing down to its studs when he moved in. The floor was all cattywampus, but nothing a little jack-up job couldn't fix."

Manda put her hand on Jack's arm, and he seemed to realize the issue was not a sagging porch floor.

"So he's handy," Jack said in summary.

Manda continued. "I scouted him out months ago but you weren't here, and now you are. Plus, he likes food and so do you."