New Amsterdam: Tess Read online

  Standing from the table, Kip answers, “I dunno. I think he stopped by the hospital to have lunch with Dad.” Kip clears his dishes from the table and heads to the large, industrial kitchen.

  The patriarch of the Sinclair family is a renowned cardiologist. Born and raised in Boston, Dr. Bruce Sinclair moved to Atlanta in the late seventies to complete his surgical residency. During his first year of private practice in an affluent suburb, he treated a beautiful Southern debutante with a heart murmur. It’s poetic that Bruce and Rosalyn Sinclair fell in love over a few skipped heart beats.

  Returning from the kitchen with a clipboard, Kip announces, “Fried chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, green beans, and banana pudding.”

  Frowning, Thessaly rants, “Good ‘ol fried chicken. Drinks?”

  “Um, local brewery wants a chance. Peach tea, of course. Maybe some Jim Beam Honey?” Kip teases, knowing Thessaly is still churning from the whiskey shots from the Fourth of July.

  Ashen, she replies, “Absolutely not.” Returning a text, she adds, “Hey, do you need me this afternoon? I’m meeting Mary Alice and her fiancé at the Grove Park Inn for a late lunch.”

  “Nah, I have it covered. The staff will be here soon – and you scare people, bossy pants.”

  “What?” Thessaly squeaks.

  “It’s true. You’re on a perpetual sugar-high – darting around and shouting demands like a crazed toddler,” Kip replies.

  Smiling, Thessaly slides the laptop into her bag while staring out the large window. The lavender catches her attention so she suggests, “Tell Beatrice to use the yellow gingham tablecloths. I’ll have Oscar cut the lavender and wildflowers for the vases.”

  Kip nods while checking off items from the clipboard. “Yes ma’am – gingham, lavender, vases, and another round of Jim Beam. Hey, give Mary Alice my love.”

  Patting Kip’s arm and offering a consoling smile, Thessaly patronizes, “Aw, sweetie. You’re like twenty years too young for her. Stop pining for my friend and find someone that appreciates a frat boy.”

  Kip’s cheeks redden. “I’m twenty-seven!” All three kids inherited the Sinclair English skin – freckled, pale, and easily flushed. “And a half.”

  “Exactly. I’ll see you later?” Thessaly calls over her shoulder with a smile.

  “Yeah, yeah. Stop by the warehouse – Junebug came in just to see you.”

  Thessaly pauses by the metal barn door and says, “Kip, in case I haven’t told you, I think you’re doing a fantastic job. Mama can relax knowing you’re out here.”

  “Had to be done, Tess.” Kip places his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants and shrugs his shoulders. “Summer is our busiest season – and Mama needs to take it easy for a few months. I’ll bribe Shelby to help out, too.”

  “And just think of all the weddings with young, drunk, desperate bridesmaids at your disposal!”

  Shaking his head and walking back to the kitchen, Kip mumbles under his breath, “Pest.”

  Laughing, Thessaly slides open the heavy door to be met by the blazing afternoon sun. Adjusting her focus, she takes a moment to marvel at the kaleidoscope of sunshine shimmering along the trees of the adjacent peach orchard. She and her brothers spent lazy afternoons running through that orchard, soaking up the sun, acting out scenes from Sci-fi movies, and daring each other to eat the fallen, bruised peaches. There was that one time, in the summer of ‘99, when Shelby had to be rushed to the emergency room for consuming a dozen fermented peaches. But a stomach pump didn’t stop the Sinclair kids from returning to the orchard the very next day to beat the record.

  As Thessaly grew older, the peach orchard served as a hidden make-out spot with her high school boyfriends. It was fairly accessible by car, yet hidden from the main house and her over-protective father. One Thanksgiving, home from Duke University with her college boyfriend, Thessaly experienced the most erotic vertical sex pinned against a peach tree. And then a few days later, under the same peach tree, she and her boyfriend promised to move to New York after graduation.

  Swinging her bag over her shoulder and shielding her eyes from the sun, Thessaly hops into one of the farm’s pickup trucks near the service entrance to the back of the barn. She cranks up the air-conditioning, adjusts her designer sunglasses, and then drives the three miles on a gravel road to the warehouse.

  The brick cottage has always been one of Thessaly’s favorite places on the farm. Packaging honey and jam is more of a scientific process rather than a culinary method, and Thessaly remains fascinated with the product-end of business. So much so, that she opened her own artisanal store in New York City selling handcrafted condiments.

  Thessaly parks the truck in the small, paved lot and presses the horn. After fastening her shoulder-length blond curls in a low ponytail, she grabs her bag and exits the truck. The glossy yellow door to the warehouse swings open as a short, round woman with bright-red hair comes stumbling out.

  “Tess! Get over here,” the woman urges, arms wide open and ready for a hug.

  Standing almost a foot taller, Thessaly embraces the woman and closes her eyes. “Junebug, I’ve missed you! How was your Fourth?”

  June giggles as she takes a step back to study Thessaly’s appearance. “Stayed up at the cabin and fished – ended up grilling hot dogs for dinner.” June winks. “Oh my, you’re so thin. And your clothes! Tess Sinclair, you’re a New Yorker.”

  Blushing, Thessaly replies, “Junebug, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “C’mon, Tess. Let me show you the first batch of wildflower honey – such a pretty shade of pale yellow.”

  June takes Thessaly’s hand and leads her into the warehouse. Actually, warehouse is an industrial term – the cottage is more like a modern kitchen with shelves of bottled honey and jam, baskets of fresh fruit and herbs, and walls lined with family photos and honeybee watercolor canvases. The familial feeling inside the warehouse reaffirms the importance of capturing nostalgia within the business. In fact, the Sinclair success comes from excellent products packaged and branded to mimic southern traditions.

  “God, it smells delicious!” Thessaly runs her hand along the stainless steel counter of the work station, stopping at a large copper pot lined with Teflon.

  “That’s your daddy’s special request,” June whispers between pursed lips.

  Thessaly nods and says, “Ah, nectarine honey with Stevia.”

  “Yep. Smells divine, tastes like shit. But your daddy is determined to put the agave folks out of business with this sticky goop.” June scoops a ladleful of the cooling orange liquid and grimaces.

  “It is pretty nasty,” Thessaly teases, leaning against the counter. “So, Junebug, how’s the summer supply? I need a fairly large shipment this month.”

  Replacing the large spoon in the pot, June replies, “We’re busy as bees, Tess!” That joke never retires on a farm. “The warehouse is expecting so much honey this summer that your mama was looking into some new buyers – natural skincare products, I think.” June wipes her hands on her blue apron and moves to a small desk. “Fill out the form so I can set your order aside.” June taps the page of her puppy wall calendar and adds, “Percy is scheduled for the fourteenth of July. Is that a good delivery day for you?”

  “Yes, it should be.” Thessaly instinctively stirs the congealed liquid in the cooling pot. “I have three more restaurants on the rotation now, and several event planners have scheduled meetings.”

  “That’s wonderful, Tess! And how’s your cute little shop – The Hive?”

  Thessaly moves to the desk and takes out her phone. She grabs one of the yellow and black striped pens from a utensil crock, pausing to study the framed family photo displayed on the desk, and then opens the inventory app on her phone.

  “It’s been more fun than I could’ve ever imagined! I love going to work, and I love knowing that a piece of my family is always with me.” Thessaly checks off ten gallons of raw honey to be used in the store, ten crates of the eight-ounce honey jars to b
e labeled and sold, and three dozen, thirty-two-ounce jars for vendor services. “I also have a side project I’m launching and I need a different packaging. Can you get the four-ounce jars that are cubes?”

  “Of course – clear or blue?”

  Thessaly signs the order form and then scans the paper with her phone. “Clear, please. And black lids, not gold.” She stands from the desk and replaces the pen. “Thanks for coming here today, Junebug. I wish I could stay longer but I’m behind on getting everything sorted. And that wedding last night nearly killed me – honey whiskey shots are not my friend.”

  “Oh Lord, the stories I could tell you involving a night with Mr. Beam. And the honey doesn’t make it less hairy, does it?” Giggling, June drops the order form in a file marked Priority. “Honestly, Tess, I needed to get away from the cabin and Murray’s complaining. The flies were biting more than the fish.”

  “Junebug, can you do me a favor?”

  Placing her hands on Thessaly’s arms, June replies, “Just ask.”

  “Send Mama away if she comes near the warehouse or the apiary.”

  “I’m one step ahead of you, Tess. I hid her bee suit last week.” June winks.

  Mary Alice Hanson likes all things vintage. Clothes. Cars. Cocktails.

  And men.

  “Tess!”

  “Mary Alice!”

  The excited shrills of old friends can be heard throughout the lobby of the Grove Park Inn. Actually, Mary Alice and Thessaly are more like sisters, each with only brothers, the two women have a twenty-year friendship that defies time.

  Taking in Thessaly’s slim black pants, sleeveless black top, and designer black espadrilles, Mary Alice exclaims, “Chic and sexy, as always!”

  Thessaly grabs Mary Alice’s hand and twirls her around, sending her mid-century, full-skirt to flounce and wave like a spinning top. “Elegant and charming, as always!”

  After completing a full rotation, Mary Alice pats her stomach and exhales. “I ordered a round of Moscow Mules – come meet Bennett!”

  The two women continue through the lobby of the historic inn, past the creepy elevator hidden in the fireplace, and then outside to the Sunset Terrace overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Grove Park Inn hosts spectacular views, with hues of blue and green converging into a landscape painting of natural splendor. Even F. Scott Fitzgerald found inspiration with a bottle of whiskey and this particular view of the mountains.

  Reaching a small table near the outdoor bar, Mary Alice squeezes Thessaly’s hand and clears her throat. “Bennett, sugar, this stunning creature at my side is my best friend in the whole wide world.”

  A silver-haired gentleman with olive skin and lapis-blue eyes looks up from the table and grins. Dressed in a white dress shirt and pale-blue sport jacket, he stands to greet Thessaly. Bennett isn’t the oldest guy Mary Alice has dated, but he’s definitely the most dashing.

  “Tess Sinclair,” his voice deep and velvety, “it’s an absolute delight to finally meet you.” Bennett extends his arm with an inviting smile, but Thessaly furrows her brows when she spots a shiny gold ring on the fourth finger of his left hand.

  “Mary Alice?” Thessaly snaps.

  Confused by Thessaly’s snotty reaction, Bennett drops his hand to the back of a nearby chair. He slides it out and waits for Mary Alice to sit.

  “What?” Mary Alice asks, scooting her chair into the small table.

  Accepting the other chair Bennett slides out for her, Thessaly sits down at the table while glaring at Mary Alice. “Did you get married without me?”

  Bennett sighs in relief as he claims a chair, realizing that Thessaly is in shock and not ridiculously rude. “Tess, it’s my fault,” he apologizes, sliding his chair closer to the table.

  “Nonsense!” Mary Alice reaches across the table to take Bennett’s hand, flashing a giant rock on her ring finger. “Sugar, you’re such a gentleman – so, so sexy,” she whispers while biting her lip. Turning to address her friend, Mary Alice continues. “Last week we were in Memphis . . . there were Elvis impersonators officiating weddings at Graceland . . . the weather was nice . . . I happened to have a gorgeous, white 1963 Valentino dress just hanging in my garment bag . . . it was fate.” Mary Alice tilts her head and frowns. “Tess, are you upset we didn’t get married in the bee barn?”

  “Bees don’t live in the barn. And I never expected you to get married on the farm – that’s not your style. But I really thought I would be next to you, holding your bouquet as you exchanged vows.” Thessaly leans in to ask, “And what about your family?”

  Mary Alice’s eyes flutter as she blinks rapidly. “Oh, they don’t know yet. You’re the first!”

  An attractive waiter approaches the table carrying a tray of copper mugs, a bowl of cut limes, and a platter of tomato and mozzarella drizzled with balsamic dressing. After placing the items on the table, the waiter looks over Thessaly with a cocky smirk. Engaging in the flirtation, Thessaly arches an eyebrow and smiles – unable to ignore a man with exposed, muscular forearms and a fitted dress shirt.

  Thessaly raises her mug to make a toast as the waiter says, “I’ll be back to take your order.” Walking away, Thessaly casually checks out the waiter’s backside, tipping her mug in his direction with a huge grin.

  “Busted,” whispers Mary Alice.

  “So?” Thessaly blushes. “To Bennett and Mary Alice! Husband and wife, lovers for life.”

  The trio tap their mugs together and gulp the gingery cocktail. Although this is a joyous occasion, Thessaly places her drink on the table and stares out toward the vast mountain range deep in thought. The two friends have been planning each other’s weddings since they were twelve, and they even kept a scrapbook with magazine cutouts and homemade invitations.

  Mary Alice was going to marry George Clooney on Waikiki Beach – pastel, vintage party dresses for the women, and linen suits for the men. Cocktails in Tiki glasses, 8mm filmography, and a beach luau serving roasted pig would’ve completed her perfect day. Thessaly, on the other hand, was going to marry Joshua Jackson on the family’s farm at dusk. Lanterns and candles would’ve illuminated an all-white, rustic picnic theme. But since both of their hypothetical husbands are currently taken, and Mary Alice hasn’t eaten meat in ten years, the two were forced to find alternative love stories.

  “Tess, Mary Alice tells me you have a great little shop in the Seaport.” Bennett places a tomato stack on his wife’s plate, and then on his own.

  “Sugar, we don’t have time for small-talk. Let me handle this,” Mary Alice interrupts. “Tess, I want to hear about all the men.” She waggles her eyebrows as her husband shakes his head. Gladly excusing himself from the intimate conversation, Bennett lowers his head and pretends to check his phone.

  Thessaly blushes, and then smiles. “Inside or outside the bedroom?”

  The current dating situation is a touchy topic with Thessaly, but she’s good at deflecting the awkward questioning. Three years ago, Thessaly moved to New York City with her then-boyfriend, Mason Andrews. They met as freshman while attending Duke University, the blond cheerleader and the star lacrosse player, destined to be the “it” couple at all the fraternity parties. As Mason and Thessaly matured, so did their love affair – marriage was definitely in their future. But like so many relationships, changes can force a couple to reevaluate their priorities. Mason threw himself into work, landing a job as an investment banker with a prestigious Downtown firm. Thessaly worked as a buyer for a chain of markets, learning the ropes and building contacts, but she rarely saw Mason. Within their first year living in Manhattan, they decided it was best to explore life outside their college romance, and maybe they would end up wanting different things. Mason bought an apartment in TriBeCa, and Thessaly rented a studio Downtown – hoping that it would be a temporary home until Mason took her back. And even though their split was amicable and they’ve remained friends with an occasional shag, Thessaly pretends to be a serial dater in order to cover the fact that she foll
owed a boy to New York City.

  “I love powerful men in suits, but there’s also a new breed of masculinity that I find extremely sexy. Like casual arrogance blended with tech geek, and then sprinkled with a dash of CrossFit.” Thessaly places a tomato stack on her plate and sprinkles it with pepper.

  Pretending to fan herself, Mary Alice leans into Thessaly and whispers, “Yum. And?”

  “My Thursday friend is like a Viking god with nerdy glasses. He’s sexy and smart, and incredibly talented.” Thessaly measures a sizable distance between her hands to represent the girth of his talent. “He demands that I have at least three orgasms before he leaves,” she whispers.

  “God bless Thursday.” Mary Alice raises her mug to add, “And may you have a summer of sore weekends.”

  Unless Thessaly is referring to the middle-aged UPS guy that makes bee jokes during his weekly delivery at The Hive, then her Thursday friend is a lie.

  Sneaking up to her former bedroom like a guilty teenager, Thessaly closes the door behind her and kicks off her shoes. Most parents take the opportunity to remodel a grown child’s bedroom after they move out – mini gym, sewing room, office – but Rosalyn and Bruce Sinclair kept the kid’s bedrooms exactly the same.

  She lifts her rolling suitcase onto the bed and unzips the tasseled zipper. Fishing out a black maxi dress and gold sandals, she glances at the time on her purple, furry alarm clock, and then makes her way to her desk. Running her hand over the acrylic desk pad plastered with stickers, and laughing at a framed photo of her and Mary Alice in the fifth grade, she slides open the top drawer and removes an upholstered box. Intended for jewelry, Thessaly bought the box to store all her favorite memories – like a photo of her grandfather during the Korean War, a yo-yo she won at summer camp, a few concert ticket stubs, and her sorority pledge pin.

  Thumbing through a stack of photos with Mason, she finds a folded, glossy page of a magazine given to her on the day she left Asheville. It was Mason’s unspoken promise that he would in fact marry her one day if she boarded the plane to New York. Unfolding the paper and tracing the cushion-cut diamond of a Tacori wedding ring, she laughs. It’s smaller than she remembers, but dreams are always bigger when they don’t come true.