“You made the applesauce?” Ivy asks sounding impressed.
“I didn’t make it, make it. But I helped. Grandma said you can add it to a tart and serve it in your bakery.”
“I only meant it as a suggestion, and if your mother wants it.” Mom turns to Ivy. “I have plenty of jars and some of them are usually left over whenever I make the juice.
“Thank you,” Ivy says. “I’ll talk to my chef. She’s the one who’s usually above these things. She’s been thinking of changing the recipe, so she might like these.”
“Can I eat mine now?” Lake asks Ivy, his eyes on the toffee apples and with the most sullen begging face I’ve ever seen him do. Ivy doesn’t buy it. “Not until you eat your dinner, young man.” His face falls even further.
“Hey, don’t sulk,” Mom says. “Dinner is only a few minutes away.” She looks at me and says, “Help me out, will you?”
“I don’t mind too if you need another hand,” Ivy says.
“Me too!” Lake jumps, toffee apples forgotten, or at least temporarily.
Mom assigns us our tasks, except Lake, who gets the busboy duty of getting stuff from the fridge while Ivy and I are made to prepare the food. In no time, we are all in a comfortable state of cooking and talking as though we’ve been a family like this for a long time. It would all seem dandy if one doesn’t notice that Ivy and I are not talking directly to each other. Every time shespeaks, she does it through either Lake or Mom. At least Mom doesn’t seem to see anything off about our interactions.
We finish making dinner and sit down at the dinner table to eat while some of my mom’s Bossa Nova records play in the background. I love the ambience it creates and Lake and Ivy seem to enjoy it too. When the main course dishes are sent to the kitchen, Mom comes back with an apple pie and ice cream, to the delight of Lake, who eats more than he should. After we’re done and the dishes are cleaned, we say our goodbyes, but not before Mom packs us the rest of the apple pie. Just as I was entering the car, she stopped me. “They’re good people.” She gestures at Lake and Ivy, arranging the goodies at the back seat of the car. “Don’t let them get away this time around.”
“I won’t.”
Mom brushes my hair like I am a school kid and I guess to her I’ll always be a school kid and bids me farewell. The ride back to the city is quiet and uncomfortable. My earlier conversation with Ivy plays in my head as Lake lightly snores in the back. I should have been more gentle with my strategy of winning her back. Dropping all of my feelings at once has not helped and it might have worsened things. Even the impromptu sex excursion might have hindered me, even though it felt good at the time. And since I can’t think of anything to say to her, I let the silence fester as we make our way back home.
When we get into the apartment, Ivy immediately puts Lake to sleep and before I can try to talk to her again, she disappears into the guest room and locks her door. I go to bed alone and sleep a dreamless sleep, my head filled with thoughts of how best I can right the ship. When I get up the following morning, Ivy’s already gone to work and since Lake is my responsibility today, I stay with him while he sleeps in. It’s the weekend and so I wonder why she felt the need to get to work so early. Especially on a Sunday when a few people are at work.
I voice this with Lake later as he’s eating his breakfast, and he simply says, “That’s because Sonya won an award, and people like her food a lot. Antoinette’s is full on Sunday.”
“Huh,” I say. “That explains very little, Lake.”
Lake sighs. “They come for Sonya’s Sunday special. She has a special she only does on Sunday and everyone comes there to have it because it’s so good. You’d like it too if you tried it.”
Suddenly an idea strikes in my head. “Wanna go? Maybe we could help her.”Lake’s eyes brighten. I laugh. “Is food all you ever think about?”
Lake frowns, as though the question is silly. “Of course. Nothing else is better.”
I wait for Lake to finish his breakfast, which he makes quick work of, and a few minutes later we are in the car and some more after that, we’re at the shop. And he’s right. The place is packed. There’s a line that goes all the way around the block. One would think they’re selling limited-edition sneakers or something like that.
We go inside and the place is even more chaotic than I thought. There are two baristas making orders, one person at the cashier, and Ivy taking orders. She’s in the thick of things, working at a breakneck pace that is matched by her staff. One doesn’t need to know about their staffing situation to tell that they’re overwhelmed. And it’s still morning! Ivy spots me immediately, frowns, and turns her attention to a customer.
I am mesmerized as I watch her work. To think that this is the same spoiled rich girl I used to know. Or maybe I didn’t know her at all. She works fast and diligently, as though she’s in one mode and will not be distracted. One of the baristas opens the counter door and Lake breaks out of my hold and rushes over to her mother. She smiles and glances at me. I go to her.
“I had no idea you were this successful.”
She’s writing an order down and doesn’t take her attention off it one bit. “What? Surprised this is not some cute project to me?”
In a way, yeah, and I am too embarrassed to admit it. “Is it always like this?”
She ignores me as she takes an order, but then later responds. “Not like this. We went viral. An influencer came by last Sunday and praised our custard croiclair.”
“Croiclair?”
“It’s a croissant, and an eclair mushed together into a new dish. It’s a hit.”
“Need any help? You look swamped,” I say.
From the wince on her face, Ivy is about to voice a negative when a woman bursts through the kitchen doors. There’s a chin of flour on her blue apron, but otherwise, her chef’s uniform is clean. She whistles when she sees the number of people. “Yes, we would love all the help we can get if you’re offering.”
“Sonya!”
