Salty and Sweet

The ideal chocolate cake melts on my tongue even before my lips close over the fudgy sponge. It’s the mixture of salty and sweet. Those who think chocolate cake shouldn’t be both salty and sweet are wrong.

No one makes chocolate cake like my mum. Her special recipe is a flourless chocolate coconut rum one, a torte if she’s being fancy. The right amount of powdered sugar sprinkles over it like snow on dirt. She never uses a bar of chocolate with lower than 60% of cocoa. Bitter and sweet pas-de-chat in the air as it cooks for about 40 minutes.

Mum died two years ago, and the recipe along with her. I’ve tried to replicate it, to keep her memories alive, but I haven’t been so lucky.

“Lydia!” Aunt Julie hollers from the kitchen. “Your date’s here, and he’s dishy.” Her voice rings through the house like a campanile. Aunt Julie has cared for me since Mum passed.

I finish threading on my gold earrings, the ones with the Opal teardrops dangling from the bottoms. I head downstairs. My heeled boots click clack against the creaky, wooden steps, and I lift my chiffon fairy skirt from catching underneath my soles. That wouldn’t be a great first-impression, tripping and smashing my face.

“Wow,” his deep voice says, making me realise I was gazing down. “You look great!”

I slowly tilt my eyes to meet his deep hazel ones. Dark lashes frame them elegantly like art. His brown hair flows down to his shoulders, softer than my frizzy blonde curls that I’ve crunched intensely with moose.

“I’m Miles,” he says, tugging me into a hug. His warm body contrasts the winter evening. I gasp a little. As he pulls away, he smiles and a lone dimple curves into his left cheek.

Aunt Julie passes me my faux-fur coat. “Have fun!” She holds it as I wind into it, one arm then the other.

“Don’t forget your mittens and earmuffs.” Aunt Julie squeals and scurries under the stairs, digging through the winter accessories box. Scarves, gloves and hats fly behind her, flurrying lightly to the floor.

I smile at Miles, widening my eyes to seem both innocent and slightly embarrassed, though I really do love Aunt Julie’s attempts to make this blind date go as seamlessly as possible. My stomach flutters as he grins back at me, deepening his dimple. His waistcoat wraps around his hips snuggly; however, it’s too tight around his thick arms.

Finally, Aunt Julie finds the mittens and earmuffs she bought for tonight, and slips them onto my dainty hands and cold ears. “You’re all set. Have a wonderful time. Remember, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Which isn’t much. She winks as Miles yanks wide the front door.

He escorts me to this truck, which shimmers beneath the moonlight; yellow, snowy sky reflects off the freshly-cleaned silver metal.

“She seems sweet.” Miles clicks open the passenger side for me.

Biting his lip, Miles offers me his gloved hand. I glance at it, the heel of my boot catching the edge of his truck’s step. I stumble forward, my insides lurching away from me. This is how I break my nose. This is how I mess up this date. My arms fling before me, but a strong arm catches my waist.

My breath hitches from my chest. “Thank you.” I stare at Miles. His bulky body presses against mine.

“Already falling for me, I see,” he says, stroking his hand on my lower back. The movement tingles throughout my body.

##

An hour of driving later, Miles rounds the corner into a forest lit with dim lights. The towering trees shadow against the twinkling surroundings like clouds against stars.

“We’re nearly there,” he says, decelerating the truck over the unpaved road.

The bumps bounce me into my seatbelt. I clench my teeth. “Where is there?”

“You’ll see.” He smiles at the road that stretches into darkness like he sees something I can’t.

“Suspicious.”

“Precisely.” He chuckles and scratches his facial hair. “We’re here.” He gestures forward as we roll through a clearing. A large frozen pond surrounded by fairy lights, trees and cafes emerges. The ice glistens under the moon, and people skate over the solid pond.

“What is this place?”

“It’s well hidden, so only those who know about it know about it. The cafes are locally owned. I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.”

I tug my mittens back on, preparing to swiftly exit as soon as we stop. “I love skating,” I say. “Mum taught me how to figure skate.”

“I used to play ice hockey.”

“Did I hear you say, ‘ice skating competition’?” I cross my arms against my chest, nibbling my bottom lip.

He snorts and parks the truck. “Precisely.” Switching the ignition off, he unbuckles and hops out from his side. “Lydia, wait there.” He slides his way to the back, and up into the pickup section, gathering items I can’t discern through the back window.

I turn in the chair, craning my neck to watch him but fail. “What are you doing?”

A devilish grin carves his dimple as he nears my window. He nods down at the door handle, beckoning me to unlock it.

I’ve never been on a blind date before. My heartbeat quickens. How did he know how much I love the ice? I haven’t skated since Mum died. I pop the door open, and on his knees, Miles holds my old skates. My skates. The skates Mum bought me for my sixteenth birthday.

“How did you?” I ask.

“Your Aunt Julie gave them to my mum the other day.” He unzips my heeled boots and slides them from my feet. Slipping the skates over my penguin socks, he threads the laces in and out until they wrap snugly around my foot. “Mum’s wanted us to go on a date for a while. I wanted to make tonight special.”

I nod, biting my lower lip. He’s sweet. The cold reddens the tip of his nose.

Once ready, he leads me from the truck, glove to mitten, hand-in-hand, over to the ice. The snow crunches beneath us.

The ice kisses my blades slickly, urging me forward. It’s like riding a bike. I release his grip, and one foot at a time, I launch myself into the center of the pond, leaving him and my sleek tracks behind. With enough momentum, I pivot, spraying ice around me like glitter, and I twirl into a pirouette, landing on one leg with my other extended behind me.

Miles glides toward me, leaning forward and swinging his arms. “Impressive.”

“Mum taught me figure skating before she passed …”

We slowly skate around the lake’s circumference. A moment later, he asks, “How long has it been?”

“Three years. It was a car accident.”

“Sorry.” He gazes down.

“I’m happy to be on the ice again.” I swallow. “Thank you.”

After a while of skating, spinning and racing, we stomp in the snow back to his truck.

My legs dangle over the passenger seat as he unties my skates and shimmies them from my feet, cupping my heel in his palm. The contact twirls inside me, igniting my nerves.

“Where are we headed for dinner?” I ask and swing away from him.

“The Bull Moon.” He giggles, lifts and travels to the driver's side. “The name always makes me laugh, since they do burgers and whatnot.”

##

“Your table is ready,” the host says, her golden hair like straw in the flame-like lighting. “Right this way.”

Miles takes my hand, wrapping his fingers in between mine. Escorting me, he weaves in and out of tables with little bull centrepieces. Red and yellow stripes paper the walls and a bullfighter painting expands across the ceiling.

We arrive at a table next to a family where the mum feeds her baby crushed burger and mashed fries.

“Thank you,” Miles says to the host, jostling my chair out for me to sit.

The host passes us large menus. “Our specials for today are the quinoa burger, barbecue chicken, and the beef spaghetti. If you think you’re going to want the chocolate cake, I would recommend you order it now since it takes about 45 minutes to prepare.”

“I love chocolate cake!” Miles’ cheeks rouge from the hot restaurant. “Would you like to share one?”

Chocolate cake? I doubt it’ll be like anything Mum’s, but I don’t want to be rude. “I’d love to.”

“Alrighty, your server will arrive shortly to take your order,” the straw-haired host says as she walks back to her post.

##

“Your eyes are stunning. Like green lights,” Miles says, staring at me as I shove the last of my beef into my mouth. The meaty flavour waters on my tongue.

“Green Lights, like in The Great Gatsby?” I’m really letting my literature-nerd traits show.

“You know,” Miles leans back, “that’s my favourite classic.”

“Basic.” I smirk, resting my chin on my fists. “Mine’s Pride and Prejudice.”

“That’s not basic?”

“Of course it is!” I laugh, swirling spaghetti on my fork. “My mum loved it. She named me after her favourite character.”

“Lydia,” he says my name slowly, not to get my attention, but realising the origins of my name.

I nod as our server comes and whisks away our finished entrees, crafting space for our dessert. “The cake will be out shortly,” she says, scraping crumbs and sauce off the white table cloth.

“Perfect.” Miles locks his eyes on mine. “You’re very pretty.”

Warmth spreads from my face to my thighs. “Thank you.” I look down, fidgeting my fingers on my lap. “You’re not too bad either.”

“The chocolate cake?” I gaze up at a different, younger, male server, cradling the slice of cake with powdered sugar, reminding me of flurries on mud.

Though my mouth waters at the smell, my stomach feels full. The cake smells so much like Mum’s, but I’ve been fooled before. Every cake is never Mum’s.

The server softly rests the dessert next to the bull centerpiece. “Enjoy.” He walks away with his arms behind his back.

“I’ll cut it in half and slide my half onto my plate? Or would you rather share?” Miles asks, his hazel eyes sparkling in the flickering candlelight. Now that his thick coat is off, his navy suit and tie are noticeable. So dapper.

I shrug, picking up my dessert spoon. “Let’s share.”

He awards me his left dimple.

We both dig into the slice. I hesitate before sliding the chocolatey goodness into my mouth. It really does smell like Mum’s cake.

The fudgy sponge touches my lips. I’m ready to attack every flavour. I close my mouth over my spoon then glide it from my lips. Oh my gosh, the taste! It’s the perfect blend of salty and sweet … this is Mum’s cake. Well, it’s exactly how I remember her cake tasting.

Suddenly moments of her baking in the kitchen, laughing and dancing around our marble island, shimmer around me. To finish her watz, Mum spun across our tile and smeared leftover chocolate from her wooden spoon to the tip of my nose.

“This is so good,” Miles says, snapping me from my reverie. “How do you like it?”

I temporarily ignore his question. I lift my hand to call our server’s attention. “Excuse me? What type of cake is this?”

The server arches his brow, peering down at the slice of cake. “It’s a chocolate torte, Ms.”

Torte? “What type?”

“Coconut-rum chocolate. The chef’s secret recipe.” His and Miles’ confusion grows from their faces to them scratching their beards.

I smile so wide. So big. Mum’s flavours. “Thank you.” I slowly eat the rest of it, savouring the same taste of Mum’s chocolate torte. “Not sure how you’ll best yourself on our second date.”

Miles ceases eating and purses his lips. “Well, Lydia, whatever it is, it’ll include that cake.”