by Rosie Chase
“Yes, I do know how this kind of thing could impact someone like you. Or Rei. Or Maya or any of you. Yes. I know because I was where you are ten years ago. I know because, as much as you think I sleep on sheets made of angel feathers and drink nothing but unicorn tears or whatever the hell weird-ass rich people thing you’ve dreamed up, I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth, Sam Davis. None of us in my family did.”
Then he paused for a moment, checked his watch, seemed to mull something over, then met my eyes again. There was a glimmer there now. Something playful. Dangerous.
“What are you doing the rest of the day?”
I shrugged.
“I’d like to take you somewhere for dinner.”
“Another party?”
He laughed.
“Not hardly. Will you come with me? I promise no bike this time.”
I was surprised to find myself vaguely disappointed.
“You look like you’ve got some kind of point to prove.”
“Yeah,” he said, pulling a brand new phone out of his back pocket and flicking it open. He sent off a text. “I kinda do. What do you say?”
I looked at him long and hard. His penetrating eyes, his sexy sweet grin, that easy, open way he leaned against my counter with the half-devoured plate of sausage biscuits and gravy at his elbow.
“Yeah,” I said. “What the hell, why not.”
I walked with him out of The Bakery where we were met by Tom.
“Everything’s ready, Michael,” he said, as he walked with us through the hallway and toward the lobby.
“Thanks, Tom,” he said. Michael handed Tom his phone, who typed something into it, then handed it back.
“Have a good time,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Take the night off. Oh… actually. I have dinner reservations at Le Monde. You should take them.”
“I was planning to,” he said with a cheeky wink to me.
I smiled back at him. The next thing I knew we were being ushered into the back of a black sedan and the old river city was whizzing past us. We pulled up to a white building with a curved roof and… shit. It was a private airport.
I snorted as the driver came around to open my door.
“What’s all this? You taking me to Rome or something? That’s kind of cliche, my dude.”
There was that smile again.
“Rome’s not really my kind of town,” he said simply.
I slung my backpack onto my shoulder and followed him into the building.
Getting from my tiny ass town in the mountains of North Carolina had meant hitching with a trucker customer who happened to be going as far as Lexington and then bumming a ride with one of Nellie’s cousins from there to the hotel. I’d given her as much money for gas as I could afford, three jars of Nellie’s apple butter, and a batch of my snickerdoodle cookies.
And now I was sitting on a private jet. There was room for eight people on board and all the seats were leather and everything smelled not only new but… expensive. I was afraid to touch anything and kept my hands to myself. When we took off, though, I gripped the leather armrests, digging my fingers in and breathing deep. Once we were up in the air, I felt my heart steady its rhythm.
I looked across the silly plastic (was it glass? Shit.) table at Michael. He sat back, leisurely opening a bottle of water and handing it across to me. I took a quick drink.
“If you’re trying to prove to me that rich people live just like everyone else it’s… not working.”
“I’m not going to apologize to you for my money, Sam. This is part of my life and I’m not going to feel guilty about it.”
I looked away from him and out the window.
“Besides… this is Ollie’s plane.”
I chuckled, looked down at the clouds.
“I’ve only flown once before.”
“Oh yeah?”
I shivered and Michael rose, took a blanket from an overhead cabinet, and spread it over me.
“When I was a kid…” I started, “Well, I lived with my grandmother after my mom gave me the boot. We didn’t have any money but I was pretty happy with her. And then… she passed away. After that, I lit out to find my dad. I’d never met him. I knew his name. A librarian helped me look him up. I spent everything I had on the Greyhound. Asheville to St. Louis. God it was such a long trip. I showed up on his doorstep.”
Michael merely watched me, intent to listen.
“He put me on a plane the next day. Gave me a hundred dollars. Told me not to contact him again.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“I’m sorry, Sam.”
“Don’t be. He’s an ass. I should've known. My mom only ever dated scumbags.”
Michael nodded.
“He had a nice house, though. A nice car.” I looked out the window again, watched the foamy white froth spread out like a bed of meringue beneath us. When I’d flown before, I sat on the aisle. The lady with the cart kept bumping my elbow. I remembered feeling sick. Sour. Like I’d never want to eat again. I remembered thinking about the way my dad’s house looked, the way the toys were strewn around in the open garage, the two little girls who were playing with sidewalk chalk in the driveway.
“A nice family,” I heard myself say. A quieter version of my own voice.
There was a long, long moment. It drew out like molasses. Slow and thick and dark. A sticky by-product of something sweeter. Something I never had.
“He didn’t deserve you, Sam,” Michael said, his voice something between a whisper and a growl.
“I know,” I said. And I looked back out at the sky, the clouds, the little flecks of ice on the window.
Chapter Nine
“Holy shit,” I said as we approached the car and the smell of jet fuel and expensive leather finally left my nose. “Where are we? Are we…”
There was salt in the air. And a tangy scent, fresh and cool, it brushed my skin and blew my hair away from my face.
“The ocean…” I said. “Holy shit. Are we at the ocean?”
“Yeah,” Michael said. “We’re in Port Kenolee, Georgia.”
“Port…”
“This is where I grew up. Well, not here. Come on.”
This time we didn’t get into the back of a black sedan. Instead, Michael fished a pair of keys out of his pocket and opened the passenger door to an old timey, light pink convertible with white leather seats.
“I promise,” Michael said as he pulled out onto the road. “We will come back for the beach. But I don’t want to miss dinner.”
“Where are we going?”
He pulled up to a stop light, turned and flashed me that million (billion?) dollar smile, and said simply, “Home.”
We trundled through the little town, its store fronts a mixture of genuine old-timey upkeep and tourist-chic renovation. The sea breeze caressed my skin, tugged at my hair. I closed my eyes, let myself take it in. Enjoy it. Smile.
We turned and turned again, under a canopy of Spanish moss and onto a curving road that bordered briney-smelling swamp land. The houses became less well-maintained and more dilapidated. And then they grew further apart.
Another bend in the road and Michael pulled the convertible into a busy gravel lot in front of an old, two-story white-washed house. A sign out front said “Mattie’s” in pink neon. People milled around in front of the place, talking and laughing and hugging. And the vehicles ranged from ancient pick-ups to brand new Benzes.
“You ready?” Michael asked, that playful grin so sexy I wanted to smack it off his face.
“I doubt it,” I said.
But when he got out and opened the car door for me, I followed him anyway. And, damn, as soon as we got up onto the porch of the place, I was assaulted by the smell of home cooking, the closeness of people, the rowdiness of happy diners.
The inside was packed. Everyone sat around tables with red-checkered tablecloths and plates full of chicken n’ d
umplins, country ham, golden brown fried chicken, corn breaded shrimp, fried apples dripping in brown sugar and spices, and huge, sweating glasses of iced tea.
“What… what is this—”
“Michael! Baby! Why didn’t you call ahead? Did you take Ollie’s plane? Silly boy. What, you just couldn’t wait till Sunday for some of Mattie’s good cornbread? Lord, help you. Aren’t they feedin’ you up in the big city? Hell on earth, let’s get you sat down. Oh, who’s this?”
The woman was five feet if anything and round as a beach ball with huge dimples and a smile bigger, even, than Michael’s. She looked from Michael to me and then back to Michael.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Sam. I’m a baker.”
Why I said my profession in addition to my name, why I said I’m a baker and not a friend, why I said anything other than my name was a mystery to me. It’s just what came out. Apparently, it was how I self-identified.
The funny thing was. It was the first time I’d ever said it.
The first time I’d ever acknowledged my role in life.
I was a baker.
“Oh, how wonderful! Michael’s never brought one of his baker friends home before, have you Michael?”
“I—”
But he couldn't get a word out. The little woman took my hand and trundled toward a set of double doors at the back of the room.
“Let’s get the both of you a table. What’s your favorite thing to make, honey?”
“Apple stack cakes,” I said without delay. I made bread every morning, made cakes for all kinds of occasions, experimented with custards and mousses and pastry and meringue but, at the end of the day, nothing beat the sweet, spongy layers of soft cake and spicy apples.
“Oh, that’s good. You brought a good ‘un home, Michael. Let’s get you some food.”
The doors opened onto a backyard strung with glowing lanterns and crowded with more checkered covered tables, almost all full. The sun was setting, the air was cool, and the briney breeze blew through the scene, chasing away the muggy warmth that had been there before. The woman ushered us to one of two empty places and we dutifully sat.
“You want some sweet tea, honey?” she asked me. She reminded me exactly of Nellie’s grandma. The hardworking woman who’d built Apple Butter and then gifted it to Nellie before she died.
“Yes, ma’am.” I replied, unable to control the grin spreading my mouth.
“Alright. Michael. But Mattie’s not here, you know. She’s carried off to some church meeting or other. You both want some dumplin’s? They’re good and hot. And some collards too, I know, Michael, hush up. Maybe some apples, honey?”
I nodded, my eyes wide at the way this itty-bitty woman who barely came up to Michael’s waist pushed him around and he just grinned like it was no big deal.
“That’s my Aunt Germaine,” he said, when she’d gone toward the doors. “She’s been working here all my life.”
“And who’s Mattie?”
“She’s my other aunt. This is where I grew up.” He jerked his thumb back behind him, toward the restaurant and the house and the whole beautiful pink sky, as if the entire scene were his domain. Maybe it was.
“When I was a kid,” he said, “This was after my daddy died—he’d been in the Navy and we’d been living in Virginia Beach but I don’t remember it—and my mamma brought us back to Kenolee. It was my mamma, my Aunt Germaine, and my Aunt Mattie, and Mattie’s husband, Art. And my sister and Mattie and Art’s kids. We all lived here. We all worked here. That kitchen there—” He turned and pointed to a room with all the windows open, steam filtering out through the screens. “That’s where I baked my first cake. It was for my mamma’s birthday.”
“What kind was it?”
“Her favorite. Hummingbird cake.”
I smiled, pictured a younger, more innocent version of Michael and his two tiered cake, smelling like canned pineapple and over-ripe bananas, watching with a grin as his mother blew out the candles. The scene put a lump in my throat. A pain in my chest.
“My mamma died when I was eighteen. Cancer. And Art passed about five years ago. So now it’s Mattie and Germaine and Donna, Mattie’s oldest girl. She’s probably wherever Mattie is.”
Germaine brought out two big glasses of sweet tea and a young woman walked in her wake with a huge tray of food. She set big platters in front of us. Chicken n’ dumplin’s, steaming collards, spicy apples, pinto beans with hunks of country ham. The smell of fat, salt, spice, sugar… it coalesced into one perfect scent. This is what home smelled like.
For Michael.
And, since I found Nellie and Eric, for me, too.
I swallowed hard, trying to clear the tightness in my throat.
“Are you headin’ back tonight, Michael?” Germaine asked once all the food was on the table and settled.
“Yes, ma’am. I think so. We both need to get back to Louisville.”
She looked at the two of us and then said, “Alright, well, I’ll tell Sully to go ahead and open up your place just in case. You might wanna catch some shut eye before then.”
And then she was gone.
“Sully?” I asked, picking up my fork and trying to decide where to start.
“My cousin. He keeps an eye on my house when I’m not there.”
Turns out the food was just as delicious as I’d expected. We ate in silence. Well, not silence, exactly. I moaned a lot. And I mean… a lot. Every bite was perfect. Every flavor spot on.
When we were finished, the girl who’d been following Germain around brought a plate of chocolate cake and I dipped my fork into the soft, spongy goodness.
“Oh shit,” I said. “Is that mayonnaise cake?”
Michael nodded. He’d grinned at me through the entire meal and now I could tell he was stifling a laugh.
“I make this stuff at least twice a week at Apple Butter. It goes like crazy. It’s such a simple recipe but I think most people just don’t bake at home anymore.”
I took a bite. It was… good. Not perfect.
Not, I thought, as good as mine.
“The ratio’s off,” Michael said, watching me keenly.
“It’s…” I chewed and thought. “It’s the baking soda. Just a tiny bit.”
He shook his head. “I’ve been telling her for years. She won’t listen.”
“But you’re—”
“To my aunts, I’ll always be Nicki’s little boy. Round here, the fancy hotels, the private jet, the expensive bike… it don’t mean shit.”
“That can’t be completely true,” I said, thinking how much Michael’s money might have meant to his family over the years.
“You’re right. I helped my sister get set up in Los Angeles when she was starting out. Germaine’s boy too. He fixes up classic cars. I paid to have Mattie’s ancient stand mixer repaired because she refused to get a new one. They know if they need anything, I’m there. I’ve helped out with medical bills. And, I’ve bought a lot of the land around this place to make sure no one tries to edge them out. My money helps, sometimes. But it doesn’t give me any power in their world. This is my mamma’s world. Germaine and Mattie’s world. Someday, maybe, I’ll inherit a piece of it. But more likely it’ll be Donna because she’s the one that stuck around. They don’t give a shit if I’m marginally famous. They’re proud I’ve done well but…”
“To them, you’re not the Cake King.”
“Right. I’m just family.”
I breathed out the word.
“Family.”
Michael pushed out from the table.
“You wanna see the ocean?”
Chapter Ten
Obviously, I’d seen the ocean in movies. I’d seen it on TV and in books. But nothing—and I mean nothing—can prepare a girl from the mountains, where a person’s whole horizon is just an unbroken, undulating blue line, for the sight of the seemingly endless sea. Nothing can prepare her for the sound the waves make. The way they crash and scrape on the sand. The way they mean something be
autiful and life-giving and dangerous and terrifying all at once. The way the breeze comes off the sea and caresses her face and seems to say, There is more. There is freedom. There is more.
I stood there, my bare feet sinking into the sand, my jeans rolled up past my ankles, the waves splashing around me, sucking the sand out from under me. Tears came to my eyes.
The waves felt, to me, like pure, endless possibility.
Michael wrapped his arm around my shoulder, pulled me close to the warmth of his body, and I went. I wound my arm around his firm waist, gripped the soft fabric of his t-shirt. And I watched, wordlessly, as wave after wave after wave kissed the shore.
The sky darkened behind me and the moon rose.
I turned, pressed my face into Michael’s chest.
“Why did you bring me here? Why did you show me this?”
It was a long time before he answered and I listened, for several moments, to the waves and the beat of his heart and the way that they were the same. Constant, powerful.
“I needed you to know me, Sam.” The low rumble of his voice vibrated through me.
“Why?”
“Because I need to know you.”
I looked up at him, in the near dark, I could only make out the barest form of his features. His gentle smile, his honey brown eyes. His hand came up to cradle my cheek, my jaw. He ran the tip of his thumb over my bottom lip.
I knew what was coming. And I wanted it.
I closed my eyes.
And there were Michael’s lips against my own. Soft, sweet. Exactly as perfect as they were just a few nights ago. I hadn’t imagined it. His mouth melted into mine and I opened to him. He pulled me close. Closer. I felt his hips against mine, felt his erection press into me even as his tongue swept through my mouth.
I needed this. I needed him. Now.
I tugged at the back hem of his shirt, slid my hands up under the fabric, moaned at the smooth, firm musculature of his back. Felt the vibration of his voice as he groaned under my touch.
He kept me close enough to kiss but started to pull at my shirt.
“Wait,” I breathed. “What about… I mean. It’s a beach. What about—” another desperate kiss “what about people.”