Sugar and Spice and All Those Lies

by Evy Journey

I straighten up, a carton of eggs and a bag of chanterelles in my hands. I see Luciano walking out a backdoor. “Is Luciano your cook?”

  “Yes, he cooked for an upscale Italian restaurant, but he burned out before he was fifty. I offered him this job, with generous perks and hardly any stress. He’s good but his dishes are a little more traditional and, of course, his bias is for Italian cooking. He will experiment, though, and he has an instinct for flavors that go well together.”

  “Does he mind that I’m invading his kitchen?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the first chef I’ve ever brought home.”

  I show Leon what I intend to make. “I’ll do a take on the dinner we had. This is the quickest dish I can cook.”

  I place the eggs and mushrooms on the counter and I take out an onion and a carton of crème fraîche.

  “A splash of white wine would be good with the mushrooms. Chardonnay, maybe.”

  Leon opens a drawer that holds bottles of wine. He shows me a chardonnay. “I think this should do.”

  It took me twenty minutes to slice the onion and chanterelles, and sauté them with some wine, thyme, and tarragon. Just before I take the pan off the burner, I swirl in a dollop of crème fraiche. I top the sautéed mushrooms with the eggs, which were frying in another pan.

  We sit down at a breakfast table in the middle of the kitchen and devour our quick lunch with a baguette.

  “Delicious,” Leon says, spearing mushrooms into his mouth. “I have to tell Luciano about this.”

  “Well, it helped that you have all these ingredients lying around.”

  “That’s Luciano. He keeps the refrigerator well stocked. Every morning, he goes out to a bakery by the hotel for his fix of croissants. He usually brings home a baguette and some other artisan bread.”

  When we finish eating, Leon reaches over to my hand, which is resting on the table, and squeezes it. “Does this mean yes? You’ll come live with me?”

  I stare straight into his eyes, searching. I don’t know what I’m looking for or what I expect to find—some indication that he’s sincere about asking me to live with him, or that he really loves me?

  He stares back at me with an earnestness that makes me smile. In a moment of daring, I say, “Not quite yet. Make love to me, then I’ll tell you for sure.”

  Those words came out of me as if on impulse, but if some therapist were to tell me that Marcia’s recent escapades with Brent were behind that impulse, I wouldn’t argue against it.

  I can’t take those words back. I won’t, anyway, even if I could. I’ve wondered what it’s like making love with Leon, and I’m about to find out. At our next break, I’ll have something I can tell Marcia. Next time, she’ll have to listen to me.

  My hand on his knee caused Leon to raise his brow and grin. This time, I watch, wickedly amused, when his jaw drops and his brow rises even higher. But he’s dumbfounded for only a few seconds. He rises from his chair, pulls me up from mine, and gathers me in his arms. He kisses me—long and deep kisses that leave me breathless. I taste the chanterelles in his mouth, sniff the chardonnay on his breath, and kiss him back just as fiercely. Raising my arms, I entwine them around his neck and press my body to his. The last time I had sex was three years ago, and I must be hungry for this melding of bodies. Leon scoops me up in his arms and carries me up to his bedroom.

  As he carries me up the stairs and down the hallway, I feel inexplicably shy and nervous. If I now have misgivings about going on with what I’ve started, it’s too late. I close my eyes and bury my face against Leon’s neck. I open my eyes only when he’s laying me down on the bed.

  He takes off my clothes and I rub my legs and arms on the sheets. They caress my skin, their silkiness so like the cool, smooth skin of a ripe nectarine. I sink a little deeper into the pillow-soft mattress as it cradles my body in soothing warmth. I imagine myself crawling into this luxurious bed every night and waking up in it every morning. I could get used to this way too easily.

  Leon’s face hovers over mine and we lock eyes for an instant before his lips claim mine again. He kisses me all over my face and my neck, and his lips wander all over my body, nibbling and tasting, lingering on my nipples.

  I can feel his bare skin against mine, and his hands roaming all over my body. I close my eyes again as he thrusts into me.

  Although I haven’t quite forgotten what it’s like to make love, I lie passive, hesitant. Leon stops and says, “Am I hurting you?”

  I shake my head. “It’s been a while.”

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  I shake my head again. He resumes thrusting, a little more slowly. Leon is responsive and gentle—I like that about him. All the experience he has with women seems to have taught him well.

  It doesn’t take long before I cling to him and answer his every thrust. As we climb the peak of feverish passion, Leon seems to get lost in it, and he’s no longer there with me. I leave him and go after my own pleasure; but when it comes, it’s Brent’s name that I nearly shout out.

  I meant to let go of any hopes that Brent might love me, so it’s a shock that he snatches my most intense moment of lovemaking from Leon. When Leon, exhausted and satiated, lays his head against my shoulder, I wrap my arms around him, trying to atone for what would have been an unforgivable slip.

  Minutes later, Leon murmurs, “Do you love me just a little?

  I nod and kiss the top of his head. But I wonder. Am I lying to both of us?

  I believe Leon’s rich parents brought him up to be self-centered. It shows in his assurance that he can get anything he wants. I also sense it in the way he gets so consumed by his passion that you feel you’re just a vessel for it. But maybe everyone is like that. He can be patient, though, just before those moments. And that makes him a good lover. Besides, I can’t deny that he has seduced me with his charms. And his lifestyle. Do I love him? I think so; at least a little.

  Leon is no saint, but neither am I. I know he can’t commit to one woman, but I am in this relationship—as he is well aware of—partly because he’s opening doors into a world I’ve only seen in my imagination or in the fantasy world of movies and television. Maybe we do suit each other. Maybe Brent belongs to a higher sphere, a noble one we can’t aspire to.

  On this afternoon, Leon doesn’t return to work and I don’t go back to my apartment. The following morning, he drives me straight to Du Cœur.

  He wants me to move in with him right away. Now that we’ve had our first night together, he tells me he can’t live without me. Maybe he means what he says but I have to keep reminding myself that “faithful” is a concept alien to Leon.

  “But Leon,” I say. “I need to pack and I won’t have time to do it until Monday.”

  “Bring a suitcase of clothes and we can get the rest later.” He winks at me, “Or I can buy you a new wardrobe.”

  “Just like that? I’m not sure I can do this. I’ve never lived with anyone.”

  “Neither have I. Think of it as an experiment. Or an exotic new dish you’re trying out. Aren’t you eager to know if it’ll work out?” He grins and winks at me again. “Anyway, now you’ll experience how the rich live.”

  I return his grin. “Well, if you put it that way. I guess it’ll be like taking a vacation from my doghouse … ”

  Leon frowns, “Your doghouse? You have no dog.”

  “A private joke. Nothing more. Anyway, I should tell my mother we’re doing this.”

  Leon laughs, pauses, and regards me with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “No. I’m not asking for her permission, but this is a big change and I have to let my family know.”

  He takes me in his arms and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Of course. I do understand. Do whatever you need to do. I’m sure I can survive without you for a week or two. Or can I?”

  How long this fairy tale will last, I can’t tell. And by history—Leon’s history, that is—this
fairy tale won’t have a happy ending. I tell myself I’m fully aware of what I’m getting into. But will that be enough to prepare me for the day when Leon says our relationship is no longer where he wants to be?

  The next time I talk to Marcia, I tell her as casually as I can that I’m moving in with Leon. As I expected, she asks me about the night I spent with him. But I realize then that some things are just too private to share with anyone else but the person you have the experience with, so I can’t get myself to be as open as Marcia is about them. More so because, frankly, I don’t want her blabbing to Brent about what I say it’s like making love with Leon. If he really wants to know, which I doubt, Brent can call and ask me. So I answer Marcia’s question with a shrug and say that nothing can be as passionate as what she has with Brent.

  19

  “You’ve broken a record,” Marcia says.

  “What record, exactly?’

  “Why kiddo—endurance! How long has it been since that first note from Leon? Seven, eight months? Now you’re even living together.”

  I shrug. “Maybe, he’s getting tired of playing around.”

  She nods thoughtfully. “Conceivable. Is he getting restless yet?”

  “Doesn’t seem like it.”

  “Now, that is remarkable. And you’ve been living together two months.”

  “I think it’s my cooking.”

  “Naah. He can hire the best cook on the planet.”

  “I was kidding. I think Leon is just older, more mature.”

  “No, it’s more than that. You’ve somehow seduced him.”

  “How did I do that? I asked him to turn his attention to someone else. But he persisted.”

  “Maybe, that’s it. Playing hard to get.”

  “I wasn’t playing. I was just being me. No scheming. No going out of my way to seduce him. Not even now.”

  “You must entice him in some way—that’s why he’s still with you.”

  “Yeah, with a witch’s brew I make him drink every night.” Marcia is beginning to annoy me.

  She laughs. “I’m sorry. You’re right. There’s no point to this conversation. Maybe, next week, you’ll break up.” She pauses, winks at me. “Or Leon might ask you to marry him.”

  Marcia believes breaking up with Leon is imminent. A matter of time. She’s right, of course. The truth is, I am afraid of hoping, of being drawn deeper into a relationship with Leon. In little ways, I’ve tried to preserve some semblance of separateness. It’s not hard to do, since we have different working hours, and often he’s asleep when I come home from the restaurant. Marcia is right about another thing: It’s remarkable Leon hasn’t yet shown signs of restlessness.

  I haven’t heard from Brent since that night I called him. I expect I’ll never see him again. Marcia has stopped talking about their passionate trysts after I refused to disclose details of my nights with Leon. Marcia and Brent continue to see each other, although she’s more convinced now that Brent is a fling, a long one that will end when one of them decides it has run its course.

  *****

  “What is it like, living with the rich?” Mom says in her most recent phone call. Mom’s Tuesday night phone calls have become part of my routine. They usually come around six in the evening, before Leon comes home from work. I recline in comfort on the couch, ready for a call that can last as long as a half hour. Tonight, I wonder why she has waited this long to ask me this question.

  “To be frank, aside from the large fancy house, not having to clean up, having breakfasts brought to our room every morning, and trips when Leon can take off on Mondays and Tuesdays, nothing much has really changed. I’m working just as hard and Leon is often asleep by the time I get home.”

  Mom laughs. “You think that’s nothing much? What I’d give just to have breakfasts in bed and have someone else clean up the mess in the house. Occasional trips and a beautiful house with lots of space are like hitting the jackpot twice. But you’re discovering the drudgery of living together and that’s good. It’s a test of how much and how long you can stand each other.”

  “I guess you’re right. We’re still together, despite the daily grind, and that must say a lot. Especially with Leon. We do have lots of fun on our little trips. I’ve seen more of California in the last two months than I’ve ever had in my whole life before Leon. I had my first plane ride and it was in his family’s plane.”

  “Have you met his family?” Mom sounds incredulous.

  “No. It was just Leon and me and a plane crew. He knows how to fly a plane but he says his father won’t allow anyone in his family to fly it.”

  “Do you know his family?”

  “Leon doesn’t like talking about them, which is just as well. Mom, you know I’m not expecting this thing to last. I’m just having fun.”

  “I know you said so. But I can’t help it if it makes me sad to see you hold no hope for a future together.”

  Mom’s remark gives me pause. “Mom, please don’t worry about me. I’m stronger than Cristi.”

  “I know you are; but is it really worth it?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. I often ask myself the same question. The thing is, right now, I really am enjoying myself and I find that hard to give up.”

  “Then I guess I should shut up. It’s just that I was brought up to believe everything we do has a purpose.”

  “Can’t enjoying myself count as a purpose?”

  “I do want you to be happy, and since you sound happy, then I should be satisfied. But …”

  “But what?”

  “I know you’re not fragile like Cristi, but what if you fall deeply in love with Leon?”

  Again, she gives me pause. “I don’t know, Mom. I guess I’ll be heartbroken.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything,” I say, trying to make light of her apprehension. “I’ll take it as a good learning experience.”

  “I’m not so sure it’ll be easy to say that when you’re really hurting.”

  When she hangs up, I don’t spring up from the couch to see what Luciano is preparing for dinner. I stay, mulling over our conversation. Why have I never thought of my relationship with Leon as just a fling, like Marcia says hers is with Brent?

  The answer—when it comes to me—is unsettling. Whether I wanted to or not, I am emotionally involved. My relationship with Leon is not just a fling, a fact that opens me up to being hurt. And the longer I stay, the deeper I am involved. The deeper the hurt. Maybe I should leave, end this “experiment,” throw out this new “dish” before I sink too deeply to get out of it relatively unscathed.

  I hear the garage door open. Leon is home. Must put off making a decision.

  But a couple of weeks pass without me thinking of the matter again. It’s easy to get so caught up in all the things I need to do every day that I never find time to think.

  One evening at dinner, Leon says, “I haven’t met your parents. How about we go pay them a visit?”

  Amazed and bewildered, I stare at Leon. Then, this thought comes to me: A visit will reassure Mom. So, a visit is good. But will it also give her false hopes?

  Leon sees me hesitate. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want me to meet them?”

  “Why do you want to meet my family? I know you’re not so eager for me to meet yours, but that’s okay. We know what we have will end, maybe next month, next week. But that’s also a good reason not to meet mine.”

  Leon puts his fork down. “Let me make this quite clear first: I have no intention of breaking up. Not next week. Not even next month. I hope you don’t, either. You’ve talked about your mother. I think she’s someone I’d like to meet. Besides, I’m curious what made you so lovable.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say. But I blush—his compliment is not lost on me. I’m as much a sucker as any other female for a man’s white lies. “Can I at least give them warning that we intend to visit?”

/>   *****

  Two weeks later, Leon and I visit my parents on a Saturday afternoon. I asked Laure for a few hours off, but not before I told Leon I didn’t want him asking Laure for any special favors on my behalf. I don’t want to abuse her good will. I will be at work at eight when the restaurant is at its busiest.

  My whole family is waiting for us when we arrive. Mom opens the door and behind her stands my father. After I introduce Leon to my parents, they lead us into the living room. The television—usually on even when no one is watching—has been turned off.

  Mom must have told everyone to be on good behavior. My two youngest brothers are on the floor putting away pieces of a construction set. Sabine and Maurice are reading books, rare for Maurice.

  Dad introduces my sister and brothers to Leon, pointing to each one. They briefly smile, wave once, and say nothing. If Mom told them earlier Leon is quite rich, not one is showing signs of being impressed.

  When it’s Bernie’s turn, he approaches Leon and shakes his hand. “How do you do, Mr. Leon Barrett.”

  Leon grins. “Very well, Mr. Bernie Lambert. How do you do?”

  “Welcome to our humble abode. Mom made some treats, so you must be pretty special. She only makes them on birthdays and holidays. I think she cooks better than Gina so I’m sure you’ll love them.”

  Everyone laughs and with that, we all begin to relax.

  Mom says, “Since Bernie already gave our surprise away, why don’t we talk around the dining table. I have soda, tea, coffee, and, of course, bottled sparkling water.”

  I raise an eyebrow at my mother. The family gets bottled water only on Mom’s rare trips to a big outlet store, and like canned soda, she doles it out sparingly.

  On the dining table are three covered platters. As she takes the covers off of each, Mom says to Leon, “What will you have Leon? Coffee, tea, soda?”

  “Coffee, please.”

  “Coffee for grown-ups, then,” she says as she goes into the kitchen. “Come, Sabine, I need your help."

  On the three platters are some family favorites that Mom usually makes on holidays and birthdays: gougères, almond cream fig tart, and salted caramelized walnuts.