Marco had apologized again the minute he saw me at the bus stop. “Thanks,” I say, and he nods at me with this raised-eyebrow look that manages to say You’re welcome and Whatever at the same time. Marco backs into the door, smooshing his backpack against the metal bar and forcing it wide open, then stands stiff as a soldier so Artie and I can walk through. I suppose I was thinking of Marco when I made these, though I didn’t realize it. The only two people in Northampton who care about high tea. Malik bustle off to have their Thursday chat about politics. My grandmother has a pot of Earl Grey all ready, and she and Mr.

I blush a little, until I remember that “a fit of passion” is a British expression for getting angry. “Just the thing to get the blood moving! We’ll all be in a fit of passion later, I presume.” “Cocoa, cinnamon, and a little cayenne pepper.” “Sweet and fiery! You can’t tell where one stops and the other begins.” “Ah!” And he laughs, as if I have fooled him. I place the cupcake on a white plate and hand it over. “I’m honored,” I say, which is completely over-the-top, I guess, but also true. “You don’t mind, Hayley? You aren’t keeping them?” “Not a madeleine?” My grandmother is as shocked as I am. I’m so surprised, I nearly drop my cupcake. Wilson, but I think I might prefer one of these delectable-looking cupcakes in your granddaughter’s hands.” It’s enough to make you think about God and fate and luck and all kinds of deep stuff.Įxcept, this time, Mr. I have no idea how they ended up with shops beside each other on the same street in Western Massachusetts. Malik, and perhaps a madeleine?” And then Mr. Malik will say next: “Manna from heaven.” And then my grandmother will say, “Will you join me for tea, Mr. I’ve seen this ritual many times before - it happens every Thursday afternoon at 4:15, regular as the changing of the guard. Malik the bag and the vase from last week’s arrangement. “And I have here some ginger-pear scones, made by my own hands,” she says as she gives Mr. Gran flashes him her twinkliest smile and reaches under the counter for an empty blue vase and a bag of scones.

Wilson, I have brought for you some alstroemeria, freesia, and a few orchids - all arranged by my own hands.” He bows his head slightly as he places the bouquet by the cash register. Wilson,” even though my grandfather died before I was born. Malik.” He’s from Pakistan, so he’s just as bad, calling her “Mrs. Malik for eight years, and she still calls him “Mr. Do you see how British she is? She’s known Mr. Malik, what have you brought for us this week?” my grandmother asks. Malik gives me a smile, nearly dazzling me with his white teeth. A dark head peeks out from behind the flower arrangement, and Mr.

I get to work frosting more cupcakes, and the door bursts open with a jingle and an explosion of pink and purple flowers.

Taking the cake by lisa papademetriou