by Ruby Lang
She jiggled with the door, which didn’t want to open. The alarm beeped a warning, even though she’d disarmed it. On the fourth try, she finally succeeded in getting it to work. “Sorry. I’m having trouble with the system. I think too many people coming in and out is stressing it out.”
“I get it. It wants to make sure I’m not armed.”
She relaxed for the first time all day. If he were angry at her—and who wasn’t?—a few words with him would probably be the best thing that happened to her all week. She couldn’t help smiling. “No tomatoes?”
“Not one.”
He smiled back.
The alarm beeped again for no apparent reason.
“This security smart-lock combo is going to kill me. Please come in so that the house doesn’t freak out because I’ve left the door open for too long.”
“Wow, it’s cold in here,” he said, stepping across the threshold.
“Central air. It’s probably costing Byron a fortune. I do feel sorry for him, but he’s also been a jerk, I figure I can’t feel too guilty about it.”
They stood awkwardly for a moment. Then Ty said, “I wanted to apologize,” right as Magda blurted, “I wanted to thank you.”
Magda recovered first. “You have nothing to say sorry for. In fact, you saved me.”
“From a fruit.”
“You dove in front of me so fast. And you saved the suit.”
She waved at herself. Well, she was still wearing the skirt, which was wrinkled, but had taken off the short-sleeved jacket. Another housekeeping task she’d have to take care of. He had changed, of course. No more stains on him. His T-shirt stretched nicely over the chest she’d only briefly admired once long ago, and he was wearing a pair of crisp Bermuda shorts.
While she only had on a camisole, she realized.
And, of course, when she’d gestured at herself, he’d shot her a swift, encompassing glance that she’d felt all through her body; she’d invited him to gaze upon all this glory, after all.
Another slightly awkward silence.
“Well, I’m still sorry,” he said. “I know we’re on opposite sides, but I don’t want people to throw things at you.”
“It was startling.”
“I, uh, also brought a peace offering.”
He opened the canvas bag slung at his shoulder and pulled out a stack of neat boxes. “It’s the deluxe dumpling assortment. My sister cooks at Golden Egg. It’s my favorite thing on the menu.”
Magda blinked. He’d brought her food. When she found her voice again, she said, “I love dumplings. And I’m starving. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.”
“In this heat, you should really make sure you feed yourself. I saw a woman pass out on the subway platform this morning. Luckily there were paramedics already there.”
“It’s terrible.” She hesitated. “You’ll join me, of course? In the air conditioning?”
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
He grinned wide and she found herself staring helplessly at him.
With another start, she ushered him toward the kitchen. For half a minute, she considered bringing him upstairs to the dining room table. It was, after all, set with gleaming silverware and plates, and, as Byron said, plates to hold plates. But she’d have to clean up and reset everything and it wouldn’t be the same. The place settings told a story, she’d told Byron, but that story was fiction—a romance.
That couldn’t happen.
The smell of ginger and sesame oil wafted up toward her. Magda sighed and opened up a drawer, and pulled out some plastic utensils and a stack of napkins while Ty unpacked the dumplings.
They were beautiful, plump, and shiny, deftly pinched and plaited. Magda felt like she hadn’t eaten in a long time; she hadn’t cooked anything in even longer. It seemed strange that a plate of dumplings made by someone else could remind her so strongly of the things she loved and missed.
Ty said, “You also mentioned something about taking any offers. I wondered...so we might be ready to make a bid in a few weeks. We’ve been promised funding from the borough president’s office and a couple of corporate donors. I wanted to see if we had a chance. If you’ve had any other people interested.”
Magda carefully set some plastic forks and knives and chopsticks, a plate for him, a plate for her, aligning them precisely opposite each other. She wanted to be careful not to betray her disappointment. Of course, he was here to talk about the garden. He wanted to make sure the tomato hurler hadn’t spoiled their chances of securing the garden.
It wasn’t like her relationship with Ty had been warm before now.
“I’m not really at liberty to tell you much about other bids.” Partly because there weren’t any. “Like I said, I’ll pass on any serious offers. Thanks so much for bringing all this food.”
“Well, I wanted a chance to have the dumpling sampler before Jenny changes direction. She’s moving to Portland and I—well, you’re helping me out.”
She looked up. “You said she’s a cook?”
“She’s taking on a position as executive chef. She trained at the American Culinary School.”
“Oh, the ACS. I went there. For a while at least.”
“Really? When?”
“I dropped out this past winter. I was there for a couple of years.”
“After Jenny’s time, then. Well, I can’t blame you for quitting. Everything I’ve heard from my sister about restaurant work sounds rough. The hours are long. You get burned and nicked with knives. Pay’s not great.”
She nodded, not really wanting to talk too much about it. Instead, she picked up a solid, slightly translucent dumpling, and admired the chives glowing under its thin skin. It burst gently in her mouth, and then the juices hit her tongue. It tasted green, and brothy, and salty, and warm, and soothing. She didn’t even want to chew. She just wanted that flood of comfort again and again.
They were both quiet.
“This is really good,” she said.
She was not going to cry over a dumpling. She was not going to shed tears over one bad day in a string of bad days. She hadn’t fallen apart because of her failure at school, and she certainly wouldn’t now because she was faced with the knowledge she’d never make something like this one perfect dumpling, let alone three perfect boxes of them. She was not going to feel bad because Ty was here because of the garden. She wasn’t even supposed to like him. Except she did. She liked his goofy, pleased grin, his floppy hair. She liked his hands, his wrists, the fact that they were engaged in subtly pushing the dumpling boxes toward her, even though she’d tried to place the food so carefully in the middle.
But this maneuvering was for the garden, and not for her. And she was going to take what time she could get with him anyway. She wasn’t going to send him away any more than she was going to stop eating these dumplings.
“Try this one with the mushrooms,” Ty said. “The textures are amazing and it’s so rich, with a crunchiness, and softness, and that whole umami thing going on.”
“Your sister taught you well.”
“She has important things to say, so I try to listen.”
She envied his sister—no, that wasn’t what she was feeling. She didn’t feel sisterly at all.
He stared at his plate, drawing little lines in the puddle of soy sauce with his chopsticks. “The funny thing is, what really made her want to move was this whole mess with the garden. She says seeing me get involved made her wish she had something similar in her life—some cause, some community.”
“You sound like you don’t believe it. But you’ve got a place there. You’re loved. People respect and listen to you.”
“And they don’t you? Don’t you have family here?”
“They love me a lot. And I have a place. Too much of one. My dad died before I knew him but I’ve never felt unparented
, even now. My sisters have kids, and I’m still their baby. But the worst thing is, I feel like I haven’t earned my way to becoming anything else for them.”
“Why would you say that? Like, you wear a suit all the time. You’re...you’re polished. Babies are many good things but they aren’t polished.”
She laughed. “I don’t feel that way. Especially on a day like today, when it’s hot and I’m walking around with that suit sticking to me. A suit which I wear all too often because I’m supposed to look p—”
“Say it.”
“Professional. I’m supposed to look professional if I ever hope to sell anything. At least that’s the idea. But it’s been months and I haven’t moved this house or the lot—”
“The garden.”
“Yeah. I get that it’s a slow season for this kind of real estate. But it’s New York and I’m not getting bites and I’m starting to wonder if it’s me. If I’m not right for this. If I should quit the way I’ve quit everything else. At this rate, I don’t think you have to worry about whether you’ll have the opportunity to make an offer. Yours might be the only offer.”
“Listen, I’d be really happy and relieved if that proves true. But our money is money and people seem to like it. I find it hard to believe your family could be disappointed in you if you’re bringing it in.”
“That’s the worst thing. They love me a lot. They accept my many failures because they expect it. I’m not disappointing. I’m confirmation.”
“Hey.”
“It’s fine. They never expected much from me to begin with. As far as they’re concerned, I’m a kid they’ll have to look after for the rest of their lives. So when I drop out of my graduate program, when I quit cooking school, when I fail to sell this house, they’ll say to me, Oh, it’s good that you tried. And they’ll pat me on the head and tell me to do something less challenging.”
“I think my point is that you’ve set up challenges for yourself.”
“Well, I wish someone aside from me would believe I’m up to taking them.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you and your polished, professional suit strike terror into me every time you walk into the garden. So clearly I believe that you’re up to doing your job.”
“Terror? Really?”
She almost laughed.
“Fear, abject and complete. That’s what you inspire in me. Well, other stuff, too. But I wouldn’t be this scared, we wouldn’t be working this hard on saving the garden if we didn’t believe that you were able to sell it.”
Magda sat back. She’d never thought of it that way. “That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me—and my suit. Which you saved, today.”
He smiled at his plate, then looked up into her eyes. “Yeah, well, I can’t regret it. I...as much as I don’t want the garden sold, I was also scared when I thought someone might hurt you.”
She stared back at him. “What was the other stuff that I inspired?” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“You said I inspired fear and abject terror in you whenever I showed up at the garden. But I also inspired other stuff. What was it?”
“Oh.”
He glanced down again. He put down his chopsticks and very carefully wiped his lips with his napkin. He leaned over the counter, close to her, so close she could feel his gentle breath across her face.
She didn’t pull away.
“I think about what it would be like if I”—he was speaking low, so low that only she would ever hear this—“if I kissed you.”
She was dizzy, probably from holding her breath. And she felt herself nodding, as if he’d asked a question, as if the answer were yes. Because it would be. It was. “That’s what I inspire?”
“Yes.”
“Then kiss me.”
* * *
Until now, he had hardly touched her.
Her eyes were cast down, her lips parted. He shouldn’t—he definitely shouldn’t—but then she glanced up again, right into his eyes, and he closed the small space left between them and pressed his lips to hers.
His hand came up to touch her cheek, to trace softly the voluptuous skin of her earlobe, down to the stubborn jut where her jaw began. He felt her breathe again under him, a sigh, and her mouth opened slightly so that the warmth of her curled around him, and they breathed into each other for a moment, until her tongue glided across his lips.
He couldn’t hold himself back. His hand tightened, pulling her toward him. He banged his elbow on the hard, granite counter as she grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer. She slapped her other hand down on the counter and the crack of her palm on the surface nearly scared them apart—nearly. A quick breath and they were at it again: soft, hard, warm, wet. As if by agreement, they began to maneuver themselves to the end of the table, their teeth clashing, their movements labored as they slid awkwardly past their plates and chopsticks, bumped into a chair on his side, and—for one precarious moment—a box of dumplings on hers. They reached the end, and finally, their bodies closed the gaps between them, her arms around his neck, his hands sliding down the silky, thin material on her back. And always, their lips and tongues moved together.
And just when Ty was starting to press her into the counter, trying to get closer, to feel as much as he could of her, just as he was starting to move, his body was starting to scream it wanted more, the lights went out.
No, not only the lights, the stove and microwave clock went black. The sound of the air conditioning clicked off abruptly. The alarm system shrieked once, then fell silent.
Ty let go of Magda. Or she let go of him, and they both stood, holding the counter, breathing heavily. “What did we do?” Magda asked a little shakily.
“Our kissing shorted out the power?”
They both laughed uncomfortably. But it did feel like they’d caused some sort of electrical surge, although it felt too new and raw to mention it. Ty was still tingling. But ever rational, he volunteered to go down and check the fusebox. Whatever that meant.
“Let’s go together,” Magda said.
To the light of their phones, they picked their way carefully down the stairs. Ty stared at the box. He switched everything off, and then on again. Nothing.
“In my extremely un-expert opinion, I think we might need to call an electrician.”
Magda was scrolling through her phone. “I’m on Twitter. Looks like there may have been a power outage.”
“On one of the hottest days this year when everyone has their air conditioner on full. I guess that makes sense. I wonder how long it’ll take them to fix it.”
It had already started to get warm in the house. Not that Ty really noticed, because he was still hot from the kiss.
“Let’s go upstairs and peek at the streetlights to make sure,” he suggested.
They went back up again and opened the door. The security system—and the locks—gave another ominous screech.
Outside, the whole block was dark. But the sound of people shouting and horns beeping, the wail of ambulances down the block could be heard.
“I guess that answers that. Are those fancy locks on a backup system?”
“I—I don’t know. My idea of a backup system is an actual physical key which I left at the office. I can deadbolt it from the inside, though.”
“From the inside? You aren’t staying. You don’t live here, do you?”
“No, I have my own apartment. But I’m in Brooklyn, and I can’t see going back tonight. Besides, I don’t feel good about going all the way back in this mess, or about leaving the house alone with this one lock, not after someone already tried to break in.”
“But—”
“Or what if the power comes back on in the middle of the night and the security system freaks out? It’s on me to keep everything here together.”
She
was starting to look small, and alone. Ty didn’t want her to look so forlorn.
“If the blackout goes on for a while, do you at least have somewhere to sleep in this house?”
She bit her lip. The same lips he’d been licking and sucking minutes ago.
Not the time and place.
“There is one bed. It’s...the show bed.”
“One bed,” he repeated stupidly, his brain spiraling out in inappropriate ways. “A show bed. What does that mean?”
“It’s staged to make the room look like a real bedroom so people can picture themselves there. Gives them some ideas.”
He hadn’t seen it, but it was definitely giving him ideas.
Magda continued, “The sheets have been ironed and the pillows are all arranged. I guess I could sort of take the pillows down and lie on the mattress. Carefully. Or maybe I could make a bed out of the pillows and plump them up again. I really don’t want to have to iron the sheets, though.”
She’d set her shoulders. She’d clearly already decided to suck it up and stay here. It was an empty house. It wasn’t like an entire edifice could be stolen in the night. Still, he could sort of understand the urge to protect it. He wondered why she thought she was a quitter when it was clear she was willing to endure indignities and discomfort when she thought it was what was required of her. He wasn’t sure she needed to do it. The house would be safe for one night. And even if it wasn’t, what would she be able to do alone?
“You could spend the night at my place,” he said. “That’s not a come-on, by the way. But my bed—for you—couch for me, is much more comfortable to sleep on than a bunch of throw pillows of different sizes and shapes that will scatter across the floor as soon as you try to lie down on them. Or move on them.”