by Holly Kerr
Abby never got back to me the last time I texted her, and since I’ve never been the sort who chase women, I gave up wondering after a day. I never heard from her again.
It was too bad. I liked her.
I respond to Natalie, a noncommittal offer to possibly hang out later in the week, and ask Heather out for drinks tonight. Then I spend a much longer time texting with Dean about last night’s game.
I’ve told so many people I’m immune to love that I think it must be true.
Love isn’t my thing. Dating women is. As long as they realize I’m not their Mr. Right, things will continue to run smoothly.
Chapter Four
M.K.
I close Pain at four o’clock and once Adam helps me clean up, I shoo him out to bake. Mondays and Wednesdays are for finger pastries as well as the patisserie’s namesake: pain au chocolat, or chocolatine, whichever side of the debate you’re on; Tuesdays and Thursdays are for muffins and macarons and scones; Fridays, I stock up on croissants and turnovers and Danish; and over the weekend, I bake mini opera cakes and glazed madeleines. I have a schedule, and it works, so I stick to it.
Unfortunately, with Rhoda missing her shift, I wasn’t able to bake the macarons this morning, so I have to stay late.
I don’t mind baking after hours. While my home kitchen is impressively outfitted, space is an issue. Here I have the entire kitchen to spread out in.
I’ve been at it for a few hours when the pounding on the kitchen door interrupts. The door leads to the alley, so it can only be Flora. Without bothering to turn down the music, now early ‘90s Aerosmith, I open the door.
“I saw your car.” Stepping into the kitchen, she sniffs appreciatively. “It smells like jam.”
“Blackberry.” I hand her one of the macarons that I’m carefully packing in plastic containers to be stored in the walk-in refrigerator. “I didn’t know you were working late.”
Flora shrugs, her mouth full of the meringue-like cookie. “Nothing else to do,” she says, dropping crumbs on her shirt.
“We’re pretty exciting, aren’t we?”
She grins. “Yes, we are.”
I’ve never been the type of person who needs a never-ending social life. I’m a homebody, content with my books and baking and my own company. Flora likes things a little more lively, but when she had been with Thomas, he liked to socialize even less than I do, so she reluctantly got used to quiet time at home.
I should say that Thomas liked to socialize, just not with Flora tagging along. They had kept their friend groups completely separate, which is why I barely knew the man.
No loss.
“Patrick asked if we wanted to go to the Blue Jays game with him on Saturday.” Flora still eyes the macarons. I hand her another, and she pops it in her mouth. “Yuck.” She makes a face. “I don’t like green tea.”
“There’s vanilla in it, too. You can’t spit it out—I worked hard to make it!”
She swallows the cookie, still grimaces. “I thought it was pistachio. How many did you make?”
“Five dozen. They should last a few days.” I carefully press the lid on the container and head to the fridge.
Flora grins at me. “We may have boring social lives, but no one can say we don’t know how to run a business.”
I smile ruefully. “Other than my mother, of course.”
“Pshaw. Bitterness will only give her more wrinkles. What are you doing after this? Want to come hang at my place?”
The invitation warms my heart even though I shake my head to decline. When she was with Thomas, Flora had rarely invited me over, preferring to hang out at my place or at restaurants. “I’d like to, but I’m going to stop off at the farmer’s market first, and the cats will be wondering where I am.”
“At least we have our furbabies.” She sighs. “Cappie is in the car, so I’d better go. So, you good for the ball game? I think he’s going to ask Adam, too.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “It’s about time. The two of them need to figure things out. Adam likes Patrick. Patrick likes Adam. Enough already!”
“I agree, but it’s not like it’s any easier for us.” When I meet her gaze, I can tell she’s thinking of Dean. I noticed last night that she looks wistful when the subject of Dean comes up, resigned and regretful when she’s talking about Thomas. It’s a slight difference, but we’ve been friends forever, so I can tell.
Just like I’m sure she can read my bitterness when the topic of Clay, Las Vegas, or Ruthie comes up.
I don’t feel like bringing it up. We talked ad nauseam about it last night, and there’s nothing that can be done. There is a man out there that might be perfect for me, but I was too busy being transfixed by his smile that I forgot to get his last name, or number. Or anything else about him that might help me find him on social media.
It’s not surprising, considering the lack of luck I’ve had in the dating front.
“Call if you need me,” Flora says at the door.
“You call me, too,” I reply with a wave of my hand.
~
I decide to stop at home and grab my basket before walking the few blocks to the local farmer’s market. The late August evening is still bright and warm, and there are people everywhere; kids racing along the sidewalk on bikes, fathers pushing baby strollers. It’s like the date on the calendar is a warning that summer is over soon, and everyone wants to take advantage of the nice weather.
I pass the ball diamond, and the crack of a bat pulls my attention. Cheers follow as I smile as a young boy sprints around to second base. Despite Flora’s countless pleas over the years, I never played the sport. It was one thing I never challenged my mother on. She thought all sports were unfeminine and unbecoming and refused to allow me and my sisters to join any team.
Instead, I was enrolled in dance classes by the time I could walk, and recitals and competitions filled my weekends when Flora was playing softball.
Maybe it’s time to change that. I’ve gotten pretty good at rebelling against my mother’s demands and beliefs. Maybe it’s time to finally learn how to play baseball.
I shake my head ruefully and continue on to the market. I barely have time to watch a game, let alone learn to play.
The market is busy. I go straight to my usual vendors, filling my basket with peaches and kale, and a few cobs of corn. I stop for honey, and linger at the mushroom stand before filling a bag with tiny creminis.
What would they taste like in a scone? I could fry them with shallots and butter and lots of fresh thyme before adding them to the batter. Scones always sell well, and it might be nice to have a few savory ones as well. I could try a sun-dried tomato and maybe a spinach and feta and—
My mind racing with recipe options, I happen to glance up in time to see a man in a blue shirt pass by the side of the stand. I only see part of his profile, but something about him grabs my attention. I crane my neck to see where he’s going as I pay for the mushrooms.
The set of his shoulders, and the back of his head remind me of Clay.
I shake off the thought. How would I know what his shoulders look like? He was sitting the entire time we were in the bar, and I definitely never saw the back of his head. Plus his hair was darker.
And he wasn’t that short.
But I still follow him, winding my way through the vendors trying to pack up and people racing to pick up one last thing before they close. The shirt is a cobalt blue, tucked neatly into slim-fitting khakis.
It’s not Clay. It can’t be Clay. Why would I even think it’s Clay? Just because I’ve been thinking about him today?
He stops at the same honey stand that I did. I halt in my tracks, pulling my full basket out of the way just as a harried mother rushes after a screaming toddler.
Who would let a child loose in a place like this?
I watch the maybe-Clay pick up a jar of honey, the same one that’s in my basket.
So what if it’s not Clay? Something about him interests me. Attrac
ts me. It’s been a while since I’ve felt an attraction to anyone.
Other than Clay, of course.
That had been instantaneous. Intense. A once in a lifetime moment. It’s not going to happen again.
But it might. Less intense but still good.
I take a step closer, wondering what to say, how to start a conversation with a stranger because I like his shoulders.
We buy the same kind of honey. Other than that, I’ve got nothing. But I still take another step, and another, until I hear his laugh.
It’s loud and flirtatious, just like Paulo’s this morning.
I don’t need a man like that.
My basket thumps against my leg as I turn and walk away.
Clay
I surreptitiously check my watch to find out that only four minutes have passed since I last checked. Heather has been talking the entire time.
Why did I agree to meet her? Boredom? To prove Rashida wrong, that I am capable of having a meaningful relationship that lasts more than one night?
Only I’m not capable of it with Heather.
At least I said to meet for a drink, not for dinner. It’s my usual way, to meet for drinks with the opportunity to prolong the evening with dinner and maybe a late night snack. At her place. But as I listen to Heather drone on about who knows what, I shudder at the thought of spending more than forty-five minutes with her.
I glance at my watch again. Forty-four minutes since we were seated.
Heather pauses in her recitation to drain her chocolate martini. I can tell if a woman is my type from her drink order. Beer or wine—a sure thing. A woman who orders a beer with a man has a rough and tumble side that gets me every time. Wine shows a certain level of sophistication and intelligence that is mandatory, except for a white zinfandel. I’m not proud of the fact I did a runner from a woman who downed four glasses of white zinfandel in under twenty minutes.
I did have the bartender call her an Uber from my account, though.
Martinis are usually fine, especially since they can easily begin a conversation on vodka versus gin, shaken versus stirred, leading to discussions of one of my most favourite movie franchises. I’ve run into trouble with women who’ve ordered apple martinis, but nothing serious. In my opinion, anyone who orders a chocolate martini is looking for a free meal and willing to do whatever it takes to continue the freebies. It’s like ordering dessert before they’ve even looked at a menu.
“So.” Heather gives me a smile that is aiming for sexy but comes across as sly. She looks like a fox with the reddish-brown hair and narrow face. Interesting eyes, though. Hazel, with gold tints. It’s what caught my eye in the first place.
“Should we look at a menu?” she continues.
I have five seconds to react, and I rise to the occasion. “Heather, as much as I’d love to, I have to take a rain check for that. I’ve got a big presentation at work tomorrow. The bosses are coming in and I have to be on my game. I’m going to have to call it a night to run over everything again. A few times.” Technically, this isn’t a lie, rather a rewording of the truth. I do have a big presentation coming up, only it’s not until next month.
“I could help you.” She is pretty, but maybe a bit too needy.
I smile at her, a little wider than normal because I can sense the escape opening. “I think you’d be a little too distracting. I need to focus, and to get a good night’s sleep. We’ll do it again.”
“When?” Make that a lot needy.
“Let me get this presentation out of the way first. I’ll text you.” I motion to the waiter for the bill, and as if sensing my desperation, he brings it right over. Then with a polite hand on the small of her back, I walk Heather out of the bar, right to where she parked.
One chocolate martini equals three ounces of alcohol; Heather ate most of the bruschetta flatbread that I ordered to share, so she’ll be fine to drive home.
“This was a lot of fun,” I say. Again, not technically a lie because it was fun seeing the heads turn when I left with Heather. She is very pretty.
“I thought I’d have longer.” She pouts.
“Duty calls. I’m really sorry.” I peck her on the cheek and take her keys from her hand to unlock her car door, then stand and wave as she drives away, still with a pout on her pretty face.
I whistle as I walk back to the office to pick up my car. Tempted to head in for another hour of work, I talk myself out of it with the promise of food. Good food, not takeout; good food made myself. It’s been a while since I’ve cooked.
I put the not-so-great date with Heather out of my mind as I drive home. Hopefully, she doesn’t turn clingy. I like assertive women, but there’s a fine line with going after what you want and becoming needy. To me, a needy woman is a recipe for disaster.
When I pause at the stop sign, I happen to glance over. I pass by a little strip mall a few times a week, and every time I do, I promise myself I’m going to stop into the French bakery.
I squint at the sign in the window. Pain au Chocolat.
It’s closed.
Instinctively, I slow down when I pass a ball diamond. I’m not sure why—just to see a game, wondering if I know anyone there. The teams are young boys, but a few of the guys from our team have sons about that age, including Imad and Rashida.
I’m glad I slowed down because the farmer’s market is beside the diamond. I pull into a parking spot, remembering that I’m almost out of honey, and I like the elderberry kind from Niagara they sell here. Maybe I can find something to make for dinner.
Families and singles mix and mingle through the vendor stands. They have a great selection of organic produce as well as arts and crafts and I glance at a few things on my way to my honey.
“Just in time,” the honey lady says. She’s older, with graying hair and tired eyes. “You’ll be my last customer tonight.”
I smile widely at her. “Does that make me your very favourite or your least?” I’m glad to see my question brings a smile to her face. “Because I really like your honey.”
“Keep smiling and talking about my honey, and I’ll stay open all night for you.”
I reach over to grab an extra jar. “I’m going to stock up, so I’ll make it worth your while.”
“But then it’ll be longer for you to come back and visit.”
“Don’t you worry, I’ll be back to see you.”
“Promises, promises.” She gives me a wink as she takes my money.
“I always meet my promises. You have a good night and drive safe to wherever it is you’re going,” I say as I take the heavy bag.
“Oh, it’s far out of your league.”
I laugh with delight and give her a quick salute before making my way back to my car.
Tiredness is beginning to set in, making me doubly glad I backed out of extending the evening with Heather. The quick banter with the honey lady is enough for me tonight. It’s been a while since I’ve had a quiet night at home, and I’m not embarrassed to admit I’m looking forward to it.
Because nothing at the market inspired me to cook, I run through a list of takeout choices as I make the quick drive home. I’m debating on Thai or pizza when a woman on the sidewalk catches my eye. She’s carrying a red basket that reminds me of Little Red Riding Hood. In fact, give her a red coat, and she’d fit the bill perfectly.
The radio quiets as a text comes in and as I push the read button on the dashboard I miss the chance of seeing Little Red Riding Hood’s face.
It’s from Heather.
Already missing you. Call if you need a break
from work or decide you really don’t want an early bedtime.
It sounds even worse spoken by the robotic car voice.
I heave a sigh. I’m going to have problems with Heather.
Chapter Five
M.K.
The cats greet me at the door, as excited as any puppy. Anyone who says cats are not social has clearly never met my three.
“Get out of the way,
Gulliver,” I chide as the big orange cat almost trips me in his haste to race me to the kitchen. “I didn’t get anything for you, so don’t get so excited.”
Scarlett gives a loud meow of protest. I like to think they can understand me so I don’t feel too embarrassed when I talk to them.
They always listen; they never talk back or complain or criticize. Perfect conversation.
As I flip on the kitchen light, I see the flashing light on my phone. I still believe in having a separate home line, especially since my cell was the phone for Pain for a while. I check the message with a sinking feeling.
My mother is the only one who ever calls me.
“Moira Margaret, this is your mother.” She’s the only one who refuses to call me M.K. as well. “I haven’t heard from you this week, and neither has your sister. It’s rude of you not to call her and congratulate her on the baby—”
Another baby in the family. My second eldest sister Molly had announced her pregnancy via Instagram last week with a picture of her eighteen-month-old twins each dressed in matching pink and holding the American Girl dolls my mother bought them. New doll coming soon, Molly had posted. #Impregnantagain!
Because my mother acts like her own self-worth is dependent on her daughters getting married, Molly is the new favourite, having eclipsed the wedded glow of eldest sister, Millie, with a quick engagement to the son of a rival winery, announcing the news while Millie was still on her honeymoon. Her wedding took place six months after that, and then ten months after the wedding came the twins.
Since Molly had informed social media before me, I haven’t felt the need to call to congratulate her. Besides, the only thing I really want to say to her is to beg her to pick better names. The twins are Misty and Magpie.
The girls will eventually grow to hate her for that, and I smirk at the thought. In fact I’m so busy smirking that I miss the rest of my mother’s message. I delete it rather than replay it. It’s easier just to call her back.