Sweeter Than Sugar

“I loathe him for his sugar cookie recipe. That’s all.” I protested, shoving the tray full of gingerbread cupcakes into the holly filled display. Mr. Braverman chuckled, crinkling the crow’s feet around his eyes.

           “You and I both know that is not all, but if that’s what you insist is the issue then you will have no problem putting that aside to work together for the Christmas festival.” I rolled my eyes. I had been avoiding this conversation. Mr. Braverman had been coming into the store for the past three days, each time to find I was whisking away in the kitchen, very conveniently busy with the holiday rush to chat with the town’s social director. The old man had a lot more wits than I gave him credit for though, because this morning he caught me at the register, him having changed his usual schedule to arrive forty-five minutes early.

           “Mr. Braverman, you know me. I’m not an angry person. I work with sweets every day of my life, it’s basically impossible not to let that rub off on my demeanor-but seriously? Of all people, he’s my biggest competition. The face in my nightmares. Putting us together would be like combining gingerbread and July. It would be-”

           “-This feels a tad dramatic, doesn’t it, Jeanie?” Interrupted Mr. Braverman.

           “-like defying the laws of science.” I continued, too far into my rant to quit it now. “I don’t make the rules, Mr. Braverman, just live by them.” I could tell that my protests had caught the looks of some customers at the tables closest to the display case, but even my volume was not dissuading the elderly pain-in-the-behind who now stood at the cash register.

           Mr. Braverman looked up to the ceiling and said through a sigh, “You have to face him at some point Jeanie....I really didn’t want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice. Without the sheer intrigue and spirit that would result in two rival bakeries coming together in the spirit of Christmas, I’m afraid that the festival just won’t have enough donations to support the families in need this year.” His eyes fell to me as I abruptly stopped fumbling around with the frosting dispenser. I threw it down and palmed the countertop, my cupcake mocking me with its unfinished look of defeat.

“Think of the children, Jeanie.”

I groaned and crinkled my nose. He was a man of no limits, Mr. Braverman, cutting right to the very core of things. Automatically my guilt started poking at my brain. Mr. Braverman knew as much too, I could see it in the way the corner of his lip turned up. The event was for charity after all, and Christmas time was supposed to be for good will towards man. If my life had taught me anything, it was that I was most certainly in opposition to the Scrooge mentality. I felt my guilt being trampled by the bright light of my desire to help. I wanted nothing more than to retaliate, to ignore and to push away his inquiry, but Mr. Braverman knew I wouldn’t resist.

           “Fine! Alright, you got me. I’ll reach out to him.” I relented, throwing my hands up. I reluctantly smiled as Mr. Braverman clapped his hands and laughed when he let out a victory holler.

“Perfect! You won’t regret it.” He said, though as he did, the churning in my stomach disagreed. For the kids, I thought, remember it’s for the kids.

“Ok, settle down, it’s not like you didn’t know I would agree.” I said, “You know, you’re the most stubborn customer I’ve ever met. And the most caring about this festival, which I can’t deny, is somewhat surprising, considering you complain about the holiday season non-stop.” I said as I picked up a baggie, putting together Mr. Braverman’s regular order he got for him and his wife. Two blueberry scones and a lemon tart.

“I’m the social chair, my dear. How would it look if the Fourth of July parade changed the very lives and hearts of all who experienced it, only to have the Christmas festival fall to waste? I have to give my full effort for all the people in town. Plus, what’s better than spreading more of that spirit of giving?” Mr. Braverman asked as I handed him his order.

“Re-election?” I answered. Mr. Braverman laughed and tapped the side of his nose before pointing the same finger at me. As much as the old man drove me to the brink of insanity, the twinkle in his eye was the closest thing to a grandfather that I could think of.

He nodded towards the display, “I think I’m going to throw in a gingerbread cupcake for the Mrs. today, Jeanie. My spirits are high.”

As I packed up Mr. Braverman's order and waved goodbye, the bell chiming as he strolled out with his head up, the feelings of apprehension filled my stomach once again. Immediately I pushed through the door behind me and into the kitchen. I reached for my escape: my bakery supplies. I grabbed ingredient after ingredient, ready to work like a hamster on a wheel to settle the anxiety about my recent agreement. Jeremiah kept giving me side eyes as he ran in and out of the kitchen, but we had worked together too long for him to question my intensity when I got into this sort of a baking spree. These frenzies were common among most bakers. Baking healed and clarified. Baking was a sanctuary. At that moment, though, I felt like I wasn’t even paying attention to what I was doing. The more I worked, the more nerves catapulted into my system. I was on hyper-drive, but my mind was somewhere else. It was on sugar cookies that I couldn’t match. Why did it have to be sugar cookies? I thought, of all the types of pastries, breads, and desserts in the world, why did it have to be the simplest one that was so superior? It mocked me, the way he could take the simple and make it more extraordinary than I could.

I knew that I was overcompensating, fixating on the sugar cookies to stop myself from addressing the real issue, but I didn’t want to stop myself. I couldn’t get the sugar cookies out of my head, which was exactly how I wanted it because if it wasn’t sugar cookie recipes I was thinking about, it would be the man who made them so well. It would be that before I could take off my apron, clean up the powdered sugar and flower and take a deep breath of all the aromas created in my bakery during sunlight hours; before I could drive home listening to my mom’s favorite Christmas classics on an old CD she refused to let me throw away, I had to see him.

Before the day was through, I would have to speak with Luca Bellini.

           ~~~~

           At the risk of sinking into the pothole on the street beside me out of sheer embarrassment, I knocked on the glass window of Luca Bellini’s bakery. As I sat on the dark street corner, the twinkling lamp posts with their red and green bows cascading the only light, I had to physically strain to swallow my pride. It was just Luca, after all, what could he possibly do to me besides make my cooking feel inferior? There was nothing. Not anymore. I knocked on the glass window and peered inside with my hand. Soon enough, he came. Towering over the tables and display case, green eyes somehow sparkling on the olive skinned face even in the darkness of the closed bakery. Oh boy. I had tried to forget what those eyes had done to me in the past. Tried to push down the nights I spent holding back tears in the back of the bakery, formulating new recipes out of fear of what would happen to my heart if I stopped moving for even a second and was reminded of those eyes. Luca saw me in the glass and smiled unevenly, looking down for a second. My heart skipped.

           The truth was Luca Bellini had hurt me with more than just his sugar cookies.

           He opened the door with a soft smile.

           “I see Mr. Braverman wore you down,” Luca said, leaning against the door frame.

“Usually people start off with a ‘hey how’ve you been’ but I get you might be under some pressure given our current dynamic, so I’ll let it go,” My sarcasm came out, more as a nervous babble than anything. I cursed myself in my head. Opening the door Luca had propped, I scooched by him and headed into the shop. I knew the way. Luca took quick steps behind me. “But yes, Mr. Braverman has everything to do with my presence. In fact, if it weren’t for the children he so valiantly claimed were depending on our collaboration, then I probably wouldn’t be here right now.”

He looked down to me, his face alight with emotions I wasn’t in the mood to analyze; or was afraid to analyze for fear that the way he was looking at me was like he used to, and I couldn’t handle that. I slid the wooden separator up and walked behind the counter.

           “Jeanie-hey-I only meant that he must have, cause I’ve been trying to get you to see me for weeks and have been met with either your voicemail or Jeremiah at the front of the shop telling me you were always meeting with your supplier or were knee deep in catering orders or whatever he decided to come up with for that day. You haven’t exactly been an easy person to reach,” Luca said, his voice soft and rhythmic with his slight Italian accent.

           We were in the kitchen now, flour still disseminated on the counter and bowls covered in the sticky of leftover dough from whatever was in the ovens. The room smelled like his chocolate macadamia truffles. My favorites. I walked over to the ovens and peered into the top one, the light and proximity drawing out the blood in my cheeks. I was right, he was making my favorites. I wondered if he knew I was coming. I shook off the thought. There was no way he knew, and why would he, after what happened?

           “I’ve just been pretty busy lately. I’m sorry I missed you,” I spoke into the oven, but felt Luca a few steps behind me. I knew, even before turning around, that he had one hand on the corner of the table, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to reveal the veins in his solid arms.

           “Busy with the bakery or just busy avoiding me?” Luca sighed, pushing out the last two words as if some sort of tether had to break in order to say them. His eyes were trained on mine when I turned around. An invisible hand squeezed my heart.

           “Both,” I choked out, the invisible hand having stolen my vocal cords too. “I needed space. To think, breathe. I don’t know, to get out of my own head?” He opened the flood gate. I couldn’t stop it now. “To get it together. You know, usual post break- up things.”

           “Jeanie…” Luca started, moving towards me. I shewed him away.

           “No, I’m fine, really. Pity is not the anecdote. That would just make this already embarrassing exchange even more cringy.” I took a sharp breath. “So, what were you thinking for the festival?”

I stared at Luca. Right in front of me was the man I had been avoiding for weeks. The man who broke my heart. Ripped it apart more like. As he stood there in the dim light of the kitchen, watching me force a front of a smile, he didn’t look like his usual self. He wasn’t standing erect, easy confidence oozing out of his wide smile and inviting eyes. His shoulders hunched, concaving his stomach. Dark circles lined his eyes. The corners of his mouth were turned down. He looked tired.

           “I can’t keep this in anymore. Jeanie, it’s been killing me, what happened between us. I’ve been going crazy trying to talk to you. I can’t sleep. The kitchen has seen more of me in these past weeks than ever-guess I should thank you for that, all the new recipes I’ve come up with,” He nervously laughed and ran a hand through his thick dark hair. “But all I want is to figure this out.”

           I shrugged my shoulders, “What is there to figure out? Guy from the competing bakery starts coming to his competitor a lot to, you know, to scope out the competition. Asks his competition out, and then again. Soon enough, he says he loves her and, wouldn’t you have it, she believes him. Ridiculous,” I laugh. It’s a mix of bitterness and hurt.

           “Jeanie, I meant what-”

           “Oh, but wait.” I trailed around the kitchen, feeling Luca’s eyes on me with every step. “At the height of her excitement over the relationship, she wakes up one morning to find that-what is this?- her so-called love had secretly been keeping track of their midnight creations, as well as her own recipes- the ones she has worked effortlessly to create-to sell for himself,” I stopped and squarely faced him.

           “You made me out for the fool. What could there possibly be to discuss further?” There were tears knocking on the rims of my eyelids, beckoning to be let out, but I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Even if Luca’s desperate face broke something in me, I forced my conscious to remember who he really was. A fraud.

           “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you Jeanie,” Luca’s voice quieted, and he looked to the ground, “I didn’t know.” The sudden dejection of his breath, the way he transferred his weight from foot to foot, it all screamed of honesty. He was nervous to express the truth. Confusion overwhelmed me.

           “What do you mean?” I prompted, “You didn’t know?” Luca looked up at me, his heart, full and tender, reflected in his eyes. It was almost like a child in desperate prayer.

           “I had been keeping notes on what we made. That much is true. But it wasn’t to sell for myself. It was for us. I was going to put all the papers together like a keepsake.” My heart was beating a million miles a second. I had to put my hand on it and push it down to try to subdue the intensity. Could this really be true? Luca continued, taking steps around the corner of the giant counter towards me at the opposite end.

“My cousin Cassandra-she found the papers. Apparently, she’d been after the family bakery for years. Was pissed I got it over her. She took the recipes, filled the displays when I wasn’t there. I couldn’t have been, remember? I was with you.” Of course, I remembered our last good night. Remembered the empty glasses of red wine, the twinkling lights, freshly baked bread. I remembered the way the rug felt beneath our feet as we danced together in our socks. Remember how he pulled me into him when Sinatra came on, how we seemed to fit perfectly against each other. Of course, I remembered. I nodded.

“So you know I was with you most of that night, and the next day I had to go take care of my mom and talk to suppliers. Cassandra told me not to worry, that she would take care of things.”

“Oh my gosh, Luca,”

“Wait, Jeanie, I have to finish, you have to understand. When I came back and saw what she had done, I exploded. It was a big brawl, Italian swears, gestures, I’ll let you use your imagination, but it was bad. She thought that the recipes would put her above me if she took the credit, and if it messed up you and me too well-that would be the icing on the cake. She knows how crazy I am about you and that if I lost you, well.”

I couldn’t listen anymore. I closed the space between us that had slowly diminishing and threw my arms around him. He collapsed into me. His hands found my hair, caressing the back of my head. I felt like I was a balloon that popped. So many emotions exploded: guilt for not listening to Luca, relief, joy, everything.

“I’m sorry, Luca. I’m so sorry” I said. Luca just shushed me, holding me tight to him. The silence and the stillness of the night spoke for us. More was said in the embrace than any words could have. At that point I couldn’t think of anything that would cause me to let him go.

I pulled back ever so slightly to look into his eyes, “I am too you know,” Luca’s brows furrowed in puzzlement. I smiled, “crazy about you.”

Luca threw his head back and laughed, causing an echo in his chest that I could feel.

“I’m way past crazy, Jeanie. If begging Mr. Braverman to make us work together for the festival isn’t love, I don’t know what is.” Shocked, my mind shot back to Mr. Braverman and his insistence on my participation. I never gave him the credit he deserved.

“You know what? I love you, Luca Bellini.” I said.

Suddenly serious, Luca responded, “I love you too.” My heart was sent shooting into the stars.

“But don’t think that will give you access to the secret of my sugar cookies.” He chided.

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” I laughed.

“I guess we will.” Luca said, taking my hand up. He started to sway, leading me to dance in the back of the kitchen. He quietly hummed in my ear, my head on his chest. It was then I realized, love was sweeter than any sugar cookie.