With Love, From the Black Sugar Caf Prologue / Chapter One 05 February 2012 Prologue You had

to say this about funerals: they were, invariably, the same in any part of the civilised world. The weather would echo the mood of the situation regardless of what season of the year it was. There would be the inevitable knot of mourners at the gravesite. A priest or pastor or imam or maybe a Buddhist or Taoist monk would be there to offer Scriptural comfort; those holy words that were supposed to rekindle hope in the hearts of mourners. (Unfortunately, if one professed to atheism or a complete and utter disregard for organized religion in general, there would be no comfort whatsoever.) At least funerals back home in the Philippines have good food before and after the ceremony, the young man in the dark suit and sombre-coloured tartan kilt thought as he stared in disbelief at the hole in the ground before him. Oh, Trix my love: biscuits and tea alone do not make for a pleasant wake. He noted that, of all the mourners, he was the only one her age. Everyone else belonged to her parents generation: a collection of dried-up, wrinkle-faced materfamilias and gruff old codgers. Beatrix, for that was the name of the deceased, would not have approved of what had been served the night before. Her family served a plentiful but seriously uninspired high tea: cucumber and egg salad sandwiches, biscuits from store-bought assortment tins, and incredibly weak tea. It was a far cry from what she would have really wanted: proper assortments of pastries and cakes and biscuits all made from scratch by loving friends, punch made with real fruit and a generous splash of sparkling wine. She also would not have approved of the funeral itself: a dour event punctuated by the wheezed sermon of the rather tubercular Anglican parson who headed her home parish back in Shaftesbury. There was no music save for the pre-recorded funeral march played on PA system installed in the hideous hearse that had carried Beatrix from the parlor of her London home to the rather stiff and staid cemetery on the city outskirts. There were no flowers save for the bouquet hand-carried by the young man in the kilt, for this lad had been the deceaseds fianc in life and was truly the one person who really understood her.

If it had been up to the young man, things would have been different drastically different, as a matter of fact. Id have sent you off with a proper wake, he thought dismally as he dropped the bouquet into the grave where it fell with an audible thump on the casket cover. He slid a glance towards Beatrixs parents who both threw him grim, disapproving looks at this final extravagance. You deserved better than that god-awful tea your mum hosted. There should have been the very best of everything: really good food, fine wine, gorgeous flowers, stories about what we loved best about you. He set his jaw stoically, willing himself not to cry. It should have been a reflection of you not of them, not after what they did... For in those last harrowing weeks of Beatrixs life, her fianc had been better to her than her own family. Her parents never seemed to care that she ended up in hospital; they were far too busy with their business back in Shaftesbury to look after her. Plus, according to them, Beatrix had chosen to move to London; there was no point for them to go there because they never wanted her to go there in the first place. It was as if their ailing daughter never existed, didnt matter. In their place, young Kent Fleming stepped up to the proverbial plate and took care of his ailing love. He took leave of his job as one of the countrys best food writers to be on a round-the-clock watch at Beatrixs bedside. Along with the hospital staff, hed tried his best to nurse her back to health, to stave off the grim spectre that never seemed but a few steps away. But the heart problem Beatrix had since the day she was born finally caught up with her; it was, nevertheless, a blessing that she drew her last breath in the arms of someone who truly loved her. And what happened next? Kent thought as he threw a surreptitious glare at Beatrixs parents. Your parents swooped in like a pair of vultures almost as soon as they knew you were dead. Ashes to ashes, the parson wheezed as a rather chilly breeze unusual so early in the fall began to blow around them. Dust to dust One by one, the rest of the mourners dropped handfuls of earth into the grave. One by one, they took their leave of those Beatrix left behind: stiffly correct handshakes with her stuffy parents, but they embraced Kent most warmly, offered them their sincerest condolences and assured him that they were ready to extend any help should he ever need it.

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He heard Beatrixs mother cluck her tongue disapprovingly as one mourner left but not before embracing Kent like a son and murmuring encouragement into his ear. Youd think hed just been widowed, that awful, sour-faced woman declared, not caring who heard her. Mercifully, she and her husband didnt hang around. Indeed, almost as soon as theyd dropped their respective handfuls of dirt, they whisked off in their rickety old car with the parson and sped off. Kent was left alone as the gravediggers filled up the hole. He knelt respectfully by the side and spoke rather forlornly to the one hed lost. I dont know what Ill do without you, he told her, his voice cracking from anguish. Im going to miss you. I just wish He sighed and closed his eyes. Wherever you are, Trix, I hope you can hear me. Please let me know youre okay; and please: show me where I should go now

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Chapter One Under ordinary circumstances, Friday evenings at the Black Sugar Caf were happy and noisy ones for the young lady who owned and ran the shop. Since the caf was closed on weekends, Hilda Spencer extended its operating hours till nine on Friday evenings. It was, at first, unnecessary because her customers rarely ever popped in after six-thirty. But when word got around among her friends, they all trooped down to her little shop in the heart of Salcedo Village for an evening of good company, lively chatter, maybe some good music from the singers in the gang, and most definitely the best coffee and desserts to be had in the city (and, in the opinions of most of them, possibly the country, as well). On this particular Friday, however, things were different. Hilda figured something was up when Jink Valeriano arrived early. Very early, as a matter of fact, as the dreadlocked young man arrived at just a little after six. Usually the noisiest, most fun-loving member of the barkada, he seemed quite subdued, even a bit upset. Motioning to an assistant to take over for her behind the counter, Hilda moved out to join Jink at the corner of the shop where her friends normally congregated. Youre early, pare, she said by way of greeting. Hmm? Jink looked up and managed a weak smile. Oh, hi, Hilda, he greeted her. You look down, she replied, sliding into a chair. I just got some news over the phone earlier today, Jink explained. Bad? Jink grimaced. Some of it, he said, nodding in agreement. The rest of it... Well, you be the judge of it. He eyed her candidly. I came in early because I specifically wanted to talk about it with you. Hilda blinked, somewhat startled by this. Me? she exclaimed. What for? You remember Kent Fleming? Hilda pursed her lips into a thin line. In a corner of her mind, she could picture a palefaced boy, quite slender, middling height, with lank brown hair that always seemed to be covering his face. While she rarely ever saw him in the thirteen years since they left high school, she knew of him. She had a subscription for many British food magazines and his columns in two of them were among those she avidly read on a regular basis. (Definitely worth the several thousand pesos it cost her every year, truth be told!) Plus, she had all his books: all six of them Page 4 of 14

and counting because a seventh was said to be due in international bookshops come December. However, she also knew that J. (Joseph) Kentigern Fleming was currently on hiatus. How is he? she asked Jink. Is he all right? Grimly, her friend shook his head. You remember his fiance, Beatrix Chisholm? he asked in return. Feeling a momentary pang in her heart, Hilda grimaced and nodded. Theyve broken up? she asked. She berated herself inwardly, having failed to mask a slightly hopeful note in her voice. Mercifully, it had not caught Jinks attention, but Hilda certainly wasnt prepared for the answer. Shes dead, he replied rather bluntly. Hilda blinked; her mind seemed to have failed to process the information at the first go. Kents fiance is dead, Jink repeated, pressing a weary hand over his eyes with a sigh. She died a couple weeks ago. How... Hilda stared at him in disbelief. Why? I dont know all the details, Jink admitted. But Kent said she always had a weak heart. She got sick about a month ago; got progressively weaker, I should think. The look on his face spoke volumes. Her parents wouldnt have anything to do with her hospitalization for some reason Kent didnt tell me. But, when Beatrix finally died, they came in with all guns blazing and gave her a traditional English Anglican funeral. You say it like its a bad thing, Hilda chided him, noting the acid tone of Jinks voice at that last sentence. He managed a wry smile at her. Considering neither you nor your kuya look Filipino at all, he began, we all think youre more Filipino than English. Plus, everyone knows you were raised Catholic. Then, he looked grim again. Apparently, the late Miss Chisholm told Kent to give her a proper send-off. Unfortunately, those lead-butt parents of hers bulldozed the man before he could even ask the docs for a death certificate. Why, the nerve of those awful people! Hilda exclaimed angrily. First, they turned their backs on their daughter when she was ill. Then, the second she dies, they shunt her fianc into a corner and then put on the whole bereaved parent schlock. She shook her head, horrified by the callousness of people. God, that makes me sick.

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Jink nodded in solemn agreement. Kent said hes just settling some bills and stuff, he continued. After that, hes planning to come home. What? Come home come back here? Yep, thats what the man said. He called his mom and dad before he called me; told them hed be home before Christmas. But... But what about his career? I think all the heart went out of him when Beatrix died, Jink sighed. He wants to take some time out for a bit; get himself back to zero before he decides what to do next. I cant blame him, Hilda murmured quietly. She motioned for another assistant to approach and murmured a request for a large hot chocolate with, as she put it, the works. Can we get you a drink? Jink scanned the menu resting near his elbow. An Irish coffee, please, he said. After processing everything Kent said, I really need the alcohol. He also tilted his chin towards the refrigerated cases where Hilda displayed her sugary wares. Oh, and I think Im ready for one of your choc-and-blueberry cheesecake cups. Get him one and get me a red-velvet, too, Hilda advised her assistant. And thanks. No problem, Miss Hilda, the assistant replied, bustling off. So, why are you telling me, of all people? Hilda now asked Jink, an eyebrow raised speculatively. Jink stared at her for a moment, then a sly smile began to crawl over his lips. Because I know for a fact that Kent means something to you, he replied simply. Hilda shot him an unfriendly look, putting up her guard. Whats that supposed to mean? she snapped at him, dark eyes flashing. Come off it, Hilda, Jink grunted. Why wont you just drop the act already? What act? Jink rolled his eyes ceiling-ward and muttered something about God saving him from women in denial. What youre doing right now, he began, his voice a slow, mocking drawl, is the act of a woman whos been bonkers over a guy since way before cellphones became a necessity. Hilda scowled at him. How dare you say that? she snapped. Jink simply raised an eyebrow. I dont know about everyone else, Hilda, but I havent been blind, he said. He pointed to a bookshelf in the corner of the shop where Hilda proudly Page 6 of 14

showed off all of Kents books. Your mouth says you cant stand the little punk, but your heart and your bookshelf tell me otherwise. Hilda glared at him, her mouth working to say something. But nothing came out, so she ended up staring at him like a landed goldfish. Finally, she sighed and her shoulders sagged in dismay. How long have you known? she asked in a quavering tone. As long as Ive known you both. No, seriously. I was being serious! Jink exclaimed. Hilda, Ive known you and Kent since the three of us were in nursery school! Remember how you used to clock him on the head with your workbook whenever he pulled your pigtails? Despite the mix of grief and anger she currently felt, Hilda couldnt help but smile at the memory. Yeah, she chuckled ruefully. He was cute whenever he got mad. Her mind drifted back to the small inset photo of Kent that always appeared on top of his magazine columns and those snaps of him for his book jackets. Hes always been cute. Jink smirked at this tender little moment. So you finally admit that you like the man, he murmured. And this is after so many years of bullying him at school. Hilda sighed and took a long sip of the hot chocolate her assistant handed to her, loving how it slipped down her throat so smoothly and richly. And she remembered for some odd reason, Kent loves chocolate. I dont know, she admitted candidly, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. Jink sighed, but said nothing more as he sank a fork into the enormous cupcake that was set before him. As he took a bite, Hilda grinned fiendishly as he shuddered with pleasure at the tastes and textures in his mouth. Good Lord! he exclaimed. Youre a goddamned genius, Hilda! What the hell did you do with this cupcake? So, you like it? Hilda asked innocently. Like it? You crazy woman, this thing rocks! Really: a chocolate cake with a cheesecake core and blueberries?! Tang ina, Hilda! Its insanely good! Hilda beamed happily at his remarks and stuck a fork into her own cupcake. You say the exact same thing every time you order that cupcake, she reminded him. Page 7 of 14

Well, your cupcakes are consistently good, Jink admitted between bites. He jerked a thumb at the growing line of customers at the two registers. Its not surprising how you sell out of everything everyday. Yeah, business has been good. Say, why dont you send Kent a box of cupcakes to cheer him up? Hilda stared at him in horror. Oh, no! she exclaimed, shaking her head. I couldnt! Jink Relax, Jink assured her. Just fix up a box with several of your best chocolate thingamajigs and Ill do all the rest. If he finds out theyre from me, hell send them back, Hilda warned him. Dont worry! Like I said, Ill take care of it. Ill just tell him theyre a gift from the gang, a little something to let him know we remember him in his time of need and all that shit. He grinned impishly at Hilda. FYI, my dear: he doesnt know youve gone and opened a bakeshop. No shit! she exclaimed, staring at him in bewilderment. No shit, Jink agreed. Well, he never asks about you, so I never tell him anything about you. Hilda sighed in relief. At least that was one less thing to worry about! So, whens he coming back? she asked Jink. A little before Christmas. He grinned evilly at Hilda. Gives you about three months or so to prepare. She glared and rather childishly stuck her tongue out at him.

{}{}{}{} I listen to the rain outside, Listen as the patter turns to a roar, Listen as drops turn into sheets. Cold wind whistling an Eerie, dreary counterpoint That goes so well With my somber, solitary mood. Will this cold, this grim This chilling loneliness Ever, ever end?

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Kent Fleming stared gloomily out of his bedroom window. The old song from The Garconers playing on the phone hed plugged into the audio deck was the perfect one for his mood and for the gray, drizzling weather outside. Just the day before, hed tendered his resignations at Scrumptious, Palate, and The Times where hed written regular columns for nearly a decade. His editors were all,

understandably, upset by this why, Mrs. Glenhardie at Palate just recently offered him an editorial stint! But they also knew how badly Kent had been hit by his fiances death and couldnt really blame him for wanting to take a break for a while. He sighed as he stared blankly at the screen of his laptop. He meant to write swan-song columns today, but his mind just wouldnt go. Considering how nearly a month had passed since Beatrix died, it was as if he couldnt recover and he couldnt move on. Couldnt or you just dont want to move on? he asked himself, blinking cluelessly at the screen. Honestly, he didnt know at all. At least, not at the moment. He remembered a lecture back at Oxford, something about Elisabeth Kbler-Rosss Five Stages of Grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. The denial he already dealt with at the hospital; how he hadnt wanted to believe that Beatrix was gone even as the colour drained from her peaceful face, how he screamed that she was going to be fine even as orderlies held him back and her body was wheeled away. And there was the anger: the rage that seethed through his veins when her parents showed up and curtly told him to buzz off and let them handle everything about the funeral. He remembered desperately trying to keep his temper when Mrs. Chisholm announced that she was selling all of Beatrixs things despite the fact that her daughter told Kent to donate her clothes and books to charity, that maybe someone else could use them. He really lost it when everything was sold (except for a few mementos that Beatrix had set aside and left in Kents especial care) and Mrs. Chisholm gloated over the sum she received for everything; that was when Kent angrily told the Chisholms to get the fuck out of the home hed shared with Beatrix for five years and that he never wanted to see them again. God, whyd you take my Trix away? hed thought as he watched the sour-faced old couple drive off in a huff. Why couldnt you take those awful parents of hers instead? You know how the world would be a much happier place without them!

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He remembered those awful nights when he lay awake in bed, bargaining with God in his head, asking Him to do something to bring Beatrix back. But the bargaining gave way to that heavy, blanketing despair that smothered whatever hope he had left. And that was why he was currently sitting in front of his computer, tears running down his face as he listened to sad songs by his favourite bands. I wish you were here, I wish we could talk. Maybe grab a cup of coffee, Spend an idle hour or two, Sharing hopes and dreams While waiting For the rain to stop, For the sky to clear He was about to start blubbering in misery in time with that old Reckless Imprudence number when the doorbell rang, startling him out of his blue funk. Hastily dabbing at his face with a handkerchief, Kent managed to shamble to the front door where there was a FedEx man holding a fairly large package. Mr. Joseph Kentigern Fleming? the man asked, looking at the manifest taped to the package. Kent winced at this. What the bloody fucking hell?! he thought in annoyance. Not even my parents use my full name on anything! Yeah, thats me, he replied. Special overnight delivery from Manila, sir, the delivery man informed him, handing him a pen. If youll just sign where the check-marks are Kent raised a dubious eyebrow at this, and then saw the name of the person who sent it: James Michael Valeriano. Jink! The gloomy young mans eyes widened. I wonder what But he signed off for the package and carried it in. Plunking it onto the kitchen table, he slit the box-top open with a knife from the rack. Inside, there was a small envelope and a large white bakery box with black lettering in a Gothic typeface: The Black Sugar Caf. Black sugar? Kent considered this. He presumed that it was one of those new

Japanese, Taiwanese, or Korean-run bakeries that his brothers told him about through email, black sugar kuro sato being an Oriental ingredient: unrefined cane sugar, usually produced in

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Okinawa, with a malty, smoky taste because of all the minerals it contained. Plus, the aesthetic chic black on white with Goth lettering looked like a throwback from a Japanese comicbook. He opened the letter first. Despite the fact that he and Jink kept in touch via email and chat, Kent particularly cherished written letters from his best friend.

Dear Kent: Pare koy! The guys and I thought wed try to cheer you up for a bit, so weve sent you an assorted batch of cupcakes from the caf where we usually hang out on Friday nights. The girls suggested that we get you an allchocolate selection, seeing how youre nuts about the stuff. Go knock yourself out; if you like em, we can send you another batch wait, on second thought, since youre coming back to the Pinas anyways, come hang out with us soon as you feel better. Mamzelle la

proprietaire says to tell you that shell keep you wellplied with anything chocolate when you show up so long as you promise to play the piano. Anyways, we hope you enjoy the cupcakes. (The choc-blueberry cheesecake ones are the best!) And we all look forward to seeing you again.

Just me, man. Jink

PS: By all, that includes Hilda, too. Hilda, dont you? ;p

You remember

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Remember Hilda?! Kent exclaimed aloud in disbelief. As if anyone can ever forget Hilda! Along with Jink and a number of others, hed grown up with Hilda Spencer. He remembered her to be a bad-tempered girl with dark ringlets and brown eyes that seemed to flash whenever she lost her temper (which was, alas, very often). He also recalled that she was quite a lot taller than he was: towering at six feet flat over his five-foot-seven. He winced at the memory of getting clobbered with workbooks when they were little, of getting pinched whenever he said something snarky to her. He also remembered how she shoved him out of the way when the biggest bully on campus tried to push him down the stairs in their senior year in high school. Kent closed his eyes and tasted the bitterness of that particular memory. It was as if he could still hear her scream echoing in his head as she plummeted down. He couldnt really remember what happened directly afterwards and knew only that hed seen red. Much later on, his parents had been called to the principals office because hed beaten the bully who, as he recalled, was much bigger than he was to a bloody, whimpering pulp. The school

threatened to kick him out, for all that he was running for valedictorian; but his classmates rallied behind him up to the point that the whole high school boycotted the intramurals for that year until he came back. And he remembered Hilda coming over to his house when she got out of the hospital He sighed. He didnt like Hilda, but he could never seem to hate her for all that she treated him like a punching no, pinching bag whenever she saw him and she never seemed to run out of snarky comments about him. She stood up for him, put herself in harms way for him and, for the life of him, she never told him why. He opened the box which stayed cold thanks to the packets of dry ice that surrounded it in the package. He gaped at the contents in stupefied delight: three each of four kinds of chocolate cupcakes greeted him. The ones where the white frosting was swirled with dark purple bits had to be the chocolate-blueberry ones Jink was raving about. And there were unfrosted ones with sunken middles that held the promise of molten chocolate within. There were also some incredibly dark ones that he surmised were a spin on the blackout cakes he enjoyed whenever he had an assignment in New York. Finally, there were the cupcakes decorated with cross-hatched

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butterscotch drizzle on top that Kent knew would be like the birthday cakes he used to get as a kid back home in Manila. And each one was just slightly smaller than his fist! He couldnt resist grabbing one of the butterscotch-topped ones, carefully peeling away the cupcake paper before greedily sinking his teeth into it. For the first time since Beatrix died, Kent felt a smile crawling over his lips. It was as if the chocolate in the cupcake went straight to his aching heart and his broken spirit, soothing him in ways that no antidepressant ever prescribed by some two-bit shrink ever could. The taste of the caramel brought him back to happier times when he and Beatrix were still at Oxford and short on money; theyd be forced to split on a cheap caramel sundae from McDonalds and laugh at how silly and impractical theyd been with their allowances. Whoever made this really knows her stuff, he thought as he polished off the cupcake, carefully scraping the crumbs off the paper with his teeth. Hed tasted good quality chocolate and the caramel gave the impression of being house-made and not al all drizzled from a supermarket-bought squeeze bottle. Plus, the technique was spot on for both the way it was baked and the way it was decorated. It would have been so easy for Kent to polish off all the other cupcakes in a single sitting, but he knew that wouldnt help him in any way. Instead, he carefully stowed the box in his refrigerator and went back to his laptop. Not to write his last columns just yet, but to tell Jink and his other friends that he received their considerate gift.

Dear Jink: Pare, thanks so much for the cupcakes. I havent tried the chocolateblueberry ones yet, but I ate one of the choc-butterscotch ones. (You know, Ive actually missed that combo; remember my birthday cakes back when we were kids? The ones from Cookie Monster?) I actually felt better when I ate that cupcake, though it made me kind of sad because the caramel made me remember Trix and how we ate caramel sundaes for lunch whenever we were broke. I dont know how long its going to take for me to recover, but I think Ill manage. At least, I hope Ill manage! Ill take you guys up on that offer to hang out at the Black Sugar. (What a name, pare! Is it Japanese or Korean?) And, sure: if the owners willing to feed me chocolate, Ill be glad to play the piano.

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Ill see you all in a couple months or so, soon as Ive settled stuff here in London.

Till then, Kent Kent pursed his lips and hesitated as he moused his cursor over to the SEND button, thinking to add a postscript to his missive. With a sigh, he went back and typed under his name:

PS: In case you run (God forbid!) into Hilda Spencer, tell that grumpy Amazon I said hi. K

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