Reginald, Too

Far in the west, the sky was bleeding. The setting crimson sun was a round bullet wound, splattering blood-like stains amidst the cloud cover. The gunmetal clouds hung in the east; they were weeping.  

            I, like the sky, was angry no matter which angle you looked at me. Even though I had my rain hood pulled all the way up, my brow still furrowed, and my lips pursed into a tight frown. 

            I kicked my boot aggressively through a shallow puddle and sprayed muddy water in every direction. Why me? 

            Why, out of every employee, did they have to fire me. Why do they even need pay cuts? The company is doing fine.  

            I muttered and huffed the entire way as I tramped up the cobblestone hill, the fiery sunset at my back. Nothing could possibly lift my spirits now; I’d have to return home to that shabby old flat and swig back scotch until late. 

            No, nothing could cheer me up. Except…

            My irate stare caught on the storefront window of a new tea shop that was pinched between a law office and a bank, both of which were two times as high as the tea shop and ten times as grim looking. 

Maybe there would be something yummy, something sweet, waiting for my bitter attitude. It was at least worth a look…

And there was! Sitting scrumptiously atop a shiny china cake-stand, perched in between piles of fresh crumbling cookies and biscuits of every lumpy shape, was a plump lemon pastry. Lemon pastries had long since been my favorite dessert. They were really the only dessert I enjoyed. 

A tiny bell tinkled as I pulled through the door. The smell of freshly baked goodies on the oven-warmed air hung in my nostrils as I breathed graciously deep and threw off my hood, reminiscent raindrops falling to the floor. 

The shop itself was charming. It was definitely not big enough to house more than one oven. Two small tables were set by the front window, each adorned with a thin vase of daisies. In fact, the entire inside of the tea shop looked like a daisy. The floors and walls were tiled in matching yellow and white, every piece of visible china was white with yellow patterns, the tables were light yellow, and even the lady standing behind the clear glass counter had butter yellow hair and ivory skin. 

“Welcome, welcome, sir. Can I help ye?” She asked as I hung my soggy raincoat over the chairback of a wooden chair, painted white, at one of the tables. 

“Can I get one lemon pastry, please?” I replied, pulling my wallet from my jeans pocket. 

“One lemon pasty…” her nails clacked against the register. “Anything else for ye?”

“Erm, a lemon tea, please.”

“Ye like the lemon do ye?” 

I chuckled. “Ah, well.”

“Five twenty, please,” she said with a smile. I handed her the bill and coins and settled down at my table. The other table was empty. My head fell into my hands as I realized, yet again, that I was now jobless. 

My self-pitying pondering didn’t last very long. I jerked up as the same buttery lady approached my table, white teacup in one hand and yellow lemon pastry in the other. 

“Milk and sugar are already on yer table,” she nodded towards them.

“Thank you.”

But I couldn’t look over to the milk and sugar. My eye caught on a delicate purple petal balanced on top of my lemon pastry. 

It couldn’t be…

I breathed in cautiously. The smell of lavender mixed with lemon reached my nose.

It was.

Instantly, I was transported back to my first memory. It was my fourth birthday, in my sixth foster home. 

“Reggie! Reggie!” She, the foster mother whose name I had lost somewhere in the years, called from the foyer. “Reggie, you’ve got something! Get down here, you rascal!”

I ran as quickly as my pygmy-height legs could take me. I bounded into the entranceway and there she stood, holding a lemon pastry adorned with a lavender petal.

Of course, I only remember blotchy snippets of that day, but one thing I remember that remains as clear as the daisy vase in front of me was the sweetly tart smell of that lavender lemon pastry. 

“Somebody left it on the stoop. It came with this note… well, you can’t read, so I’ll read it for you. ‘Reginald, Happy fourth birthday. I’m still with you.’ Humph, what an odd note.”

I don’t even recall eating the pastry that year; only the particular scent of floral lemon that its packaging released when I opened it. 

I had mysteriously received the same lemon pastry, with the same lavender petal, every single year on my birthday until I turned 18. Being 43 now, I had almost forgotten about them. I had definitely tried to forget my thrown-about childhood. 

I breathed in again, just to be sure. 

It definitely was my lemon pastry; there was no mistaking it’s distinctly floral scent. And now I found myself wondering, who was it that had sent me all those birthday pastries? 

As you could probably guess, as a child I had a fairytale dream of it being my mother, coming from far away to finally fetch me. But she never came. Anyways, if she knew where I was, she would have taken me back.  

“Excuse me,” I called to the buttery lady, who was now idly rearranging napkins on the counter. 

“Yes?”

“Is it you who bakes these?” 

“Ah, no. How come? Not to yer liking?” 

“Oh, no, it’s not that. It’s just…” I trailed off. How do you explain such an odd occurrence to a complete stranger? “Who does bake them?”

“Our pastry chef, of course. I could bring him out, if ye like.”

“Yes, please. I just have to ask him something.”

“Reginald!” She called through the kitchen door. Must be another coincidence, I thought to myself. 

A wrinkled man of about 70 came through the door, drying his hands on a tea cloth. The buttery lady muttered softly to him and gestured towards me. He nodded and came to my table.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said quickly as he hovered above me. 

“Not a bother. What can I do for you?” He tucked his nutty brown hair behind a large ear. 

“Well, it’s just…” Again, I had little idea how to explain my situation. “Where did you get this recipe?”

“I’ve had it all my life,” he said proudly. “Why, you don’t like it?”

“Oh, no, it’s lovely. Absolutely lovely. But, it’s rather odd. I could have sworn I used to receive a pastry of this exact make for my birthday every year of my childhood. Did you ever give the recipe to anyone, by chance?” 

At this, he sunk into the chair across from me, emotion flooding his aged brown eyes. 

“Reginald?” He asked. 

“Yes, I’m Reginald. And you’re Reginald, too. I heard the other lady call you.”

“Do you know how you got to be Reginald?” He asked. What a strange question.

“No, I, uh, never knew my parents.”

“You were named after me.” 

And in a fleeting moment of delayed recognition, I realized that my childhood dreams were not far off. It was not my mother who had been leaving me the pastries; it had been my father. 

“Are you, are you my father?” I stammered in shock.

He nodded but said nothing. Shiny tears formed along his eyelash line and his mouth broadened into a creased smile. 

“You’re my Reginald,” he croaked. 

We stood up in unison and he wrapped his aproned arms around me. It was a hug as I’d never felt one. 

“But,” I started, “But why did you never come get me? If you knew where I was all along?” 

“Oh, forgive me, son. Please forgive me. It is the biggest regret of my life. You see,” he pulled away but kept his hands tightly on my upper arms. “You see, your mother took me to court. She won, and she sent you away. She made sure there would be trouble if I looked for you. Every year on your birthday, I would sneak out with one pastry and leave it on the doorstep in the early morning. No one ever caught me, but for so long I’ve regretted not opening the very door and sweeping you away with me.” 

“Why did you stop? Bringing me the pastries, I mean.”

“When you turned 18, they took you out of the system, you see. I couldn’t find your houses anymore. Forgive me, son.”

“I forgive you. I forgive you, Father.” And I couldn’t contain my tears any longer. 

I knew instantly that I would be eating many more lavender lemon pastries in my life. Maybe I could even work as a pastry chef.