Standing By: A Knight's Tale #2

by Burgoa, Claudia Y.

  “The ones you should stop eating?” Per her request, I stopped at number four. Why is she complaining?

  “That’s my cue to get back to work,” she points at the swinging doors and after setting her bowl on the counter, she heads to the front of the shop. Right, the damn bell. I follow behind but as I’m about to cross the doors I spot a guy with a half-smile looking at Hayley with devouring eyes. Instead of making myself visible, I watch.

  “I came earlier, but you weren’t around; did you hire a new guy or is he your boyfriend, Hayley?”

  “Huh?” I wish I could see her face because the little noise isn’t giving me a clue of what she’s thinking.

  “A tall guy, dark hair and—”

  “Ah, you’re talking about my brother.” Hayley interrupts. “What’s today’s craving?”

  “A date but if you’re planning on shutting me down again, let’s go for a double chocolate cupcake.”

  Hayley doesn’t respond to the date comment, she simply takes a single cupcake box, assembles it, puts on a disposable glove and takes the cupcake from the showcase before placing it inside the box. She does her signature show of wrapping it with the ribbon and hands it to him.

  “Four, thirty-two is your total,” the guy hands her a bill.

  “So, no date?”

  “No, sorry. I’m usually sleeping by seven o’clock at night.” She hands him the change. “Hope to see you soon.”

  “Hope to see you soon” and “Come and visit us again” are her customary phrases when she finishes a transaction, yet the guy beams with that phrase, waves at her and leaves. I decide to stay in the kitchen and wait for her.

  “That’s a lame way to shut him down.” I say as Hayley comes back and grabs her salad. “I go to bed at seven.”

  “I actually do.” She gives me a side-glance before taking another bite of her salad. “I go to bed at seven and wake up a little before three. Baker’s hours.”

  “At what time do you have fun?”

  “Uhmmm,” she takes more salad, chews, glares and those ghostly green eyes narrow. “Are you about to make fun of me?”

  “No.” I put my hands up in surrender. “Why would I, my dear Strawberry Shortcake? We have a peace treaty.”

  “Look, Strawberry Shortcake is a redhead that wears pink dresses with green and white stockings or maybe they’re tights. Either way, my hair isn’t auburn; obviously I’m not dressed like her, concluding the nickname makes no sense.”

  “Do your homework, child, there’s a reason why I call you that. However, I should change it for something more fitting. I’ll research. Now let’s talk about this lame life you have going on. I can’t help but worry about your wellbeing. First, is going to bed at seven at night, then the lack of interaction with humans before six in the morning. I need to fix this before you turn into a bitter old woman. A few days with my charming personality should rub in.”

  She scrunches her nose, sets her bowl on top of the stainless steel counter and walks to the back door. Hayley opens it and then glares back at me.

  “Out, the treaty is over.”

  “What did I do?” I give her my best innocent voice.

  “Spending just a few hours with you, I forgot how arrogant you are. Out.”

  “But we have to go through the books and set up a plan. Then go out, of course, I won’t make you go out if you’re scared of the big bad city. I thought you might enjoy a stroll around Central Park. We can do all those things the tourists do when they come to New York. We’ll call it—”

  “I don’t like you,” she walks to where I’m standing and touches my chest with her tiny index finger. “The only reason I’m trying to give this deal with Willows and you a go is because I need to save my dream—make this bakery a successful business, on top of proving my family wrong. They all think my store is going to lose its momentum soon and I need to buy myself a bit of time while I set up a new five-year plan. That doesn’t mean I have to deal with you and your attitude that drives me crazy.”

  “I’m good at planning.” I found the loophole and I’m taking advantage of it. Mitch 2, Muffet 0. “You’ve seen my sushi restaurants around the city. I’ve already opened a few in New Jersey, Brooklyn and there are four more under construction around the East Coast. Trust me, we can put this baby on the map; surely that will show your Dad and everyone that doesn’t believe in you that you know what you’re doing. Plus save your dream, assuming the bakery is that dream.”

  “I like that,” she says, taking her finger away from my chest. “Keep talking.”

  “You let me help you, in exchange for letting me take you out after you close the shop.”

  “What’s the catch, Mr. Knight?”

  “Catch?”

  “Yeah, the ulterior motive. What would you gain from me going out with you?”

  “I don’t know, Hayley.”

  I spike my hair with both hands and then comb it because she’s right, why would I do this; what do I get in return? Other than take the edge of boredom out of my life since there’s nothing other than work in my foreseeable future. I come up with a lame reason, hoping she’ll bite.

  “A lifetime supply of your delicious cupcakes.”

  “One, but no more than two per week,” is she negotiating? Gullible kid. “Not that I believe you for one second, Knight, I just really want something different for my shop. However, we’re doing it slowly and in a way I’m comfortable. No more loans, no selling my soul or any of that. Got it?”

  “No soul snatching, got it, Muffet.” I check the time and decide to stop playing for the day and go to work for a few hours before it’s time to get this girl out of her mouse hole. “We can find another part of you to sell.”

  Best reaction ever, gasp with open mouth that should end the score of 3-0.

  Chapter 7

  Hayley

  “I received the email. Now go and change,” Mitch barks, as he closes his phone.

  I just emailed him my end of the year numbers and for the next two weeks he’ll come daily to observe and analyze what we need to take the next step—or so he says. I’m weary about his recommendations-no-I fear that he’ll say this is a lost cause.

  “Change?” My forehead automatically becomes a frown. “You said wear comfortable clothes, these are my comfortable clothes.”

  I point at my Nirvana T-shirt, then my shorts and finally my flat thong sandals.

  “Should I switch my thongs for tennis shoes?”

  “I really didn’t need to know that you’re wearing a thong, unless you’re willing to show me.”

  I point at the shoes.

  “Thong sandals, you, idiot.” Then I head for my satchel purse and walk to the door. “Ready.”

  “You’re wearing a t-shirt of a band from last century, and… can you wear something less, Today is laundry day and these are the only clean items I found.”

  “As I said, these are my comfy clothes. No, I won’t choose another outfit. Unless of course, we’re heading to have tea with the queen, then I’ll think about changing my attire. What’s the plan?”

  “Tea with the queen, what does that mean?”

  “Mom’s motto. Every morning, you need to dress as if you’re going to have tea with the queen.” I did it for eighteen years, even when she was out of the country with Dad but after I left her controlling grasp, I made sure to wear what I liked. “For Mom specifically it means wearing famous designer’s clothing with high heels and a gallon of her expensive perfume.”

  “Can you wear something in between?”

  “Yes, but I choose not to.” I respond with a sweetly tone, open the door and wait for him to follow so I can lock the door. “Are we leaving? Because as you know, my bed time is seven and we don’t have much left… unless you need a refresher on how to tell time.”

  “You can be obnoxious, Miss Hayley Mae Roth-Welsh.” He heads outside.

  “One of my charms.” I stick my tongue out before locking the door behind him.

  Mitc
h hails a cab that takes us to Central Park, he hands a bill to the driver as I slide out of the car. To my left is the traffic of Central Park West and on the right is the restaurant Tavern on the Green. Beside the restaurant, the Bike and Roll Company is situated and I wonder if we’ll be taking a bike today. Before I can take a step towards the green grassy area, a woman pushing a three wheeled stroller runs by, followed by two cyclists and a few runners.

  “We’ve unloaded on a trafficked area,” Mitch says, picking me up from the waist to place me in a less dangerous spot where no one is passing through.

  “Rules, Mr. Knight,” I tell him, as I poke him on his chest. His embrace was uncomfortable… no, more like it unleashed a set of ants crawling around my body. Definitely something I don’t want to repeat. “No carrying, touching or manhandling the Hayley.”

  “That’s one rule,” he informs me.

  “Three. No carrying Hayley, No touching Hayley—”

  “You are still a rule freak. Wonderful,” he lifts his arms and shakes them twice, then after his semi-theatrical display he winks at me. “Nothing like a rule breaker to cure you of that. Now, let’s see, today I think we can walk the trails of Central Park. Any preference on which side?”

  “Fifth Avenue,” I tell him. “I like the East Side best.”

  He nods and we head to that side becoming part of the pedestrians who are enjoying the view, unlike the runners who are trying to take advantage of the beautiful foliage and peaceful scenery within one of the biggest cities in the world to exercise. Sometimes I forget that New York City is everything the tourists complain about: polluted, filled with rude pedestrians, street vendors, performers, trash and a force of manic energy that keeps you walking at the same speed as others. Those complaints wash out soon, and tourists schedule another fun vacation here. Only in New York do we party from the moment the sun goes down until it’s about to come up again—well, except for me.

  However, this man next to me thinks we’ll be out and about for the next few weeks—how many weeks is few weeks? I asked, and he chose to ignore me. Only said that at least for the next ten days he had a plan, playing tourist each evening. Joy.

  “Tomorrow we’ll ride our bikes.” Mitch points at the cyclists passing us.

  “Mine has a flat tire.”

  “Not to worry, I’ll have it fixed.”

  I haven’t ridden a bike since—I opened the bakery, tomorrow I’ll put to the test the phrase: It’s like riding a bike. You never forget.

  “What’s for Thursday?”

  “The Film Forum.”

  “The one with indie movies?” I ask, and as he confirms, I clap my hands. “Yay, we can watch one of those never seen before films and when we leave the theater, we’ll be able to discuss all about the gleanings of the script, the ersatz of the scenery or—”

  “Why would we do that? Can’t you just enjoy the movie?”

  “Fine, we’ll be different and won’t make any comments as we stroll outside the movie, while the rest of the spectators are making them.”

  “How would you know?” His curiosity is genuine.

  “Dad and I go a couple of times a year and on our way out we hear people saying things like that; things that if you listen closely make no sense whatsoever. I bet they have no idea how idiotic and ignorant they sound.”

  “You know, when you let that bitchy armor down, you can be fun.”

  “Oh, well thank you, I’ll make sure to email my bitchy side about your feedback.”

  “Anytime, are you up for a huge tour around the Statue of Liberty on Saturday?” I don’t think I’ve ever done that in my entire life.

  “Yes, but I’d rather do that Sunday afternoon if you don’t mind.” I tell him as I scroll through my calendar app. “On Saturday I have to decorate a wedding cake,” for James Rembrandt, the singer of Power Sound, I don’t say out loud or make fan girl noises while hyperventilating. I leave those scenes for when I’m alone, and there’s no danger of me breaking my NDA.

  Mitch agrees to postpone the trip to the Statue for Sunday, then tells me he wants to fit in MoMA, the Museum of Natural History, a sail through the Hudson River and the Empire State Building before the end of the next week. By then I should have covered most of the touristy spots and had my fill of street food or his own cooking.

  As the buildings on Fifth Avenue peek through tall trees, I point out that we should stop heading west and start walking North before the traffic, and polluted noise takes away my fantasy of being in the middle of a meadow.

  “Right, I got carried away with our plans,” Mitch says. “Since you’re a New Yorker, where did you live while growing up?”

  “Here and there.” I point at one of the buildings on Fifth Avenue. “You see the one that looks like it has a house on top with the red roof? Dad bought Mom an apartment right in that building. It’s almost exactly across the street from where the zoo is, great view if you ask me. That’s what she requested back when she was pregnant with me. She’s from New Jersey, and she always wanted to live across the park.”

  “You said here and there, where else did you live, Hayley?”

  “Well, when they traveled—Mom and Dad—I’d go to Mel’s brownstone home. Mel was Dad’s first wife.” I don’t remember where she lived back then. I was ten or eleven when she moved to a three-bedroom apartment, right on the other side of the park. “At nine they started to shuffle me between Parker and Mel and at thirteen when they officially broke up, Mom would leave me at Dad’s.”

  There are things I still don’t understand about their relationship. Mom was the known mistress, and she had me, the love child. Dad divorced his wife when she found out about us, but he never married Mom. It is, as if we weren’t worth as much as his other two families. He paid for my education, my clothing, whatever Mom wanted, but never gave us more than that. Family time, love… It hurts; some would think of me as shallow. I grew up with money, but there are things it will never buy. The pit of my stomach aches with the fear of never belonging; my arms and legs start to quiver with the memory of their rejection. The sudden need of using my razor box arises, that same box I swear after the rush is gone, I’d never use again. Those slices make me feel whole even if it only lasts less than five minutes. It’s hard to understand how that simple act gives me the control I need to survive to the next day. The shallow struggle of a lonely person.

  “How about you?” I turn the question in hopes that I’ll recover my grip quickly.

  “I didn’t like the way I grew up,” Mitch shares. “Up until the age of sixteen, we traveled all over the world. Mom homeschooled us most of the time and tutors also contributed to our education. We all speak more than one language and play several instruments…I finished college and got my master’s degree before I could buy a beer. Then I moved out of the country and landed here. That’s where I met Parker.”

  “Where is out of the country?” I ask. “Why New York, when there are plenty of other places?”

  “England,” he stops and looks at the horizon. “Dad’s from there.” I shrug; he makes his life sound like an international tour. That sounded like a sweet deal.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I liked the house my parents live in. It has everything; enough room to have three families living there. Which is Mom’s plan, to be able to have her three children and their families there for the holidays” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “However, it felt to me like every other house we had lived in. One of the reasons for my move was because I wanted something that belonged to me. My twin brother left to pursue his career, my younger brother was still in school and thinking about opening an advertising company. I handled our investments—Jake’s and mine—Liam didn’t have access to his small inheritance from grandpa. Cooking always gave me a sense of home, family and I believed it was what I wanted to do. The investments were easy to handle at any time, and I learned how to manage a restaurant from scratch with the help of Parker. Why New York? Because it’s relatively close to my parents.”


  As a couple strolls with their twins and their dog, another mother walks with a toddler in hand and other dog owners follow the same route, my tension dissipates; the stress level I carried up until now disappears and the feeling of … nothingness, yes just pure joy follows me. Well, that and Mitch. It’s been a long time since I felt at peace with the world, connected to something besides the bakery. Perhaps leaving the place casually isn’t as bad as I feared it would be.

  “Why did you choose to be a baker?” he interrupts our silence. However, the disturbance to that peaceful space I created doesn’t seem… intrusive? Until of course, he chuckles. “Other than that you can’t cook even if your life depended on it.”

  “Mel—Dad’s first wife—and I baked all the time,” I explain to him without going much into the detail of how I spent more time with my father’s first wife than my own mother, because as of right now, I’m not sure why that happened. “My first memory is of us in her kitchen making Christmas cookies for Santa. She always said that Santa loved sugary things, and my goal had been to make him happy. We started to try new cookie recipes, then we graduated to cakes and by the time I turned thirteen I could make a lot of French pastries. She paid for several classes, from frostings to decorating. When the time came to choose a career, I rebelled. If Parker was able to do whatever he wanted with his life, why not me?”

  “How did they take it?” He takes my hand and pulls me to the trail where the sign says boathouse. We come face to face with a one-story brick building sporting a green roof and iron tables. I think we’re eating here but instead we walk around it to the lake where several boats are being rowed by couples or families.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever done that,” I point at the closest boat.

  “Me neither,” Mitch confesses. “We’re renting a boat, then we’ll head to dinner. So you were telling me about how they took your rebellion.”