The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(46)
She nods, then opens her desk drawer and takes out a prescription pad. “This is a scrip for a mild antianxiety medication,” she says, scribbling something down. “Give it a try, see if it helps. It should help you sleep, too. The first time you take it, you should probably be home and not near hot ovens and all that, okay?” She rips off the paper and hands it to me, then stands up and comes round her desk.
“You hang in there, honey,” she says, folding me into a hug. “Change sucks, and of course you’re going to freak out a little, starting to date again after all this time. What’s it been, five years?”
“And a half,” I say.
“Shit.” She sighs, then messes up my hair. “You’re normal, Lucy.” I give her a smile to show that I’m spunky and super-brave, and she smiles back. “Listen, the lesbian doctor has to get back to her patients. These pregnant women get mighty testy if I keep them waiting. Call me if you need anything else. And hey, come for dinner one of these days. Maybe Laura and I can think of some guy for you.”
“Thanks, Anne,” I say sincerely. Good old Anne. She and Laura almost make me wish I were g*y, too.
AFTER I FILL THE PRESCRIPTION, I swing by High Hopes Convalescent Center to see Great-Aunt Boggy. I made a ton of scones last night, and the staff loves when I bring stuff in. Maybe Boggy will eat one, too. They’re nice and soft…I’m guessing they don’t need much tooth action, which is good, since Boggy doesn’t have teeth anymore.
You have of course noticed that I don’t eat my own desserts. It’s a shame, since judging by the smell of them, they’re fantastically stupendously wonderful. Not eating them probably keeps me from being an even better baker, because obviously, it’d help to know what things tasted like.
But the night Jimmy died, you see, I’d baked a beautiful dessert in my newlywed fervor. Jimmy and I hadn’t spent a day apart since our wedding, and that whole day, I’d been missing him, the heat of young love throbbing most pleasantly. Despite the fact that I’d been at work at the fancy Newport hotel where I was slaving, I came home and decided to bake for Jimmy. Pictured him coming through the door late that night, weary but wired, full of stories about his day in New York. I’d present him the most beautiful dessert ever, smile and listen until he was sufficiently relaxed to go to bed, where my plan was to shag him senseless and make him unspeakably grateful that he had such a hot wife.
And so I pulled out all the stops to show him how much I’d missed him. To let him know how I adored him. To show off a little, too, because despite my mother-in-law being a wonderful dessert maker, I really wanted to be Gianni’s pastry chef someday.
I spent the next few happy hours dipping golden peaches in a boiling water bath, slipping off the peels, slicing the succulent fruit wafer-thin. On a whim, I grilled them lightly, drizzling a sweet white wine over them as I did so. I toasted half a pound of pistachios, then ground them into rubble with some carmelized ginger, then cut that into unsalted butter for the crust. Rather than make one big tart, I made four little ones—baked the crusts, and when they were cool, added a generous layer of crème fraîche and lemon zest, topped with the thin-sliced peaches, their deep golden color darkening to a seductive red at the center. I arranged the slices to look like flower petals, then poached some blueberries in the wine and added them as the center of the flower. When I was finished, I had what was quite possibly the prettiest dessert ever made. And because I felt I couldn’t possibly wait till Jimmy got home, I ate one. Right after Jimmy called to tell me he was just passing New Haven, I ate another, then saved the last two for my honey.
Well, obviously, Jimmy never got to try one, and ever since that horrible night, the desserts I’ve baked have lost their taste for me. I still love to make them…I just can’t seem to eat them. Whenever I take a bite of a cake or a tart or a pudding or even just a chocolate chip cookie, it tastes like dust—meaningless, empty and gray. If I try to swallow, I gag. It’s pretty clear why.
And so I’ve resorted to the products of Hostess…Twinkies are my favorite, that slight tang of chemical preservative that gives the beloved icon its impressive shelf life, the spongy, sticky cake, the little tunnel of white through the middle. Hostess Cupcakes, too—the peel-away frosting with the cheery little swirl of white on top, the nondairy cream filling that I like to dig out with my tongue. Those pink Sno-Balls, like something from a science fiction movie. The Ho Hos, the Ding Dongs…sigh. My teachers from Johnson & Wales would have my name burned off the alumni register if they knew.
“Hello, dear,” says the receptionist at High Hopes as I walk through the door.
“Hello,” I answer, smiling as I set the second box of scones on the counter. “How’s my aunt doing today?”
“Oh, she’s just as sweet as can be,” Alice lies kindly. What else is she going to say? Well, she’s been drooling really well today…dozing. A little napping here and there, between the bouts of deeper sleep…
“Well, I brought a few treats,” I say. “Let me just grab one for Boggy, and you can divvy up the rest.”
“Thank you, dear!” Alice says. “Aren’t you nice to think of us.”
I really am, I acknowledge with a modest bow of the head. Then I snag the biggest scone for my aunty and head down the hall.
As usual, Boggy’s in bed, sleeping.