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“What’s this? You’re baking?”
I meant to keep my expression neutral, focused, perhaps, but I’m pretty sure I scowled. Holly needn’t sound so surprised.
“Where did you get these apples? They must be taking you ages to peel, and they’re so small, you’ll need dozens. It would be much easier with the ones I picked up at the grocery store yesterday. I can pop out to Arif’s if you need more...”
“No,” I said, more sharply than I intended. I took a deep breath and tried again. “No, it has to be these.” Holly arched one delicately shaped brow in question, and I clarified, “They’re from the tree in the back garden.”
Her mouth formed a little O, then she nodded and pulled a second paring knife from the drawer. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know the full significance of the apple tree; it was enough to know it meant something to me. Not for the first time, I found myself grateful for Holly’s remarkable intuition.
To her credit, Holly struck the balance of helping without commandeering better than I might’ve expected, based on our history. Truth be told, she was far less bossy than Kipps in the kitchen, a fact I hadn’t fully appreciated until Kipps and I narrowly averted disaster collaborating on mince pies at Christmas.
Later, George walked into the kitchen with his nose in the air, sniffing experimentally. He looked startled to find me peering into the oven. “What’s this? Has Lucy been baking?”
His follow-up comment to the effect of “will wonders never cease” was interrupted by a cry of outrage, and George was saved from a swift kick in the shins mainly by virtue of distance and inconvenience: I was carrying a tin filled to heaping with fruit and sugary goo, and didn’t want to risk dropping it. Holly jumped in to ask George what he’d found at the archives for tomorrow’s case, leaving me to deposit the tart-in-progress safely in the oven.
When the sounds of the front door opening and a rapier being deposited in the big pot in the hall floated back to the kitchen, Holly elbowed George. George gave the tart cooling on the counter a longing stare, but apparently my earlier promise was sufficient placation, because they both made themselves scarce after passing fleeting greetings to Lockwood. Holly disappeared down to the basement, pleading paperwork, and George clomped up to his room, a selection of comic books under his arm.
Lockwood gave me a bemused look as he dumped goods from his errands on the kitchen table: canisters of salt and iron filings, crisps, a set of shiny new flares, lightbulbs, and what looked like a few packets filled with seeds. I raised an eyebrow at the latter, but Lockwood was already speaking as he sorted his acquisitions into piles.
“Smells nice in here. Has Holly been baking?”
“I have, actually.”
His eyes darted to the counter; he hid his surprise better than the others had.
“Well. Holly supervised, a bit.”
“Really? And she and George still didn’t trust the output? Looks perfectly edible to me.” He smiled at me.
“I told them it wasn’t for them. I did promise to save them each a piece, though, I’m not a monster. It’s more of — um. It’s for you and me.” I squirmed a little; Lockwood didn’t have quite as much of a sweet tooth as George or I did — though he was no stranger to dessert, like Holly had seemed when she first started at Lockwood & Co. — and suddenly I was unsure about my idea altogether.
Lockwood was quiet for a moment, and I was about to jump in with some kind of apology when he turned to dump one of the salt canisters into the big barrel in the corner. Task completed, he nodded toward the tart. “Is it just about done cooling? I’d love to try a piece.”
I felt a tiny beam lifting the corners of my mouth. “Sure. Let me get the plates.”
He came to stand next to me, bumping me with his hip and fixing me with a brilliant grin. “Anything in particular I did to warrant this kind of welcome home, Luce? Maybe I should take the boring chores in the rota more often, if this is the thanks I get.”
“Only if it’s my name next on the list. I guarantee George wouldn’t show his gratitude as nicely.” Lockwood indulged me with a small huffed laugh. “I wanted to…” I bit my lip. “I wanted to do something nice for you, that’s all. Like — like an engagement present, maybe. I know it’s a lot smaller than your present to me” — I quirked a wry grin and flashed my left hand at him — “but still.”
Lockwood didn’t take the obvious bait for banter. His gaze was intent on the ring for a long moment, then flicked up to my face, which seemed to be belatedly heating in proximity to the oven.
I glanced away, concentrating on scrounging through the silverware drawer to find a clean knife suitable for slicing the tart. I was starting to regret not asking George to help with the teetering pile of dishes in the sink before he scarpered. “It’s just — you’ve given me everything, Lockwood. A job, a home, this ring, and in a couple months, your name… What have I given you, really?”
“You wear that necklace every day, for starters.” Something sharp glinted in his smile as he reached out to tap the pendant that hung around my neck.
“That’s not what I—”
“You share this house with me,” he went on. “Arguably you brought life back into it, when before it was more a monument to the dead than anything else. You’ve brought unprecedented success to my company as the finest Listener in London. You accepted that ring.” He reached out again to take my hand, twisting the diamond-and-sapphire ring back and forth.
“That’s just it, though. Those are all about me accepting things you give me, you see what I mean? Except maybe the Listening.”
He tilted his head, considering. “All right, well, combine those last two: you’ve helped me make something out of my family name with Lockwood & Co., a legacy you’ve built and are about to share. I think that counts for something, don’t you?”
Without asking, he reached up to the top cabinet to retrieve possibly the last clean plates in 35 Portland Row. They were festooned with Christmas trees, and even when the dishwashing situation was dire, I refused to use them, because the indignity of pulling over a chair to reach them did not outweigh the annoyance of finally setting about scrubbing the dishes in the sink.
As I carefully scooped steaming slices onto the first of the festive plates, still avoiding eye contact, I mumbled, “Hope the apples aren’t too sour, or mealy, or whatever. I used the ones from the tree in the back garden.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” A sudden worry occurred to me. “They’re still edible, right? They’re not some poisonous ornamental variety or something?”
“No, no, they should be fine. Jess and I used to eat them all the time when we were young. I keep meaning to pick some again, I just somehow forget, every year.”
I smiled a little at the mental image of Jessica holding up her little brother so he could pluck the juiciest-looking fruit from the higher branches. “I thought it would be nice. Like a — like a blessing, of sorts, from your parents. Ahead of the wedding, since—”
I was interrupted by a crash. Lockwood had dropped the plate he was holding. He didn’t seem to have noticed. He was staring at me, open-mouthed.
An abrupt wave of anxious nausea rose in my gut. My heart leaped into my throat, preventing me from babbling out some kind of apology. How could I be so stupid—
And then Lockwood was folding me into his arms, squeezing so tight I wasn’t entirely sure I could still breathe, though that could have been the panic, too. For a second I was too shocked to move, standing stiff as a board, and then he sort of rested his cheek against my hair and I melted into him. He let out a very small sigh, but otherwise, neither of us made a sound for several minutes.
“Thank you,” he whispered finally, voice rough. When we pulled apart, I was surprised to see him blinking rapidly, eyes suspiciously shining. Lockwood was not a crier; as a rule, that was Holly’s job at Lockwood & Co., if anyone’s: not George’s (except in times of extreme stress, like devastating injury or, I suspected, that one time someone not to be named left only half a biscuit in the packet), rarely mine, and certainly not Lockwood’s.
“Erm,” I said. I couldn’t seem to find anything more eloquent. “You’re… welcome? Or I’m sorry? Maybe a little of both.”
“No,” he replied quietly, firmly, “it’s perfect.”
He took a deep, shuddering breath, and the spell was broken. We smiled at each other, and somewhere in the back of my mind I could hear George gagging like he did whenever we looked at each other like that over dinner. All of a sudden, Lockwood seemed to notice the shattered plate on the floor. “Wait, don’t move!” He started off to the corner where we kept the broom, then turned back, frowning at my bare feet. “Could you… I don’t know, sit on the counter or something?”
I huffed a laugh. “You think one of the pieces is going to leap up and attack my foot?” But his scrunched-up expression was so worried (not to mention sort of adorable) that I wiggled my way up onto the counter anyway, taking care to nudge the kitschy house teapot to the side as I did so.
As he knelt to sweep the gathered pieces into the dustpan, Lockwood commented, “I picked up some seeds today, while I was out. I thought it might be nice, to do a spot of gardening.”
It was an effort, I’ll admit, to direct my focus to whatever he was saying. I was a little busy watching him work, the shift of his shoulder blades beneath the fabric, and thinking about how, thanks to a boost from the counter, my face would be almost perfectly level with Lockwood’s when he stood up.
“I know we’ve been making it a point, this past year, to actually trim the lavender bushes and keep the grass at a semi-respectable level, give the neighbors less cause to complain about our jungle. With things calming down a bit, I thought, maybe George would appreciate some homegrown herbs and spinach for his gormeh sabzi. And I know you like blue, so I was thinking, maybe some forget-me-nots under the apple tree.” He sat back and glanced up at me through his fringe, deep brown eyes wide and earnest.
It hurt a little to look at him when he got like that, like when too many lamps are turned on in one room. I bit my lip again, and tried for teasing. “You just want George to make your favorites more often.”
“He’s been saving all his fancy cooking for Flo. I can’t help it if I develop a craving now and then, can I? I’ll press my advantage where I can get it.”
A weighty beat passed between us. I swung my foot to nudge his shoulder with my toe. “Cravings, huh? Are those always savory, or sometimes…” I paused, “sweet?”
It sounded faintly ridiculous to my ears, but I was rewarded by the beginnings of a smirk stretching across his face. “I find it depends what’s on offer.”
“Oh yeah?” I raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Come here, then.”
Obediently, Lockwood rose to his feet and took a step toward me.
I held out a fork laden with gooey apple goodness. He held my gaze as he took the proffered bite. I watched his throat bob as he swallowed.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, Luce, that’s good.”
“You think so?” I said. I wanted to keep up whatever mischievous back-and-forth we’d settled into, but I was too pleased by his approval of my dessert. The bubble burst. “Holly suggested a little brown sugar. I was hoping that would be the right balance of sweet; the apples were on the small side, so I figured they might be a little sour…”
“Did you not try it yet?” I shook my head. “Honored as I am to be the first, that won’t do. Here—” He reached around me to retrieve the unbroken plate and plopped a slice on it.
Lockwood was right; it was good. So good, in fact, that I closed my eyes to savor it. When I opened them, Lockwood was smiling at me so softly I thought my heart might break.
“I love you,” he said, more observation than revelation. Simple, straightforward, comforting in its familiarity; like a comment on gravity or the defensive properties of lavender. Despite having heard those same words hundreds of times by now, I blushed a little anyway.
“And I appreciate my gift. You’re better at this than you think, you know.”
“What, baking?”
He laughed. “That too, I suppose, but I meant gift-giving. You think of things no one else would; you always do. You’re full of hidden talents, on top of the ones I hired you for.”
There was something special in the simplicity of sharing food and presence, simultaneous nod to past and future, promises made and pending, the warmth of home at a golden noon in our kitchen at 35 Portland Row. The year balanced on a tipping point between summer and autumn; anticipation was in the air. September sunlight slanted lazily through the window, spotlit some of George’s more remarkable sketches on the thinking cloth, and gilded the leaves of the tree out back. Part of me wanted to ask — always had — if Lockwood thought the apple tree was his parents’ Source, and why. I couldn’t wrap my head around why they’d appeared there, and seemingly vanished with no need for salt or silver. But in the end, it had never really mattered what it meant on a literal level, only what it meant to Lockwood.
“I take it the tart was a success, then?”
“Both delicious and thoughtful. I couldn’t ask for a better present.” He lifted my hand with both of his to start twisting my ring again. “While we wait for the bigger one, anyway.”
I still couldn’t quite believe Holly had convinced us to wait long enough to put together a more involved ceremony. I had sort of assumed we’d do a quick courthouse affair, sign some papers with our friends as witnesses and be on our way, lives officially entwined in the eyes of the law. But Holly had taken me aside and gently suggested that even if I didn’t especially care for pomp and flowers, Lockwood was the type to want the big white wedding. When I protested that he was thoroughly on board with the simple route, Holly pointed out that of course he’d be easy enough to sway given that he’d marry me yesterday if not sooner. And, truth be told, I kind of liked the idea of a bit of tradition, even if the prospect of planning a big party sounded daunting. I needn’t have worried: Holly’s enthusiasm more than made up for my reluctance, and under her watchful eye, a small celebration in the garden at Portland Row was taking shape, planned for next spring.
I felt myself flush again under my fiance’s attention, the brush of his long fingers against mine. I cleared my throat. “Are we really going to sit here all afternoon and feed each other bites of tart?”
“You’re sitting. I’m standing,” Lockwood pointed out. As though I could have forgotten (his face was right there). “Doesn’t sound quite so Dionysian. Anyway, you can consider it practice for the wedding cake.”
“Mm,” I replied absently. There was a crumb at the corner of his mouth that I was finding quite distracting.
“That said, cake would be the traditional route, but now this has got me thinking. Would something fruit-based be better? Or I’ve seen people do a doughnut table or the like, we could arrange with Arif—”
“Lockwood,” I interrupted, patience frayed.
“Yes?”
I reached out to grip his tie. His gaze locked on mine, then flicked down a couple inches. His eyes darkened.
“I suppose that decision can wait,” he murmured.
I tugged on his tie to guide him closer. He brought one hand to rest between my shoulder blades and buried the other in my hair. When he kissed me, I tasted late-summer sweetness.
Maybe Lockwood was onto something with his countertop caution after all. I certainly appreciated his steadying hand against my arm when I finally hopped back down. We can pretend I was looking out for any remaining shards, nothing to do with wobbly legs.
It’s safe to say the tart had cooled by the time I delivered George and Holly’s slices, though I think George at least was just grateful I hadn’t forgotten my promise to share.
The woman and the man reappear beneath the leafy boughs of the apple tree many times throughout the years:
Laughing in the swirling leaves, swinging a small girl between them.
The woman balanced precariously on a lower branch, handing apples to the man hovering immediately below.
Arranging themselves for a family photo at the direction of the woman’s brother, the girl perched triumphantly on her father’s shoulders, a fresh-born boy bundled in his mother’s arms.
Spinning, swaying, dancing together to a song only they can hear.
And finally, transported from a fire to the familiar, lingering versions of themselves, transparent and flickering, visible only to the boy watching from the attic window. All history converges on that single moment, and a wind whispers through the leaves to call them home.