Chapter 10
“We’re almost there,” Alaric said, but his eyes never left me.
If the city outside the car windows wanted to get my attention, it would have to try a lot harder.
Boston in December looked like someone had left Chicago out in the rain.
That said, not much could distract me from the person sitting inches away and his one-man campaign to make me care about food again.
For the past hour, and also the two hours prior during our flight, Alaric had been talking about food.
It had all started with the delivery of our hot chocolates on the airplane followed by a passing mention of the chocolate industry in Switzerland.
He then detoured to the cheeses of France before bouncing vigorously over to his favorite junk foods.
There’s been a five-minute digression on the correct way to make ranch dressing (from scratch).
By the time we’d landed at Logan and slid into the back of another SUV, I’d learned that he was allergic to fresh pineapple, that he thought the best taco he’d ever eaten was sold from a truck outside the border checkpoint in Laredo, and that, in his words, “Gelato is not the same as ice cream, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying, possibly about other things too.”
He never once asked if I cared about any of this, likely because I kept asking him questions. I had no doubt he knew me well enough to realize I would never feign interest in a topic for several hours. Ever. For any reason.
“If you’ve never had good tom yum, it’s life changing,” he said.
“What is tom yum?”
Alaric turned so that the whole of his attention was on me, his posture shifting from loose to intent.
“It’s a soup. But not like any soup you’ve had.
It’s sour, but also spicy, and tastes both savory and just a little sweet.
It has lemongrass and I think lime. Or maybe they put only the lime leaves in it.
I’m not sure, I’ve never made it. But the flavor—” He trailed off, his eyes losing focus. “It’s complicated.”
I mulled over this. “I don’t know what lemongrass tastes like. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything with lemongrass.”
He grinned. “Let me add that one to the list. We’re definitely going to fix that.”
“You have a list?”
“Don’t you keep a list of things you want to experience?”
“Not really.” At least, not for anything outside the context of work.
He gave me a quick once over. “I don’t remember you being good-food-avoidant in high school. Why did you stop eating delicious things?”
A small silence fell in the car as I debated whether or not to explain myself.
The SUV slowed, then stopped for a red light.
The traffic outside was loud, but the cabin was sealed up tight.
I briefly considered making a joke, but couldn’t think of anything funny to say, which wasn’t unusual.
I’m one of those people who are only funny on accident.
Finally, I settled on, “It’s a long story.”
He rolled with it, voice gentle. “I’d like to hear it.”
I studied the lines at the corner of his eye, the way he watched me without expectation. For someone who had so much practice getting his way, he never seemed to press, just waited out the world until it came to him.
I relented, but only a little. “I’ll tell you the CliffsNotes version if you tell me where we’re going.”
Alaric’s mouth quirked at the corners. “Deal.”
Gathering a breath, I felt the edge of the memory I was about to reveal in my chest. “Fine. I dated a chef for a long time, French and Mexican fusion was his thing. He used to make me amazing food and I loved it. It was very much a major part of our relationship. But then he cheated on me with. . . Anyway, after that, food lost all flavor. Since it stopped tasting good, I didn’t see any point in eating for enjoyment.
Instead, I focus on nutritional value. It works for me, and has been very efficient. ”
He didn’t say anything at first. Maybe I hadn’t explained the situation correctly or clearly and I’d confused him.
When I glanced up, I noticed his expression had softened. I felt a little exposed and immediately regretted revealing so much.
But then Alaric said, “He sounds like a complete idiot.”
A surprised and delighted laugh escaped me, which drew a big smile from Alaric as he continued, “However, I feel compelled to ask, have your tastebuds returned?”
Another laugh squeezed out of me, but this time it was due to discomfort, and I decided not to answer. “A deal is a deal. So, where are we going?”
Alaric lifted his hand to the window, gesturing at the row of buildings we were currently creeping past.
I squinted, then leaned over to look through his window.
At first, nothing registered. The city had stacked all the buildings so close together, even the signage was layered, fighting for attention.
But after a second, I saw it. A tall, old brick building, the kind with narrow, arched windows and peeling trim.
Above the entry, a carved wooden sign: Campbell & Fezziwig, Fiduciary.
“Oh my God.” The words slipped out before I could contain them and I couldn’t help my smile.
I turned back to look at him. “You brought me to Campbell and Fezziwig’s?
I used to work here. I did my internship here.
” Something in my voice had gone bright and unguarded.
I would’ve been shocked by it if I hadn’t been so excited.
Alaric reached a hand forward, palm up. “Come on. Let’s go.” He looked either extremely pleased with himself or pleased with my reaction.
“But—” I started to protest, and then I did a very stupid thing, which was to place my hand in his. “But it’s after hours. They’re closed.”
“They’re expecting us.”
“They are? Wait, is Mr. Fezziwig there? And Ms. Campbell? Are we going to see them?”
“Let’s find out.” He already had his door open and used his grip on me to help me out of the car.
I thought about letting go of his hand as soon as we cleared the curb, but the air outside was so cold and so sharp, I told myself it made sense to hang on.
The sidewalk was still wet from an earlier sleet, and the streetlights made it all look shiny if not expensive.
I realized we were walking, hand in hand, toward my old workplace. My favorite workplace.
Every step closer, my chest felt lighter and lighter, until finally I almost forgot that this whole thing was a setup and began entertaining thoughts of gratitude, wondering how I could best thank Alaric for making this happen for me.
He let go only so he could press the button at the building’s buzzer. “It’s Mr. Jordan and Alison Weston. We’re expected,” he said, and a voice crackled back through the intercom something inaudible. The door gave a little metallic click and popped open.
Inside, the building smelled like old wood and paper. The entry opened up to a stairwell, a steep and slightly treacherous climb to the upper floors. From above, I could hear not just the murmur of voices, but a distinctly jazzy Christmas carol, the trumpet line running a mile ahead of the rest.
My heart kicked into a weird, happy double-time. I let out a noise that was basically a squeal. I didn’t even know I could squeal.
“Wait,” I said, turning on the first landing to look at Alaric. “What is today? It might be their annual Christmas party. They always had a jazz band come, every year.”
“A jazz band?” he echoed, looking impressed.
“Ms. Campbell’s brother is the trumpet player in the band, he’s amazing.”
I started up the rest of the stairs, now pulling him behind me. The closer we got to the music, the more my body wanted to move, and every other thought faded into the background.
At the second floor, the sound of laughter hit me with, you guessed it, a burst of nostalgia. Nostalgia—and to a certain extent, longing—seemed to be the theme of the last twenty-four hours. Even so, I hesitated at the door, feeling suddenly unprepared.
Alaric squeezed my hand and whispered, “They’re expecting us, nothing to worry about.”
I nodded. I knew he was right. I would always be welcome here. Ms. Campbell had made that clear when I left to start my own firm, and had kept her word during the four years I’d lived in Chicago after.
Opening the door, the world went full color and noise.
I could tell the party had been at full velocity for a while.
Voices already pitched above the music, the echoing laughter, the way bodies leaned toward each other as if proximity itself might induce more joy.
The Campbell & Fezziwig office suite was medium-sized in the technical sense, but the effect of it tonight was that of a gymnasium packed beyond safe operating limits.
I barely registered the string of clunky metal letters above the door before being overtaken by a blast of warm air, the vapor of five dozen bodies and at least three dozen home-cooked casseroles.
All the desks, cubicles, and rolling chairs had been herded to the perimeter in a kind of office coral, leaving the entire center of the room open for a dance floor.
The low desks in one corner had been re-commissioned into a buffet line dense with food.
Crockpots jostled for space with heaping bowls of potato salad, lasagna, chicken wings, macaroni and cheese, dinner rolls, salad, and a what appeared to be a metric ton of delicious looking desserts.
If there was a theme to the Christmas decorations, it was “Vintage Holiday Yard Sale.” Six-foot-high cardboard Santas were taped to the windows, paper bells in alarming shades of red and green hanging from every ceiling vent, and a six-foot aluminum tree festooned with way too much tinsel.
The tree, set up on a small, jury-rigged platform (a “stage,” if you squinted), had a mountain of wrapped presents under and around it.
I knew they were real. Every year, Ms. Campbell and Mr. Fezziwig hosted a white elephant gift swap and it was one of the hottest tickets in town.