Turning toward the window, she finds Levi, waggling his eyebrows and grinning mischievously. With the jam jar in his hand, he unscrews the lid, dips his index finger in the sticky mixture, and then methodically sucks the confection from his finger.
Watching as he licks his lips, Thessaly shouts, “That’s what the fancy knives are for, Levi Jones.”
“What dear?” interrupts the kosher honey lady.
“Nothing,” Thessaly mumbles, placing her hand on the window.
Separated by a single pane of tempered glass serving as both a barrier and a prism of self- reflection, Levi and Thessaly stand on opposite sides of the window – trapped in a suspension of hypothetical outcomes controlled by the fictional rules of a looking glass.
Declaring what he wants, Levi places his hand on the window . . . and then walks away.
Switching hands, Meg asks, “Why am I pulling the wagon?”
“Because your ass bounces like basketballs when you do it.” Seth teases.
Schlepping the wagon toward the kitchen, Meg flicks his arm and shouts, “I’m reporting you to management!”
Trying to get their attention, Thessaly waves her hand and points to the phone pressed to her ear. “Guys, shh. I’m on the phone with Lois.” Seth grabs a stool and sits next to Thessaly to listen. “Sweetie, that’s horrible. What about her dad?” Thessaly continues.
Seth frowns and shakes his head.
“Oh, I didn’t know that, I’m sorry. Please take a few days off – Christina needs you.” Thessaly pauses to listen to Lois while picking petals from a wilting sunflower. “Can I stop by this weekend? Okay, I’ll do that – hang in there, Lois.”
As Thessaly ends the call and places her phone on the island, Seth asks, “Why did you ask about her husband?”
“Because I didn’t know they were separated!” she shouts defensively.
“Not separated – the asshole just disappeared. What’s going on with Christina?”
“It’s not good. Christina stole a lot of cash last week, and then Lois found drugs yesterday.” She sighs.
Returning from the kitchen with three bottles of water, Meg asks, “It’s drugs, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, Lois found an entire pharmacy of prescription pills.” Thessaly exhales and opens a bottle of water. “Poor Lois. It can’t be easy being a single mom with a teenager.”
Seth slouches over the island and rests his head on his arm. “Shit, what can we do?”
“The only thing we can do right now is support her – she’ll have to make some very difficult decisions in the next few days.”
Leaning against the island and gulping the remnants of her water bottle, Meg adds, “Agreed. I had a friend in high school that was into hardcore drugs and he would do practically anything for his next fix. His parents eventually pressed charges just to get him into a rehab program. I think his dad eventually had a massive heart attack.”
“Hey, Meg, please don’t tell Lois that story.” Seth scowls.
“It’s the reality, dude!” Meg exclaims.
Fidgeting on her stool, Thessaly requests, “Let’s change the subject. How was the market?”
“Did you see the video we made?” Seth nudges Thessaly in the side. “Very film-noir if you ask me. And we sold everything but the two jars I gave away to some Swedish tourists.”
Rolling her eyes, Meg removes a compact from her makeup bag and snickers. “And by Swedish, he means a group of gorgeous blond chicks.”
“I watched the video! Never underestimate the cinematic appeal of an outdoor market on a gorgeous summer day,” Thessaly jokes.
“And never underestimate the appeal of overpriced hand-crafted jam in the hipster capital of the world.” Seth stands and pats Thessaly’s head. “Let’s go, ladies. I’m starving.”
“You coming, Tess?” asks Meg, applying pink lip gloss.
“Oh, I need to catch up on a few things in the shop.”
Frowning, Seth whines, “Turning me down is getting old, Tess. Change it up occasionally.”
Wrapping her arm around Seth’s waist, Meg pouts her glossy lips and teases, “Poor Seth, always getting shot down by beautiful women. Hey, Tess, what happened with that ice cream guy?” Meg’s eyes flutter as she waits for an answer.
“Mr. Softee?” Seth asks.
“There is nothing soft about ice cream guy!” Meg blurts.
Casually, Thessaly replies, “Ice cream guy is really cool. He runs Brooklyn Soil – that rooftop farm at the Navy Yard.”
Clapping her hands, Meg shouts, “He’s perfect! You can trade stories about crops and shit. Did he ask you out?”
“He did, I think. And as soon as I’m not bogged down with the Wild Honey launch, maybe I’ll call him.” Thessaly stands from the island and nudges her friends toward the door. “Go have dinner and relax – y’all did good work today.”
Seth bites the air. “You’re so sexy when your deep-fried accent seeps through.”
Laughing, Thessaly quips, “Go on. Git on outta here, boy.”
Over her shoulder, Meg reminds Thessaly of the following day’s schedule. “Wedding planner at two – I’ll help you set up in the morning. Good night, Tess.” Meg shoves Seth out the door and locks it behind her. Normally Meg would stay and help Thessaly prepare for a tasting at The Hive, but something about the cool breeze and the promise of lobster rolls steers her away from the shop. But more than likely, it’s the company of a redheaded Jewish computer geek that excites her.
As soon as her friends leave, Thessaly syncs the Bluetooth speakers to a Spotify playlist they would find ridiculous – John Mayer, Mumford and Sons, and some Indigo Girls thrown in for folky-fun. Swaying her hips to the sexy bass notes of Marcus Mumford, Thessaly wipes the marble counters with a checkered dish towel while dancing around the island.
In the kitchen, she flips a batch of cooled cornbread onto a small butcher block. Taking a beehive-shaped cookie cutter, Thessaly cuts five individual servings of cornbread, and then carefully places them on a platter to be warmed before tomorrow’s meeting. Scraping the leftover crumbles into a basket for Seth to eat for breakfast, she then covers everything loosely with plastic wrap.
Opening the cabinets, Thessaly selects a set of magenta glasses for the peach tea that will brew overnight. She also grabs four black dessert plates, the color being the perfect contrast against the golden cornbread and colorful jams. After placing the dishes on a wicker tray atop the workstation, and adding four yellow napkins, Thessaly rummages for a sleeve of Starburst she keeps hidden in a canister above the stove.
While removing the yellow wrapper of the unpopular lemon square, her phone buzzes on the counter with an incoming text.
Mason. She sighs, glancing at the vase of peonies that were delivered to her earlier.
Mason: Dinner?
Staring at the text while the tart juice of the lemon Starburst seeps from the corner of her mouth, Thessaly makes a bold decision.
Tess: I can’t tonight.
She opens the dreaded orange square next, always saving the red and pink for last. Popping it into her mouth, Thessaly’s phone dings.
Mason: I’ll come to you.
Knowing that he usually does whatever he wants anyway, Thessaly agrees.
Tess: My apartment in an hour?
Mason: I’ll bring wine.
Thessaly doesn’t respond to the last text, wondering why the man she spent seven years with would bring wine to a girl that hates grapes. Cupcakes, pie, even Sno-cones would have been a more natural gift for Thessaly Sinclair.
Shutting off the lights to the kitchen, but distracted by the wilting sunflowers on the island, Thessaly presses the record button on her phone. “Switch the flowers.”
She powers off the speakers, latches the screen door, shuts off the tiny chandelier in the vestibule, sets the security alarm, and then locks the outer steel door behind her. Seth’s bike is still leaning against the window, so she checks the U-lock attached to a pipe, and then makes her way up Fulton.