Semi-Sweet (34 page)

Hannah told him about her grandfather. “He was the one who got me interested in baking. He taught me how to make rock buns
and almond cookies when I was seven or eight. He got me my first apron and electric mixer. His father was a baker, but I never
knew him.”

“Was it frightening,” he asked, “opening your own shop, all by yourself?”

“Terrifying—and in the middle of a recession too. I’m sure people thought I needed my head examined.” She smoothed a small
crease in the tablecloth. “Even with Granddad’s legacy, which helped a lot, there was still a fair bit of expense involved,
and I also have a mortgage to pay, and all the other bills that go along with a house. My parents didn’t say it, but I know
they were worried I’d go belly-up in a week.”

“It’s their job”—he smiled—“to worry about you.”

“I suppose so. Luckily, I’ve proved them wrong so far and I’m still here—if not exactly raking it in.” Their waiter brought
pappadams, and she reached for one. “And I haven’t collapsed from exhaustion—yet.”

When the wine arrived, John filled their glasses and lifted his. “I have every faith in you. This time next year, you’ll be
counting the profits, mark my words.”

Hannah touched her glass against his. “I’ll drink to that.”

Her mother’s perfume these days smelled terribly cloying to Leah. In the past few weeks, she’d completely lost her taste for
anything sweet—developing instead a craving for salted crackers topped with cheese and sprinkled with soy sauce—so it was
hardly surprising that Fiona’s heady, almondy scent made her want very much to gag.

“Thank you,” she said when her mother handed her a jar of verbena hand cream, knowing that it was the nearest Fiona would
come to an apology.

They hadn’t spoken since the disastrous lunch on Easter Sunday, when Fiona had practically called Patrick a gigolo, not until
Fiona had rung the other night and suggested she call in for a short visit on her way home from bridge, using exactly the
same tone of voice she always did, as if they hadn’t parted in anger almost three weeks earlier. And Leah, caught unawares,
had found herself agreeing.

Patrick wasn’t there. Leah had suggested he make himself scarce, and he’d been happy to oblige. When the baby came, he and
Fiona could put their differences aside. Once Fiona realized that Patrick was as committed to parenthood as Leah was, she
couldn’t object to him anymore, and a silent truce would come into force. It had to.

In the meantime Leah would have to be the buffer. “Coffee?” she asked her mother. “Or tea? Earl Grey?” She was determined
to keep this meeting neutral, had resolved to be polite and hospitable and no more.

Patrick hadn’t once referred to Fiona’s implied accusations; no mention had been made of the Easter Sunday encounter. After
lunch had ended so abruptly he’d left the apartment without coming into the bedroom where Leah lay. She’d heard the front
door closing softly, and she’d turned her face to the wall. She hadn’t heard him return, but had woken some time later to
the sound of the television, and walked out to find him asleep on the couch, his jacket still on, the remains of a pizza in
a box on the floor beside him.

“Your baby cot is still in the attic,” Fiona was saying, “and I think a playpen. Of course, you may prefer to buy new ones.”

She was trying, as much as Fiona could try. Leah should meet her halfway; she’d probably need her mother around when the baby
arrived. Need, not want.

“Thank you,” she replied, in the same neutral tone. “I’ll think about it. Did you say tea or coffee?”

She and Patrick had made love twice in the past fortnight, both times at her instigation. Patrick hadn’t looked for it. He
hadn’t once turned to her in bed, hadn’t woken her up in the middle of the night the way he used to.

It was the baby, of course. He was wary of doing anything so late in the pregnancy, that was all. Once the baby arrived, things
would sort themselves out.

“Have you seen much of Nora O’Connor?” Fiona asked as Leah began to lay out cups and saucers.

“A little.”

Nora had dropped by the salon out of the blue a few days earlier. She’d brought a toy white rabbit and a bottle of jasmine-scented
bath salts.
How’re you feeling?
she’d asked, leaning against the doorjamb in her cream linen cardigan and blue linen trousers.
We must do lunch again,
she’d said.
My treat this time. When you get a chance.

Leah hadn’t asked Nora about her job. She’d shifted her weight and told Nora she had a customer waiting.
I’ll give you a call,
she’d said.
Thanks for these.

She’d phone Nora at some stage, and they’d go to lunch, and Leah would hope, as she’d been hoping now for weeks, that Nora
would look past Patrick for a diversion. That Patrick wouldn’t consider being unfaithful, even if Nora did set her sights
on him.

“You look tired,” Fiona said. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

Three weeks, give or take, and Leah and Patrick would be parents. He hadn’t once asked about names, even though she’d left
the book where he couldn’t miss it. He never wondered aloud if they’d have a boy or a girl, hadn’t asked her which she’d prefer.
He’d gone along to the classes when she’d asked him and taken part like all the other expectant fathers, but he didn’t mention
the baby the rest of the time, ever.

Surely when it arrived, he’d change. Surely he’d take one look at his son or daughter and fall in love.

“I think I’m having a girl,” Leah said suddenly, wanting someone to share it with. “I’ve just got this feeling.”

Fiona regarded her above the rim of her cup. “A girl,” she said, without expression. “You could be right—although I was convinced
you
were going to be a boy.”

Leah squeezed lemon into her tea. “How did you feel,” she asked then, “when you saw me? How did you and Dad feel?”

Fiona lowered her cup. “We were happy to have a healthy baby, of course,” she answered placidly. “Just as you will be.”

Just as you will be.
As if Leah had made this baby all on her own. She hoisted herself from the chair. “I need the toilet,” she told her mother,
and walked heavily from the room.

“Hi there.”

Hannah smiled. “Hello. This is a surprise.” His accent was even more pronounced on the phone.

“Can you talk? Are you busy?” he asked.

“Yes I can, and no I’m not.”

“I have something to confess,” he said then, and her smile faded. She waited, looking at the cupcake tree. Reaching out to
straighten the coconut-lime sample.

“I’m not sure how to say this,” he went on. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

He was still with his wife, they hadn’t separated. His conscience was at him now, and he’d decided to come clean.

“Are you still there?” he asked.

“Still here,” Hannah answered lightly. “Just wondering what’s coming.”
Say it,
she thought.
Say it and get it over with.

“The truth is…” She heard his indrawn breath and closed her eyes. “…I don’t really like cupcakes.”

Her eyes snapped open. “You what?”

“I haven’t really got a sweet tooth, you see,” he said. “It’s not just cupcakes, it’s chocolate and biscuits and…well, anything
sweet really.”

Hannah let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked.

“I am,” she said, her smile returning. “I’m shocked at your deceit. I’m not sure that I’ll be able to forgive you, really.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” he answered, “so I thought I’d make it up to you.”

“How?”

The shop door opened and there he was, holding a bag of Kettle Chips. Slipping his phone back into his shirt pocket.

“Aged White Cheddar, right?” he asked, approaching the counter. “See? I’m not the only one who likes savory things.”

Hannah laughed. She’d mentioned Kettle Chips in passing, weeks ago, and he’d remembered. She hung up and took the dark blue
bag from him.

“You’re forgiven,” she said. “Let’s open them right now.”

She was being wooed, and it was wonderful.

He’d mastered “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and “Sur le Pont d’Avignon.” He’d eaten the Jammie Dodgers when they’d appeared for
a second time and drunk the milk—and suffered the consequences the following day. He’d attempted small talk with Vivienne’s
mother when she’d appeared—he’d admired the garden, remarked on the fine weather they’d been enjoying—even though the older
woman was clearly suspicious of him. (And who could blame her? If ever someone’s motives were suspect, Adam’s were.)

He’d even reached out to pat the giant marmalade cat, which seemed to live on the piano—but to his relief it had shrunk away
from him, and Vivienne had murmured that he was shy around strangers.

I wonder where he gets it from,
Adam had thought.

Any attempt at personal conversation on his part brought a fresh flood of color to her face—if she could have shrunk away
from him as the cat had, Adam suspected she would. So he stuck to questions that related to the pieces they were looking at,
and he did his best to be patient and bide his time.

But all the same, he was inching toward her, absorbing a fraction more about her with each visit. She had a habit of rubbing
her middle finger as she listened to his efforts and closing her eyes briefly now and again. Her teeth weren’t quite straight
and not perfectly white. She wore no jewelry, not even a watch. Her ears, surprisingly small, had never been pierced.

She dressed only in dark colors—black and gray and navy, mostly. Her clothes were modest and unremarkable. Her hair was always
pinned up, never loose. Her breath smelled minty. She used no makeup, as far as his untutored male eye could tell.

Her feet were long, her calves—what he could see of them—slender. He was reminded of a scene from
The Piano
when Harvey Keitel had lain on the floor and poked a finger through a hole in Holly Hunter’s stocking as she played. Vivienne’s
eyes were fringed with surprisingly long, pale lashes.

And thanks to Hannah, he now knew for sure that she was single.

He decided, during his third lesson, that the time had come to risk tiptoeing a little further toward her. He waited until
her mother had delivered the usual tray—tiny Iced Gem biscuits tonight, which he’d last eaten more than twenty years ago—and
left them alone again.

“How did you get involved with the band?” he asked. A musical question: She could hardly object.

She blinked rapidly twice, a nervous gesture he was becoming accustomed to. He wanted to reach out and touch her arm and tell
her that she had nothing to fear.

“My brother,” she said quickly, bending to riffle through the pages of sheet music for a new piece for him.

Adam bit the pastel pink swirl off an Iced Gem. “He’s a member?”

She nodded. “Keyboards.”

“I see.” Adam crunched his biscuit. Imagine admitting that he knew all this already, that his friend had pumped the saxophonist
to discover her marital status. Imagine her reaction if he said that.

“And your brother only plays one instrument? That’s a bit lazy, isn’t it?”