When he got to the office, he found a flat package wrapped in butcher paper with a note written in red ink on magenta printer paper stuck to the top. THIS SEEMS AS GOOD A TIME AS ANY TO GIVE YOU THIS. ESME. He peeled back the paper to find a framed photo collage . . . of himself.
There were magazine and newspaper clippings from the New York Post and Food and Wine. There was a printed screenshot of the BuzzFeed Tasty video he did, demonstrating how to make cherry clafoutis. That video was from a year ago. How long had she been putting this together?
That was it. He crumpled the note into a haphazard ball and tossed it in the trash. He had to have a talk with Esme. The gifts had to stop. The other ones had been mildly inappropriate, but this was borderline creepy.
Esme was out, so the conversation would have to wait. And what to do about Lumi? He needed a distraction. He reclined in his desk chair and made paper airplanes out of Post-it notes and sent them sailing across his desk. He watched one little structure as it coasted through the air, picked up momentum, and then finally took a nosedive and scraped across the plastic keyboard before it came to a complete stop on the edge of the computer. He sighed.
There was probably nothing he could do to change Lumi’s mind. He could still try, though. No matter what the outcome, trying would be better than not doing anything at all and just sitting back to watch her leave.
What if he cooked something for her? Not a full meal, but an artful, well-made dish or pastry to say what he wanted to say in words. He jumped out of his chair and ran to the kitchen.
25
Julien
Julien stood with his back resting against the cold stove. He was still avoiding the kitchen island. He riffled through his memory, thinking of what he could make to please her and soften her stubborn resolve against him. Something that mimicked the succulent taste of her skin . . . “Stop it,” he told himself aloud.
Rose crème brûlée came to mind, but no. He wanted something more her, something that would show her he had been paying attention all along. He surveyed the pantry and refrigerator once more and found a bar of guava paste, fresh ricotta, and Meyer lemon cookies—perfect for a crust.
He crumbled the cookies between his thick fingers. Then he melted some butter in a small cast-iron saucepan and poured it over the pulverized crumbs. His freckled skin flushed pink as he stood over the rosy cubes of guava boiling in an inch of water, stirring with deep intention. Next, he mixed the soft cream cheese and sugar for the cheesecakes. He was about to grate in some lime zest when Esme stormed into the kitchen.
“Julien, you have an urgent call on line one,” she said.
He glanced at the phone mounted on the kitchen wall.
“Damn it, this phone is out of order,” he said. He narrowed his eyes at Esme. “You and I need to talk. Meantime, do me a favor, please? Can you stir this mixture while I take the call in my office?”
He saw her eyes flit from the saucepan and back to his face. A scowl crossed her expression and then faded just as fast.
“Of course,” she said, holding out her hand for the stirring spoon.
“Dax speaking.”
“Hello, son.”
“Lucien.”
Lucien cleared his throat. “How about a little more respect for your papa?”
Julien rolled his eyes. “I haven’t called you papa since Maman died. If you’d have been paying attention, you’d have known that.”
“Oh, but I am, son, much more than you think.”
“Why did you call?”
“Some of the bonds we opened for you have matured.”
“Your fresh-out-of-college girlfriend knows what bonds are? I’m shocked.”
“Christine and I. You know I meant your mother.”
“Ah.”
“I can give you the paperwork. When are you coming to Paris?”
“Never,” he lied. “When are you coming to New York?”
“To see Rochelle, perhaps.” Leave it to Lucien to come to New York to see only one of his two children.
“You can email me the info and I’ll do it.”
“J-just take care of it. For once,” Lucien stuttered.
“Bye, Lucien.” Julien hung up.
After the call had been resolved, Julien walked back into the kitchen and found Esme stirring at a furious clip. She was muttering something under her breath, and though Julien couldn’t make out the exact words, it sounded like she was angry.
“Ahem, Esme, I’m back,” he said.
She jolted, as if startled from a reverie, and all but tossed him the spoon before retreating from the kitchen.
Not having any time to waste, he shrugged and returned to the task. He took out a tray of dessert shell molds from the cabinet next to the oven and pressed in the crumble crust, then surveyed the cheesecake mixture in comparison to the number of pastry shells and quickly mixed up a second batch of cream cheese filling. He spooned the mixture into the molds. In went the tray to the already scorching oven, and he sat down to think in the chair he had dragged in from his office into the kitchen.
With nothing to do besides wait for the pastries to bake, his mind raced over every detail of the past twenty-four hours. It had been two nights since he had slept more than three hours at a time. He wanted to fix that, but for the moment there was no time, not while his relationship with Lumi hung in the balance.
He felt a sinking in his chest as he thought back to the moment she told him she would be leaving. It was the first time he could remember letting anyone win an argument. And what had happened to her to make her so distrustful? He thought back to the story about her father leaving and frowned. Was it that? Was there another man in her past who had hurt her? He gritted his teeth at the thought.
Julien was not one to be readily given to fear. But he did feel an icy gale in his heart when he thought that she could be serious about not coming back and not wanting to see him again.
And then he smiled, recalling how much she’d resembled a pouty little girl when she told him she didn’t like him. He had to laugh despite himself. Then his good humor soured when he remembered her reaction. Had he really been such an ass for being amused by her adorable contradictions? Couldn’t she just admit that she was falling in love with him too? If only she could have seen herself the previous night. The look in her eyes when he’d told her to show him what she meant was not one he would ever forget.
The oven timer gave a tinny ring, and he marveled over how fast half an hour had passed. “I hope you guys can help,” he said, hoisting the tray out of the oven and placing it on a cooling rack. Carefully, he topped each pastry with a heaping drizzle of guava preserve and a few diced chunks of the paste, and affixed a sprig of mint to every other one. He pulled a blank piece of paper from the miscellaneous drawer in the kitchen island.
FOR LUMI. ALL OTHERS: TOUCH THESE AND DIE, he wrote in big block letters, and gleefully affixed the note to the base of the cooling rack with a piece of tape. Then he pulled out another piece of paper—this time for a more personal note.
26
Lumi
When Lumi stepped out of the subway on Saturday afternoon, she found the sky had taken on an olive-greenish cast. She shuddered. She hadn’t seen skies that color since Miami. Could there be a hurricane coming? In April, in New York, it seemed unlikely. Against all logic, she kind of hoped there was. It would give her the perfect excuse as to why she wasn’t coming in to work until she felt like telling her coworkers the truth about what had happened.