Chapter 10

Henry

Snip. Scrape. Snip. Scrape.

I stand in my kitchen, watching as the peels circle the drain. Taking a few seconds, I send the current crop down the garbage disposal in a groundmass of apple perfume. Verdi naps by the window in her usual spot. A sense of calm washes over me as I put the apples in the bowl, grinning like a child at Christmas time. Nothing chases away my performance anxiety like baking fresh apple pies. I don’t love baking as much as sculpting, but it makes me happy. And the taste makes me even happier.

Grandma taught me the recipe. She had a kind and sweet soul. I still miss her. She was one of the few people in my family that inspired me to live my dreams as an artist. When I went away to college, a lot of my uncles and cousins laughed at the idea, calling me a pussy among other things. They thought I should pursue a manlier career like engineering.

“You’re really good with your hands, Henry,” Uncle Carter said. “And you’re sharp as a whip. You could make great money working for one of the big three. And I hear that GM has one of the best pensions around.”

But I had no desire to move to Detroit and design new cars. I didn’t want to commercialize my creativity, and I still don’t. Doing that just rips the soul out of the piece, the part of it that makes it special. The mere thought of it makes me want to punch something. But I just smiled at my pushy family and nodded because I didn’t want to get into a spat with anyone whose heart is in the right place.

They’ve just never known me. Never seen me.

A memory of Grandma walking into the living room floats across my mind. She took one look at me and said, “Leave Henry alone, Carter. The boy is gonna be an artist. A real artist!” Then, she waved me into the kitchen, and we made an apple pie together, laughing and telling secrets. Grandma never judged me, no matter what I told her about my innermost thoughts and desires.

In many ways, it seemed like my grandmother had more faith in me than my own parents or any of the other Garrisons. Sometimes, I used to wonder if I was adopted, but when I looked at Grandma, I knew she had my back. She believed in me. After she passed away, I became more distant from my family since it felt like the part of me that belonged died with her.

I think of her now as I open the cabinet and reach for the cinnamon. I barely keep in touch with my relatives. I like it that way because being a loner suits me. My life is all about the art, and on occasion, a homemade dessert.

My cell phone rings, taking me away from pie making. “Hello?”

“Henry?”

I smile as I recognize Meadow’s voice immediately. After that crazy night at the restaurant, I’m surprised she’s calling. “Hey, Meadow.”

“How are you?”

“I’m okay.” I take a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened at the–”

“Let’s forget all about that and start fresh. How does that sound?”

“Good.” I grin, relieved that she doesn’t hate my guts. She could. But she doesn’t.

“I’m calling because we still have a lot of details to work out for the showing.”

“Ahh…”

“Don’t tell me you’re backing out on me?”

“It’s not that. It’s just…”

“What?”

“I’m kinda in the middle of something that I can’t walk away from. Would it be too much trouble for you to stop by? Then we can talk face to face.”

“That would be fine.”

“Okay, see you soon.” I put my phone back on the charger.

Verdi wakes up from her nap and cuddles up to my leg, weaving in and out and leaving a trail of hair on my pant legs.

I grab the flour, salt, and sugar, then put the ingredients on the counter. I press the button on the remote to turn on my iPod stereo. Charlie Parker’s famous jazz tune, “I’ve Got Rhythm” blasts through the speakers.

The door buzzer breaks through the din of the music. Damn, that was fast. I walk over to the intercom and press the button. “Hello?”

“I’m here,” Meadow says.

Inhaling a fortifying breath, I beep her in, and less than a minute later, the elevator dings and the front door swings open. The sight of her steals my breath. She looks summery and gorgeous in a pair of capri pants, a flowery tank top, and some sandals showcasing her dainty toes. I ache to hug her, but I’m pretty sure that’s unprofessional. Trying not to stare, I step back. “Come in.”

“Hey. Smells wonderful in here.” She makes a beeline for the kitchen. “You’re cooking?”

“Technically, I’m baking.”

Her eyes widen as she sniffs the air again and smiles. “You’ve got a habit of correcting me.”

I shrug. “I wouldn’t call it a habit.”

“Are you baking an apple pie? With the crust from scratch?”

I want to say, “Isn’t that obvious?” But I don’t want to come across like a sarcastic asshole. So, I just nod.

“You are a very talented man, Henry. You can cook… forgive me, I mean you can bake and sculpt.”

“You don’t know that for sure. You haven’t tried it yet.” I smile. “For all you know, I put salt in it instead of sugar and the crust tastes like lard.”

“I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.” She glanced down at Verdi. “Right, pretty kitty?”

“She would agree with anything right now. You’re petting her.”

Meadow laughs, a soft, joyous sound. “Us girls like our massages.”

Damn, I wish she wouldn’t say things that fuel my x-rated thoughts.

I grab the ingredients and mix them into a big bowl. “You know what the key is to a great pie? Lard in the crust. This is how my grandma taught me so don’t ever let anyone fool you.”

“I realize that. You know you’re not the only one who ever baked a pie before. Or had a grandma who loved you.”

“Oh really?”

She smiles. “Are you gonna start up with your ‘mansplaining’ again?”

I shake my head. “I don’t even know what you mean by that. Never heard the term.”

“You haven’t? It’s even been added to the urban dictionary. I think it started with a story in the LA Times about men behaving badly. Someone coined the terms in a LiveJournal comment, and we were off and running.”

“So, is that what I’ve been doing? Mansplaining? I’ll have to see if it’s on Wikipedia.”

“Oh, it is. And you have. Thank goodness I can read your mind, and I know your heart’s in the right place and that you don’t mean to be condescending or offend. Call it a gift.”

“More like a curse.”

She laughs, and the sound of it does something strange to my insides. What is it about this woman that has me by the throat and won’t let go? “Henry, what am I gonna do with you?”

I can think of about ten things I’d like you to do with me. Starting with you hitting your knees and ending with you flat on your back while I split you wide open.

Damn. X-rated thoughts indeed.

I look down at the bowl and concentrate on the dough before I start something I can’t finish. I know if I make eye-contact with Meadow, my mind will begin to race with thoughts of making love to her. I’m glad that I’m standing behind the counter because my dick roars to life in my pants at my impromptu fantasy.

“How often do you bake?”

I have to look at her now because she’s asked me a direct question. “Depends.”

“On what exactly?”

“My mood.” I shouldn’t have looked. Those eyes. They tempt me with sin and salvation. I focus on her arms and the creamy expanse of flesh that’s exposed to my hungry gaze. Those silky curls fall about her shoulders in waves of perfection. I imagine running my fingers through her mane and wonder if it feels as soft as it looks.

“Do you always cook, I mean, bake with jazz?”

“You don’t like it?” I ask, stirring, stirring. Ignoring, ignoring.

“I didn’t say that.”

My cock hardens to an impossible length, and I will the damn traitor to stand down. Christ, if she sees what she’s done to me over an innocuous conversation about baking, she’ll really think I’m one joker short of a full deck. “Good. Because anybody who doesn’t comprehend the genius of Charlie Parker is not welcome here.”

“I see.” My teasing flusters Meadow. It’s adorable and sexy all rolled into one charming package of tiny woman. I should say something, interrupt her embarrassment, but I don’t. I’m drinking in every expression that lights her face from confusion to frustration.

My heartbeat accelerates under the heat of her gaze. She’s almost looking at me like I’ve starred in some of her fantasies. But that can’t be true. Not after the way I fled the restaurant the other night.

“I really don’t know what to make of you, Henry Garrison.” She steps closer. Ever closer. She’s coming around the granite countertops. Shit. She’s going to come too close, and she’s going to see…

“And why is that?”

The words coming out of my mouth no longer matter, and I hope they make sense. My mind races with ideas on how I can keep this wooden barricade between us. Before I can excuse myself to escape to the bathroom, Verdi intervenes on my behalf and winds her way through Meadow’s sculpted legs.

Before I know what’s happening, she tumbles forward, so I reach out and catch her under a spray of flour and allspice.

“Ach!” She groans as she lands in my arms, and I’m surrounded by the fresh scent of strawberries. Is it her glorious hair or her lotion? Holding her away from me, I stare down into her eyes.

I should let her go. I should back away before this gets so out of control there won’t be any professional relationship to salvage. Her full breasts brush against my forearm, and everywhere she touches me, a blaze of fire erupts. I have to finish this damn pie. I do. Even though I can’t rationalize why in this moment.

The only thing that matters is Meadow.

She chuckles and rights herself. I immediately feel the loss of her scent. Her warmth. “As I was saying before I revealed that I’m a complete klutz, you’re different, Henry.”

I stand as close to the lower cabinets as is humanly possible without becoming one with the oak. “Everybody’s different.”

“Yeah, but… I probably shouldn’t say that.”

“What?” I blink. I’m terrified that she’s going to call me a freak. It wouldn’t be the first time that I came across that way in a social setting. I cringe at the memory of us together at the restaurant. Roiling, frightening emotions come flooding back, chasing away any remainder of lust I feel for this woman.

The gap between us widens to a mile even though she still stands only a few feet away.

“It’s just that you’ve got this way about you.”

I stab the wooden spoon into the filling with gusto. “What way?”

“It shines through in your art. You are such a calm and gentle soul. It’s inspiring.”

I allow the compliment to flow over me, warming me from the inside out. “You really think so?”

She nods, and by the sincerity in those hypnotic eyes, I realize she’s telling the truth. She sees something within me that maybe even I’ve ignored. “I sensed that in you from the day we met.”

“I’ve always been the kind of guy who keeps to myself. Most women don’t stick around long enough to want to get to know the real me.” I pause. “Not that I’m trying to…”

She smiles that smile that illuminates every crevice within a ten-foot radius. “It’s okay, Henry.”

Is this beautiful woman actually into me? I try to keep my cool. That can’t be possible. Discomfort niggles at my insides, igniting my desire to flee the scene. But I can’t run away from Meadow in my own apartment.

She laughs without humor. “When it comes to my rolodex of exes, the word ‘worthless’ comes to mind.”

She’s stunning, intelligent, and personable with a great sense of humor. Along with understanding and empathy. Kindness in a New York City woman is kind of like finding a glittery unicorn in the forest. I’m finding this sad story a little suspect. “Why do you say that? They couldn’t all be bad, right?”

“Actually, yes. It’s been nothing but day traders and lawyers who always end up ditching me for blonde bimbos with big tits.”

“Doesn’t every guy love a blonde bimbo with big tits?” I ask the question even though I have no fucking idea why or what the answer is. I don’t have male friends and never did, even back in college when I strove to keep everything superficial. Get them before they get me.

I don’t want a blonde bimbo with big tits.

She frowns, and I suck in a breath because judging by the tragic look on her face, she’s misunderstanding my flippant words. “That’s your type?”

“No.” I rush to correct her. “I don’t really have a type. Not in the conventional sense. I’m more inspired by internal beauty than external. There has to be something about a person that inspires me over and above how they look.”

“So, you really don’t have a type at all? I find that hard to believe.”

“Looks matter, but the connection is the most important thing. Energy. The light of the soul. If I feel it, I just know.”

And I’ve never known it yet.

“You’re one of those guys who goes off of vibes?”

I nod and stir. “I guess you could call it that.”

The strength of her gaze spears me where I stand. “What’s your vibe about me?”

I look into the depths of her eyes. Searching. For the truth of the words that remain unsaid. “I get the feeling that you have almost everything you want, but you’re still looking for that missing piece. The other half to the whole.”

“Really? What do you think that is?”

I shrug, pretending that the answer doesn’t matter. When it damn well matters. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

She hesitates, stumbling over her tongue. “I don’t know how we got off on this topic. We’re supposed to be talking about the showing. This is a business meeting, right? Let’s not circle the toilet bowl of romance gone wrong. Nothing can come of that but ghosts from the past and crappy memories.”

I nod. “Sure.”

“So, are you ready for the showing?”

I’ll never be ready for a public display and judgment of my work. Never.

“I think so.”

Her teeth gnaw on her bottom lip, but all that does is draw attention to their fullness and make me wonder what it would feel like to kiss her senseless. “You think?”

“I guess so. Is that better?”

“A little.” She pauses. “I’m expecting a big crowd.”

I stiffen at the words. Imagine how bad it’s going to be when the crowd thing happens in real life. “As I’ve made evident, crowds are not my thing.”

There’s that empathetic look again. I’d give anything to be the confident man that could wipe that off her face for all eternity. I’m a work in progress, but I’m not there yet. Maybe this is the first step to personal growth. All I have to do is take it. A little shot of courage courses through me at the prospect of stepping outside my comfort zone.

“No kidding.”

“But I think I can manage it.”

“Good.”

I take the dough out of the bowl. “You remember what I said about the crust being the key to a great pie?”

“You do realize that you’re not the first person who’s ever said that?”

I grab the roller out of the drawer. “Do you want to make yourself useful, or not?”

“I’m game.” She walks over to me.

As I tie an extra red gingham apron that used to belong to my grandma around her tiny waist, I take in the smell of her perfume. I hand her the rolling pin. From behind, I wrap my arms around her so I can put my bigger hands over her tiny ones. I try not to become overtaken with how good she feels in my arms. “First, you have to–”

She stiffens a little, and I realize I’ve gone into explaining mode again. “I’ve done this before, Henry.”

“You can make a pie from scratch?” I ask.

“Plenty of people are capable of that. I’ve done it countless times. My grandma’s specialty was strawberry rhubarb. She grew the rhubarb in her garden.”

I move my hands over hers, guiding them. I’d like to guide them down the length of my body. Instead, I say, “But plenty of people don’t have my grandmother’s recipe.”

“Is that right?” For a second, she surrenders and allows me to take the lead.

I maintain my composure as we roll out the dough on the wooden board. “See, this is how it’s done. You want to try a little on your own? Since you’re a master pie maker too?”

She nods and takes control of the roller. “How am I doing, coach?”

I step away but still stand behind Meadow, watching her gorgeous curves as she moves her body in a perfect rhythm. Desire starts somewhere I’m sure is my soul and radiates outward, permeating every cell until I’m rigid with it. I’m not sure how much more I can stand. I take a deep breath. “You’re not half bad.”

She chuckles, and the grittiness rips through me. “I’m glad to hear that. I don’t want to ruin your pie.”

This might be the best apple pie I’ve ever baked. Because for the first time since I lost my precious grandma, I didn’t do it alone.

“What are you thinking about, Henry?”

Her voice snaps me back to the present. “Nothing. Just daydreaming for a second.”

“Most artists do that.”

“Do what?” I blink. Most of your artists fantasize about laying you bare? Yeah, they probably do if they’re male and still breathing.

“Daydream.”

I laugh it off and let her assume she’s right. “Yeah, I guess that’s an unwritten part of the job description.”

As we finish putting together the raw pie, Verdi weaves between us, purring. I’ll always be grateful to my sweet kitty for shoving Meadow into my arms. For one fleeting moment, I felt like a whole man.

“Maybe she’s jealous,” Meadow says.

I laugh to disguise my true feelings. It’s far more than that for me. It’s deeper, and it feels like everything. She bends over to scratch Verdi behind her ears. “Some pets don’t like when their owners give attention to anyone or anything else.”

“You’re a very wise woman, Meadow Hughes.”

You’re so perfect I ache just because I know it.