Chapter 3 - The Lemon Tarts
By mid-June, the summer heat had settled heavily over the city.
On a humid Saturday afternoon, Mark was scheduled to accompany me to my sister Emily’s house for lunch. Emily’s husband had recently passed away, and she was renovating her kitchen—a project I had offered to manage for her. Mark had promised three days prior that he would help us haul out the old wooden cabinetry.
At 10:00 AM, while he was getting dressed, he stood in front of the full-length mirror in our bedroom for nearly ten minutes.
He wasn't wearing his usual weekend outfit of faded jeans and an old college t-shirt. He had pulled on a tailored blue linen shirt I hadn't seen him wear since our trip to Charleston two years ago. He stood before his watch display box, carefully deliberating between his everyday leather-banded watch and the sleek silver chronograph his parents had given him for his thirtieth birthday.
"You're dressing up for cabinet removal?" I asked from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a mug of coffee.
Mark looked up in the mirror, smiling easily. "I have to swing by the office for an hour first, Clara. A client from the West Coast is dialing in for an emergency conference call at eleven. I want to look decent in case they initiate video."
"On a Saturday?"
"Global markets don't care about the weekend, unfortunately," he said, turning around and kissing my cheek. "I’ll be at Emily’s by one o'clock at the latest. Promise."
At 1:00 PM, I was at Emily’s house, knee-deep in drywall dust and rusted screws. Mark hadn't arrived.
At 2:17 PM, my phone buzzed on the counter.
Still stuck in the conference room. This client is tearing through the contract clause by clause. So sorry, sweetie. Go ahead and start without me. I'll make it up to you tonight.
I stared at the screen until the light turned off. I didn't reply. I helped Emily carry three heavy upper cabinets out to the driveway, washed the white dust from my hands, and drove home at four in the afternoon.
When Mark came home at six, he was carrying a small white bakery box tied with red twine.
"Peace offering," he said warmly, setting the box on the kitchen island. "From that French pastry shop on 4th Street you love."
I opened the box. Inside lay two lemon tarts, their yellow glazed surfaces dusted with powdered sugar and adorned with tiny candied violet leaves.
I stared at those two desserts. Two mousses at Bellamy’s. Two lemon tarts in a white box.
"What's wrong?" Mark asked, stepping close and placing a hand on the small of my back. "You look like you're a million miles away."
"Why two?" I asked quietly.
Mark laughed, a familiar, easy sound. "Because one is for you, and one is for me. Unless you want to eat both?"
I picked up a fork, sat down at the island, and ate half of one tart. The lemon curd was tart and sweet, but it tasted like chalk in my mouth. I slid the remaining half into the trash bin when Mark turned to pour himself a glass of wine.
May you like
I realized then that the phase of doubt had passed. I was no longer agonizing over whether my husband was betraying me.
I was counting down the days until October 18.
