The Colour of Tea (19 page)

Then the world went quiet. The stage black as night. A man and a woman appeared as if in the moonlight, the lights against their bodies making them look like snow. Gray and silver and blue and white. They held each other on a pedestal shaped like a floating iceberg, moving together as though in a kind of trance. Languidly lifting and sliding over each other like water. They made a single being, holding each other with their faces pressed close together like Klimt lovers. Each breath tangled with the other’s, fitting into each other’s bodies like a jigsaw. The man’s face was ethereal and silver, strong and perfect, as if carved from marble. I could almost feel the shape of his cheekbone against mine, his cool, thick fingers on my flushed skin. A sweet shiver rippled over my body. The thought of him against me, pressing into me. My breath caught in my throat.

Pete leaned over as if to say something. He reached for my hand, perhaps looking at me in the dark. But I could not turn to him. My eyes were fixed on that stage, on the being that seemed made of ice. My body quivered with that wonderful feeling. Desire. My skin tingling. The thought of a touch that could make me shiver all over, cool my burning skin and make me feel like I was melting.

Your loving daughter,
Grace

La Fièvre—Fever

Rose with Dark Chocolate and Hot Ginger Ganache

G
igi disagrees with Rilla about the placement of the
macarons.
She leans over the counter, clucking in disapproval.

“You can’t go putting
this
macaron
with
that
macaron,
” she says, exasperated. Her fingers tap on the glass, pointing out
Rêves d’un Ange
and
Coeurs Curatifs
lying next to each other like casual lovers. I glance over Rilla’s shoulder as I spoon froth onto the top of a cappuccino. They are both white, and would look better separated. Marjory doesn’t look up from her magazine and coffee, but I hear her stifle a knowing laugh, so I can tell she is listening.

Rilla’s face falls, wounded. She gives me a quick look, hoping I’ll rescue her. I shrug; this is not my battle.

“Well …” Rilla stammers, pulling herself up to her full height, which is still tiny. “Well, thank you. But that’s your opinion.”

Gigi flicks her eyes skyward and shakes her head. Her eyelids are painted with fashionable charcoal gray; a red, oversize watch swings from her slender wrist. “Yeah, okay. Whatever.” She sighs dramatically.

Rilla looks back to me, biting her lip. I give her a reassuring
wink. She smiles, flushed with new confidence. When the door chimes, they both turn toward it.

“’Ello!” The voice carries across the café as Léon strides to the counter, carrying a bag in his left hand. There is laughter glittering behind his eyes, a broad smile on his face. Rilla offers him a polite hello, but Gigi stands back, staring suspiciously.

“Hi, Léon, how are you?”

“I am well, Grace, and you?” He leans forward to kiss my cheeks, his warm breath whispering across my earlobes.

“Fine.” I falter slightly and clear my throat.

Rilla takes the cappuccino from my hands and delivers it to the customer waiting at a table by the window. I can see Marjory lifting her head, glancing between Léon and me.

“Léon, this is Gigi.”

Gigi looks at me and then gives Léon her hand. He takes it and shakes it lightly. She gives him a wary stare.

“Hello, and congratulations,” Léon says, beaming. I wonder how he can tell instantly that Gigi is pregnant; she hides it pretty well. I am always aware of it, the taut barrel of her stomach against the grain of her clothes, but that may be because of my own history. Gigi looks up at him, surprised, and slumps her shoulders so her shirt pools forward. She mumbles something under her breath, her almond-colored cheeks turning pink.

“Do you know if it is a girl or boy?” he adds.

She looks up quickly, eyes growing dark. Her embarrassment shifts to haughtiness. “No idea.” She turns on her heel and walks back into the kitchen with a coffee for herself.

“I don’t know if so much caffeine is good for the baby,” I murmur.

“Ah, don’t worry. Celine, she had everything when she was pregnant, even wine. In France we don’t make so much fuss.” He shakes his head with delight. “She reminds me of someone, that girl. Such spirit.”

“Spirit? She’s a wildcat. Sorry about that, she can be a little … impolite.” I laugh.

“Oh no,” he replies, voice as soft as butter against hot toast. “It is passion. People like this, they will be the successful ones. She will be okay. After all, she is still young.”

To that I have to nod.

“Tell me, how is business?” He leans on the counter.

“Actually, it’s great. Making a profit now, would you believe it?”

“Ah, you are a natural for this industry. It must be in your blood.”

I nod, realizing how accurate he is.
The man. The bakery. Mama.
It sends a strange sensation down the back of my shoulder blades, tingling at the base of my spine.

“Can I get you an espresso? On the house, of course.”

“
Oui.
With pleasure. I also want to buy a box of these.” He points to the white
macarons,
red crosses in the centers. “They’re still my favorites, and if I bring some home tonight I’ll be ‘in the good books,’ as you say. Are you still raising a bit of money? Such a marvelous idea.”

Rilla is back and takes a white takeaway box from the shelves behind the counter.

“We are, a pretty steady little donation each week. It’s not much, but it’s something. And the idea came from Rilla and that wildcat back there.” I put fresh coffee grinds into the machine. The smell is rich, intoxicating.

“Ah, well, you see, I knew she was the kind to have talent.”

Hot water presses through the grinds, squealing with the effort, a dark stream bursting forth into the small cup. Léon turns back, and I catch a flash of his eyes. They are that duck egg blue of an autumn sky before it rains. The whites are clear and bright, the lashes pied, dark and gray. Looking into them makes me feel a bit dizzy.

“I have a present for you,” he says gently.

I push his coffee toward him and then, remembering my manners, come out from behind the counter myself, wiping my hands against the stripes of my apron.

He lifts a long-handled fork with three thin prongs from his bag. It has an aura of danger about it, like a devil’s trident.

“What is it?”

He laughs at my bewildered expression. “In French we say
fourchette à tremper.
” The words roll from his tongue like sweet marbles. He holds it gently in both hands and presents it to me. “I thought you might use it, if you are making chocolates to put onto cakes or something like that.”

“A chocolate fork?” I remember the chef in the kitchen of Aurora, dipping pralines in the dark chocolate lava, rolling them against the pale flesh of marble. The memory makes my mouth water.

Léon’s eyes are smiling at me. “Yes, a chocolate fork. I’m sure you know how to use it. Anyway, it can take some practice, but …” He shrugs in the way only a Frenchman can, curling his bottom lip almost petulantly.

A chocolate fork. What a gift.

“Thank you, Léon. This is so thoughtful.” I take it with both hands and then lean closer to give him a kiss on each cheek. The rough hair of his jaw brushes against my lips. He smells of hot baked bread and cinnamon.

Over his shoulder I see the top of the door open and then close against the chimes. They jangle like champagne glasses knocking together at a wedding.

“Pete!” I call out, a little too brightly.

My husband looks from Léon to me and back again. His gaze drifts slowly to the fork in my hands. A key ring is looped over his index finger.

“What are you doing here?” I ask with a smile.

“Thought you might like a ride home.” There is a frown between his eyes. He catches sight of Rilla, who gives a small wave. “Hey, Rilla.”

“Hi, Pete,” she sings back.

Gigi peeks out from the kitchen; she has not yet met Pete, but she quickly retreats with her cup in her hands. Pete comes to Lil’s every now and then, but he’s not what I’d call a regular. I know we’ve grown distant; it’s as if our lives are moons orbiting different planets. Pete belongs to Mars, Grace to Venus. But he is here now, and it feels strangely awkward to have him in my territory, the slice of Macau that is all mine. Pete looks back at Léon, his gaze cool. An energy zaps among Pete, Léon, and me that I can’t even understand, let alone explain. It’s as though Pete can read my mind, my heart, those little teenage waves of lust.

Léon clears his throat and steps forward to greet him. He shakes Pete’s hand with a broad smile, his other hand grasping Pete’s shoulder. Perhaps he doesn’t notice when Pete leans away from him.

“Long time no see.” Léon grins.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s Léon, right?” Pete anglicizes his name, stretching out the
e,
the
n
thick at the end. I see Léon’s face drop just a little.

“Léon, yes,” he replies, gently correcting Pete’s pronunciation.

“Uh-huh. How’ve you been?” Pete smiles with closed lips and a slight lift of his chin. The frown is still knitted in his forehead.

“I am really well. Business is good. Perhaps not as good as Lillian’s, but I can’t complain.”

Pete looks around the café. Marjory gives him a smile, which he returns.

“It does a pretty good trade, huh?” he admits. There is a confused mixture of pride and shame in his voice. It looks to me like
he wants to say something more, but then his gaze drops to the floor.

Léon speaks instead, his voice light and unaffected. Perhaps he is the only one of us not noticing the obvious. “Well, I should get going. Thanks for the coffee. And the
macarons.
” He lifts the box of
Coeurs Curatifs,
which Rilla has tied with a ribbon.

“My pleasure. Thank you for the chocolate fork.”

“No problem,” he replies graciously and turns without kissing me goodbye.

When he leaves, the café seems quiet, the large, bright presence of him emptied from the room. I eye the door through which he left as darkness creeps into the early-evening sky. The register closes with its signature ring. I look back to Pete, who is staring at me.

“I’ve just got to tidy up, get ready for tomorrow …” I say quickly, moving back around the counter and untucking my tea towel.

“Sure.” He nods. “I’ll have a chat with Marjory. I’ve been meaning to get Don’s number to catch up for a beer.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he returns.

It takes him a moment to turn and me a moment to start clearing out the counter fridge.

*   *   *

Later that night I wake up on the couch. My foot has fallen drowsily to the floor, and I make a short sound between a grunt and a moan. It is dark beyond the open curtain, and I’m covered in sweat, my hair stuck to my forehead. The television is blaring, pictures of people jumping up and down with bright flags. It takes me a few seconds to rearrange the details into a lucid ensemble. I am in the living room, Pete is dozing on the couch, opposite; we
had been watching a documentary about the upcoming Beijing Olympics. There have been protests and arrests, violence in Tibet, people evacuated as their homes are replaced with stadiums. I rub my eyes and look over at Pete. He is stretched out, full-length, and snoring loudly.

I wobble to the kitchen. My head is heavy and fuzzy, like a watermelon on my neck. I pray that I am not getting sick; I don’t have the time. I drink a glass of water in big, urgent mouthfuls. When I put it down, I misjudge the angle. The glass skates along the countertop before falling to the floor and shattering. The pieces fly apart, making pretty, dangerous shards all over the floor.

“Shit.”

I crouch down, my legs feeling a little shaky, and start to pick up the fragments. A tiny diamond of glass presses into my fingertip and makes me curse again. Being crouched like that, my head thundering, and feeling the shock of the cut, which is now leaving tiny tears of blood on the floor, seems to hurtle me back into memories. The dark kitchen could be any kitchen. Here and now or then and there.

I try to focus on picking up the last slivers, but I am distracted by a foggy kind of remembering.

*   *   *

“Mama?”

There she is in the corner. Sitting on the floor. Knees bent up toward her chest.

“Hey, Mama?”

Her eyes are red-rimmed and wild-looking.

“Gracie,” she whispers, as if someone might be listening.

“What are you doing?”

She’s got her satin dress pulled on over a pair of jeans. She stares at me, bewildered and lost. Her eyes make two brown pools
in her face. I squint to see her better in the dim light. The dress has a tear down one armpit, like she tried to tug it on too fast.

“Mama, what are you doing in here?”

“Oh. Oh well …” She glances to either side of her, not letting go of her knees. “I was just … looking for something I guess,” she says, and I can hear the tremor in her voice.

“What were you …?”

“Come here, Gracie girl. Come sit beside your mama.” She pats the floor beside her, as if I am still a child, not an awkward, leggy teenager, and gives a tremulous smile.

“I’ve got an exam in the morning.”

“Come on, darling. Just a little minute. Please?” Her voice is so raw and pleading, her eyes searching for mine. I walk over and lower myself onto the floor. The tiles are hard and icy under me.

“There, there …” she soothes, as if I need it. Her eyes light up as she pats my knee. “You know, darling, I was just thinking we could get you those riding lessons you were wanting. We might even be able to get you a pony of your own.” Her cheeks are flushed beneath those wide, feverish eyes.

“I don’t want riding lessons.”

“Sure you do. You haven’t stopped talking about them.”

“That was when I was eight, Mama.”

“No …” she starts and then stares at me. Legs too long. Acne on my chin. Breasts not quite grown in. Her gaze is drawn out and strange. It makes me feel uncomfortable.