A Second Bite at the Apple (10 page)

An entire week passes before Stu Abbott calls, but when he does, I have to muster all my self-control to keep from squealing into the phone.

“I'd love to meet for coffee,” he says. “You free next week?”

“Yes!” I blurt at a deafening pitch, unable to control my excitement.

Stu hesitates, apparently flustered by my manic gusto. “Okay, then . . . How does next Thursday sound?”

“I work at the Penn Quarter market from about one thirty until seven thirty, but otherwise I'm around.”

“Hmm . . . Afternoons are usually better for me. . . .”

“Or I could bail on the market—whatever is easiest for you. I'm at your disposal. Whatever you want. I'd love to meet. I'll make it work.” The words fire out of my mouth like bullets.

“How about Friday afternoon?”

“Perfect. Just tell me where and when, and I'll be there.”

“The coffee options by my office are kind of lame. Where will you be coming from?”

“Fourteenth and Swann.”

“Oh—that's right by Peregrine. They don't have a ton of seating, but I can try to get something by the window. Want to say three o'clock?”

“Perfect.”

“I'll be the guy with the black-rimmed glasses and reddish beard.”

“I'll be the girl with dark hair and freckles who will probably be tripping all over herself.” I pause. “With excitement. Not because there is anything wrong with me. Although I'm not particularly coordinated.”

“Sure. Okay.”

He goes quiet for a few seconds, and I bite my lip to keep from saying anything to fill the void because everything that comes out of my mouth is awkward beyond belief.

“I'll see you Friday at three, then,” he finally says.

“Yepper!” I say.

There's no way this guy doesn't think I'm completely insane.

 

The following Friday I show up at Peregrine Espresso at three on the dot, figuring this guy already thinks I'm a lunatic, so I might as well be a punctual one.

When I approach the gray brick storefront, I spot Stu sitting in the front window, stirring a foamy cappuccino with a small silver spoon. I take a deep breath as I smooth my lightweight trench coat and pull open the front door, hoping I can keep Psycho Sydney at bay, at least for thirty minutes. If our prior conversation is any indication, this won't be easy.

I enter the coffee shop, which is bright and airy, flanked on one side by exposed brick and on the other by natural wood panels lined with mugs, filters, and bags of coffee beans. A glass pastry case sits atop the blond wood counter and is filled with croissants, scones, and muffins, and the entire shop bears the rich, slightly smoky smell of freshly ground coffee beans.

Since Stu is already here, I am in the awkward position of either (a) pretending I don't see him and ordering a drink, (b) saying hello, but then making him wait while I order a drink, or (c) sitting down and not ordering a drink, but wishing I had as I watch him sip his luscious cappuccino. This meeting is a disaster before it has even begun.

I decide I cannot ignore him, especially since he already thinks I'm nuts, so I make my way toward the front window, where he sits in a wooden chair in front of a small table.

“Stu?”

He looks up from his mug and smiles, the reddish stubble from his beard folding into thick creases. He is about Charles's age—mid-forties, maybe a few years younger—though with his black-rimmed glasses and plaid shirt, he looks a lot hipper than Charles ever did.

“You must be Sydney,” he says. He reaches out and shakes my hand. “I didn't see you come in. I was looking for someone tripping all over herself.”

I feel my cheeks flush. “I made sure I did all my tripping before I crossed the street.”

“Ah. Got it. Good plan.” He gestures to the bench across from him. “Have a seat. Or did you want to order a drink first?”

Is this a test? It must be a test. Although if he minded if I ordered something, he wouldn't have offered it as an option, right? Then again, he is a journalist, and of all people I should know that journalists have deadlines and don't have all day to hang around while some wannabe food writer orders a fancy espresso-based beverage. On the other hand, he is a food writer, so maybe he wants to see what I order. Like, am I super boring with a plain black coffee, or do I order something overly elaborate and over-the-top, which makes it look as if I don't really like coffee and am trying to disguise the taste?

OH MY GOD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

“Would you mind if I ordered something real quick?” I say.

“No problem. Take your time.”

I order a cappuccino, which comes out with a little heart drawn into the foam on top. When I bring it to the table and take a seat, Stu smiles. “Good choice. They make a mean cappuccino.”

“That's what I hear.” I give my drink a quick stir and take a sip. “So Charles says you liked the video on my site.”

“I did. It was cute.”

Cute?
Cute?
No. Puppies and kittens are cute. Babies are cute. I'm not saying my little video was Edward R. Murrow's “Harvest of Shame,” but it was a decent piece of production work.

“Thanks . . .”

“Sorry—that came out wrong. What I meant was it was fun. Made me interested in that crazy baker and his bread. And it got me thinking about what we're trying to do over at the
Chronicle.
The new editor-in-chief wants to make our page a real destination. Right now it's more of an afterthought, and we're really falling behind, especially with all of the food sites online these days.”

“So where does my blog fit in?”

“Well, that's the thing. I'm not really sure it does.”

“Oh.” Not exactly the response I was hoping for.

He takes a sip of coffee and wipes a mustache of white foam from his lips with a small napkin. “We're experimenting with some things behind the scenes right now, but I'd love to throw a few of them against the wall to see what sticks. One idea I had was for a blog called
Buying the Farm
—something tied into the DC farmers' market scene. You seem pretty plugged in to what's going on over there. I was thinking maybe we could use you as a stringer and have you contribute a weekly post.”

I sit up straight. “That would be amazing!” I catch myself mid-outburst. “Only . . . I'm sort of already doing that for the market's weekly newsletter. I'm not sure how Julie would feel about double dipping.”

He nods. “Fair point. I know Julie. I'll give her a call and see what she thinks.” He smiles. “I'm glad you brought that up, though. Shows you have a good moral compass. As you may know, our food section has . . . well, a bit of a spotty record in that regard.”

My cheeks flush at the reference to Jeremy Brauer. “I—I think you do a great job.”

“We do now. In the past . . .” He waves his hand back and forth. “Anyway, we'd be looking for more multimedia and a slightly newsier angle, so my guess is there wouldn't be a ton of overlap with the newsletter.”

“I'm sure I could bring something fresh to the table for your site. The video stuff alone would be different. And I could take a more critical angle with what I write for you.”

“That would be great. Not that I expect you to dig up dirt on everyone at the market, but if you did . . .” He waves me off as he takes another sip of his cappuccino. “I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's work on putting together a few posts we can launch in April and go from there.”

“Sounds great.” I fiddle with the handle on my cup and take a deep breath. “In terms of compensation . . . what are we talking?”

“Yeah . . . about that . . .”

Great. Here we go again. Apparently I've chosen a field desperate to survive and content not to pay anyone willing to help it do so.

“This is all experimental right now,” he says, “and we'd only be using you as a stringer, so we're looking at like one hundred dollars a post, max.”

My heart sinks. A hundred dollars is better than Julie's fifty, but it's also the same amount I make working one of Rick's markets, which requires very little use of my brain.

“Oh,” I say, unable to mask the disappointment in my voice.

“Listen, I know a hundred bucks isn't the jackpot, but it's the best I can do right now.”

“Do you think there's potential for something more . . . lucrative in the future?”

“Depends on how this goes. But yeah, there could be opportunities. We'd want something bigger than a farmer profile, but assuming you came up with something meaty . . .” He leans forward. “Again, I'm getting ahead of myself. For now, a hundred bucks is all I can offer for what we're talking about. You game?”

I nod, my spirits lifted by the prospect for future work. “Definitely.”

He smacks his hand against the table. “Great. Shoot me an e-mail this week with some thoughts on a few posts, and we'll come up with a game plan.” He reaches out across the table to shake my hand and smiles. “To a budding partnership,” he says. “Welcome aboard.”

I can't believe it—a gig at the
Chronicle
! Okay, so officially it isn't really a job. And at a hundred dollars a week, there's a chance I'd make more money babysitting or standing on a street corner with a tin can. But after trying for so many years to break into this industry, at least I finally have a foot in the door. Granted, it's more like a toe in the door, and a pinky toe at that, but if I come up with a legitimate story—something “meaty,” as Stu put it—I have a shot at breaking through that door in a serious way.

After my meeting with Stu, I head back to my apartment, but not before popping into a small creperie for a Nutella, banana, and coconut crepe because, let's be honest, I'm only human. The shop sits a few doors down from Peregrine Espresso, and even though I spend most days surrounded by flaky croissants and fudgy brownies, God help me, I still cannot resist the siren song of a sweet Nutella crepe.

I order it to go, but I dive in before I even leave the store because Nutella is my kryptonite. The rich chocolate hazelnut spread oozes from within the sweet eggy crepe, each bite filled with fresh bananas and bits of toasted coconut. I go in for another bite as I dash across S Street, the damp March air blowing my hair to and fro, and as I do, I walk smack into a guy charging down Fourteenth Street in the opposite direction.

“Whoa! Watch it!” he says as I accidentally smear a huge streak of Nutella down his white dress shirt.

“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry.” I fumble through my bag in search of a napkin, which I cannot find, so instead I grab an old, crumpled tissue and begin dabbing at his shirt. I glance up at his face to apologize, and that's when I notice the man in question is Jeremy Brauer. Perfect.

“Sydney—hi.” He smiles awkwardly, as if my general demeanor isn't awkward enough for the both of us.

“Hi . . .” I continue wiping at his shirt because (a) I lack social skills, and (b) I have no idea what else to do.

He brushes my hand away. “Don't worry about the shirt. I'm heading back to the office anyway. I can change.”

“Okay.” I retract my hand and tuck the gooey, chocolaty tissue in my bag. “You work around here?”

He points down Fourteenth Street. “Fourteenth and K. I was up here meeting a client.”

His eyes land on my upper lip, and it is at this moment I realize I am surely sporting a Nutella mustache.

“What are you doing out and about?” he asks as I attempt to blot my lip subtly with the back of my hand. Sure enough: Mustache Central. “Shouldn't you be working at a farmers' market somewhere?”

“I usually have Fridays off.”

“Ah, got it.”

He waits for me to say something, but I can't think of anything to say, so we just stand there, staring at each other in silence. It is very awkward.

Finally, when we have been standing across from each other for what feels like an eternity, he presses his eyebrows together gently and scratches his jaw. “Could I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I say, tearing my eyes from his. I take another bite of my crepe because, apparently, I am trying to make this interaction as uncomfortable as possible.

“What did I do wrong? I thought we had a really good time together.”

I gulp down a mouthful of Nutella and banana, refusing to meet his gaze. “We did. Dinner was fun.”

He lets out a pained laugh. “Right. But then when I called you about hanging out again, you blew me off.”

“No, I didn't.”

“You told me not to call you again.”

I glance up, and the intensity of his stare pulls me in like a tractor beam. “I didn't mean, like . . . never.”

“No?”

“No.”

Except that
is
what I meant. That is precisely what I meant. Why can't I tell him I don't want to see him again? That I know all about his shady past? That I could not possibly date someone whose Wikipedia entry makes him sound like a total sleaze?

I know why: because his glittery eyes and soft smile make my heart race, and because I cannot reconcile what I've read online with the man standing before me.

“If that's not what you meant, then is there really no way I could convince you to have dinner with me sometime?”

“I . . . It's complicated.”

He blanches. “Is there someone else?”

My heart jumps. Someone else? Of course there isn't. I wish there were. That would make this so much easier.

“Not really,” I say. Jeremy's face remains pale and tense. “No,” I finally say. “There isn't anyone else.”

“Listen, I don't want to nag you. I just thought we had so much fun the other night. At least give me one more shot.”

I study his face—the almost imperceptible cleft in his pointy chin, the gentle sweep of his milk-chocolate hair, the way his lips curl ever-so-slightly to the left when he speaks. There is nothing but sincerity in his voice, and, though I try my hardest not to, I cave.

“Okay, fine,” I say. “You win. I'll have dinner with you sometime.”

He breaks into a broad smile, which deepens the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes. “How about this: You know how to get to the Smithsonian Metro stop from your apartment, right?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Great. Meet me outside the stop at seven next Saturday night. Sound okay?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“I realize that gives you more than a week to back out, but I really hope you won't.”

“I won't,” I say. “I promise.”

“Good. I'm glad. And, hey, you know what? Bring a flashlight.”

“I'm sorry, what?”

His lips curl into a subtle smirk. “You heard me. A flashlight. Bring one.”

Setting aside the fact that I don't think I own a flashlight, I cannot imagine why I'd need to bring one for what sounds like a tame evening of museum hopping. What am I signing up for?

My phone rings, and I glance down to see it's my sister, who is probably calling with a flower emergency. “Listen, I have to take this,” I say.

“That's fine. I'll see you next Saturday night.”

“Seven o'clock.”

“With a flashlight.”

“Right.”

“And wear comfortable shoes,” he says. “You'll need them.”