Macarons at Midnight by M.J. O'Shea & Anna Martin Read Free Book Online

wasn’t going to touch anise, but he’d admit to the other.
    Tristan was rewarded with a flash of a grin. “It’s blackcurrant flavor. Sometimes I use liqueur to make this flavor, but since they’re kids….”
    “Yeah, I rather imagine you don’t want to get them pissed.”
    “Probably not.” Henry chuckled and started measuring ingredients into the big mixing bowl. Something that looked like jam and butter and sugar, and another dark syrup he assumed was the cassis, and then he added a hefty squirt of something else in a purple bottle before he lifted out the beater.
    “That look bright enough to you?” Henry asked. He had the purple bottle in his hand. Must be the dye . The filling was already very bright, but who knew if it was bright enough? Tristan didn’t have a clue.
    He snorted. “I don’t know. Why on earth would you ask me?”
    “You look like you’d know,” Henry said, and shrugged.
    “It looks awfully purple. You going to put that frosting on the pink ones?”
    “Yup. It’s going to look like 1989 exploded all over these trays. Amazing but hideous.”
    Tristan wasn’t sure he knew what that meant, but he nodded knowledgeably. Henry’s timer went off and he started another graceful dance, pulling tray after tray of baked macaron rounds from his various ovens and sliding others in. It was fascinating to watch, even if Tristan hadn’t ever been interested in cooking, er, baking before. It really was like a dance, the way he turned and moved and shuffled things around. It was efficient and pretty, and Tristan decided for the second time that he’d be happy to sit there all night.
    Henry went back to his mixing bowl and started scooping out the filling into a long plastic bag. Tristan stayed there, sitting silently at the counter, for a long time. He barely wanted to move. Moving might mean Henry would remember he was there. Moving might mean he’d have to leave, and then he’d not get to watch Henry’s graceful kitchen ballet any longer. Sure, Henry said he wanted company, but why would he want Tristan’s long gangly legs and awkward big feet in his way? Tristan didn’t want to leave. For the first time, he’d found somewhere in the city that felt warm, a little corner, a place where he could be happy, something cheery and homely and… warm. That was really the only word for it.
    It smelled like something between his mother’s kitchen and a dream he’d barely remembered having; the glow and the smells and Henry’s little humming made Tristan smile. A real smile, not polite, not a work smile. A real one. The kind he hadn’t smiled in months.
    Henry sang a lot too, Tristan noticed, as he sat there and watched him work. Sang with the radio, sang to his cookies, just hummed little tunes like he didn’t care that Tristan was right there. Or maybe he forgot.
     
     
    A LONG time later, when there were lush piles of pink-and-purple biscuits and another batch of filling, this time bright yellow, and more trays of cooled bright rounds ready, Henry finally spoke.
    “You okay?” Henry asked. “I can make tea. Are you bored? Sorry, I sometimes get into my own little world when I bake. I don’t mean to ignore you.”
    Tristan shook his head. He’d been so fascinated by the colors and the smells and the piles of puffy bright pretty things that he had barely noticed time flowing by. “No. Not bored. To be honest, it’s nice to be around someone who I don’t work with, and you’re fun to watch. You kind of remind me of home, in a weird way.”
    “I do?” That earned him a surprised smile.
    “Yeah. I don’t know what it is. Something about this place is familiar. I like it. My mom’s kitchen always smells good like this, and there’s always something baking or about to be baked. This is the first place in the city where it’s felt like that.”
    Henry’s smile grew. “Of course, you can stay as long as you want. It’s nice to have company for me too. Usually it’s just me and