Chapter 10 - Sweetness and Silence
Six months later, the cherry blossoms in Central Park had burst into a violent, magnificent canopy of white and pale rose.
The afternoon sun was warm, cutting through the light sea breeze that rolled up from the harbor, warming the granite benches along the Conservatory Water where children were sailing small wooden model yachts across the clear pond.
I sat on a wooden bench beneath a weeping willow, wearing a cream-colored linen shirt, dark trousers, and sunglasses, a sketchbook resting on my lap.
My phone gave a soft, unobtrusive chime.
It was an email from David Albright.
Clara,
The final probate decree for the Vance Family Trust has been entered into the registry in Boston. The eight million dollars has been formally transferred to the maritime apprentice program. Sam’s bankruptcy was confirmed on Tuesday; he has relocated to Ohio and is working as a structural draftsman for a pre-cast concrete supplier in Akron.
Patricia has adjusted to Shady Pines. Her social worker reports that she has organized a bridge club, though none of the other residents will play with her for more than ten minutes.
Vanessa’s whereabouts remain unknown following the repossession of her vehicle in New Jersey, though the state tax board has placed a lien on her social security number for ninety thousand dollars in unpaid sales tax.
Your corporate audit for the first quarter shows a thirty percent increase in retained earnings. The firm is clean.
Be well. David.
I read the email twice, locked the screen, and slid the phone back into my leather tote bag.
The air around the pond smelled of damp earth, blooming lilac, and hot sugar roasted nuts from a vendor's cart on Fifth Avenue.
A waiter from the Boathouse restaurant—a young man with an apron tied around his waist—walked down the stone path carrying a white bakery box tied with red twine.
"Mrs. Sterling?" he asked politely, stopping beside my bench.
"Yes, Marcus," I smiled, recognizing the young man who had left L’Auberge d’Or three months ago to take over the private catering operations at the park pavilion.
He set the box on the wooden slats beside me, pulled a pair of small scissors from his pocket, and snipped the twine with a clean snip.
"Chef wanted me to bring this down personally," Marcus said, his eyes sparkling with that same conspiratorial warmth from October. "He said the Meyer lemon curd was the best batch he’s made all season."
He lifted the lid of the box.
Inside sat a small, perfect gateau: two layers of light almond sponge filled with fresh lemon curd, covered in a delicate, cloud-like swirl of toasted Italian meringue that smelled of vanilla bean and caramelized sugar.
No pink roses. No marzipan swans. No gold leaf compasses.
Across the top, written in neat, elegant dark chocolate cursive, were four words:
To The Real Life.
I looked at the cake. Then I looked out across the water, where a little boy in a red sweater was laughing as his small white-sailed yacht caught the spring breeze, skimming across the surface of the pond, steady, balanced, and entirely free of the shore.
"Would you like a fork, Mrs. Sterling?" Marcus asked.
May you like
"No, Marcus," I said, breaking off a tiny piece of the toasted meringue with my fingers and bringing it to my lips.
The sweetness was sharp, clean, and melted into nothingness on my tongue, leaving behind only the cold, bright taste of lemon and the infinite, quiet sky.
