Caf Aigre-Doux

Tester Prologue 03 February 2012 The pallid young man sitting in the corner booth hailed a passing waitress. He murmured his order to her, his voice deep but rather rough and raspysounding. It was a voice that suited his looks: pale, thin, somewhat sickly, almost bruise-like purple shadows beneath dark blue eyes, lank brown hair that he constantly seemed to be flicking out of his face. Ill have a latte macchiato, he told her, speaking with a faint yet noticeable Scots burr. Um, what sort of cake would you recommend to go with it? The black-and-white clad waitress gestured towards the display just a few steps away. Would you like to see what we have, sir? she asked him. The young man blinked, then shuffled out of the booth to go look at the cakes. His breath caught, awed as he was by what he saw. The cakes in the clear-fronted chiller seemed a throwback to happier times, back to when he wasnt so weighted down by grief and pain. It seemed like all his favourites were in there: apple pie the kind with the cinnamon-spiced crumble topping he liked so much. He could see that there were walnut fragments scattered amongst the buttery crumbs, so he knew it was extragood. Chocolate cake! he sighed, his tone reverent and almost worshipful. There were three kinds of it: the classic chocolate layer cake sandwiched with butterscotch and covered with a thick, chewy chocolate icing; Black Forest real

Schwarzwaldertorten! fragrant with Kirsch and topped with clouds of whipped cream and magnificently shiny Maraschino cherries; and a chocolate mousse torte that looked properly rich and creamy. Buttery pound cake, prune-walnut cake with burnt-butter icing; blueberry cheesecake and strawberry shortcake; brazos de Mercedes and flaky, nutty, creamslathered sans rival. It put his mind in a whirl: how could he choose from such a glorious array? That was when he saw the cupcakes: each just a little bit smaller than his fist, more muffin-sized than the daintier, more common fairy-cake-sized concoctions so

commonly purveyed by the bigger commercial bakeries.

These baked behemoths

sported equally grandiose swirls and flourishes of frosting. He noted that several caf patrons were enjoying them and his mouth watered at the sight of dense-crumbed cakes being split open to reveal equally lush fillings. Whats in the red-velvet? he asked the waitress. And is it real chocolate or is it just a butter cake with a splash of food colouring? The waitress raised an offended eyebrow at this. Sir! she declared in righteous indignation. Miss Hilda never uses food

colouring in our products. Its all chocolate it looks red because Miss Hilda used buttermilk in it; chemical reaction, see? And she bakes a whole chocolate truffle in each one. His eyes widened at the thought. He slid a glance towards the tray of samples near the cash register, noting that the truffles for sampling were fairly large ones. She also uses lemon zest for her cream cheese frosting, the waitress continued. Ill have one, then, he replied, then returned to his seat. As he waited for the cupcake to be brought to his table, Kent Fleming couldnt help but feel more than a little melancholy as he watched the steady stream of pedestrians outside the shop window. As he watched happy young couples strolling hand in hand, he couldnt help but sigh and regard them with fierce envy and a lingering sorrow that nothing would probably heal. Enjoy your time together while you can, he thought somewhat uncharitably. Who knows? Your happy little fairytale may just turn out to be a Gothic romance all magical at first, then it turns dark and ugly! He remembered Beatrix as she was when they were younger: blonde of hair, sky-blue of eye Beatrix with her ready laugh and upturned nose and freckled cheeks. Kent knew that, if he closed his eyes, he could easily bring back memories of long-ago picnics, of Sunday brunches filled with laughter, and of snowy Christmases spent dreaming of a rosy future by blazing fireplaces. Alas, Kent also knew that these pretty little memories would eventually give way to those heartbreaking final weeks he spent by her hospital bedside, the brutal day when she rested her feeble hand on his arm even as she breathed her last. So he kept his eyes open and tried to steel both heart and mind against the inevitable pain. Your cupcake, sir, he heard the waitress say.

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When he looked up, he couldnt help but smile. It was a massive beast of a cupcake: maroon in colour, densely crumbed, with an enormous swirl of lemony cream cheese on top. The kitchen staff had considerately peeled away the cupcake paper, enabling him to sink his fork immediately into the dessert. That first forkful of cake and frosting sent pleasant shivers down Kents spine. The bittersweetness of chocolate and chocolate of exceptional quality at that! foiled by the tart yet sugary frosting. The dense cake melted into fudge in his mouth and was made even richer by the creamy truffle within. Ah, Trix! he thought. I wish you were here to share this with me; youd have loved it so! As much alas! as I loved you. He drew a deep breath, steadying himself against the tears he refused to shed even at the funeral. Beatrix told him not to cry at her wake or at her funeral. She wanted him to know that she was in a better place, somewhere peaceful where the pain that had plagued her from the cradle would never bother her again. She wanted him to know that she was happy and that he should be happy as well. But Im not happy, Kent thought miserably as he speared another bite of cake. Im lost now youre gone. He took a sip of coffee to wash down the first few bites and found the creamy bitterness soothing and suitable for his current mood. Bitter is what Ive become, Kent thought as he set down his coffee cup. Cant be happy for myself, cant be happy for everyone else. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that the proprietaire was just putting in a freshly frosted batch of what appeared to be coconut-topped cupcakes into the display case. He noted that stressed-out crease in her brow, the set of her jaw, her dark hair escaping in wisps from the chignon at the back of her head. When she saw him looking, she managed a weary smile and wiggled her fingers in greeting. Kent replied with a wry smile and motioned for her to come over. When she sat down, he gestured to his cake with his fork. I actually hate red velvet cake, he informed her. But I actually like this. You would, she replied with that smirk of hers. Youd eat anything with chocolate. Yeah. So, what were those coconut things you just slid in? Oh, those? Banana-mango cupcakes with coconut frosting.

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No shit! Banana cupcakes and not muffins? Theyre just richer and denser; otherwise, the flavours pretty much the same. Ah. Rumour has it youve moved back in with your parents, she said, one eyebrow raised. He shot her a rather pugnacious look. And what Ive heard says youve never left your parents house! he snapped back. And who, dare I ask, told you that? Kent grinned at her wickedly. Your brother, he said. She frowned at that and muttered to herself something about keel-hauling her older brother. When she calmed down a bit, she tentatively reached across the table for his hand. He looked up at her, startled. Then he saw the sorrow on her face. Manong told me about Beatrix, she said in a quiet voice. That was lovely of you, Kent; staying with her when she grew too weak to live on her own. She wanted to go back to her parents in Shaftesbury, he said in a suddenly tight voice. But they thought that was too far away from her doctors in London, so we all took turns staying with her. He gulped, knowing that his grief suddenly

needed to find an outlet. When that final attack came, I was the one with her; Id taken a leave away from work so I could Well, I managed to get her to the hospital, but The tears began to fall in earnest. But there was nothing I could do, he said, his voice finally breaking as he buried his face in his hands. The proprietaire said nothing. But Kent heard a chair scrape back and soon felt two strong, warm arms enfolding him as he finally gave in to the grief hed held back for so long.

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