myself in, and Tom raised his head and smiled hello.
He said, “A friend just left me a bag of fresh-picked mamé sapote. They’re in the fridge. Want one?”
Offering a sweaty Floridian a taste of ripe mamé sapote is like offering warm blankets and hot chocolate to somebody just pulled from the icy waters of the Bering Strait.
I gave Tom such an eager “Yes!” that Billy Elliot gave me an injured look. No matter how many legs we have, we all think our needs should come first, and Billy didn’t want to wait for his run.
Tom rolled into the kitchen and got a brown paper bag from his refrigerator while I got two dessert spoons and a sharp knife.
Mamé sapote is a fruit about the size of a soft ball, with a tough leathery skin. The flesh is deep orange in color, with a flavor that’s a combination of chocolate and pumpkin and ice cream and delicate spices not yet discovered.
Tom cut a brown globe in halves and handed me one. We spooned its cold sweetness straight from the rind.
Tom said, “I love this stuff.”
I said, “Todd and I had a mamé sapote tree in our backyard.”
The minute I said it, I wished I hadn’t. Remembering that tree made me remember how thrilled we’d been when it first bore fruit. One night we took the fruit to bed to eat while we watched TV. We didn’t watch TV long. With our lips coated with flesh from the mamé sapote, we fell on each other like bears after honey, inhaling each other’s scent and eating each other’s taste. Christy was conceived that night, and Todd had always said that when she was a grown woman he would tell her that I’d been too turned on by mamé sapote juice to take time to put in my diaphragm. Unless he and Christy are somewhere in heaven together, she will never hear that story.
With an effort, I pulled my memories away from that night so my heart wouldn’t crack in Tom’s kitchen.
Tom said, “I was just reading that a penthouse condo onSiesta Key sold for seven million dollars. The sellers had to reduce the asking price from eight million because times are so tight right now.”
I said, “My heart bleeds for them.”
Tom waggled his hand. “It’s all relative. To a billionaire, a million is like a hundred to everybody else.”
I tossed my fruit rind in Tom’s kitchen trash and rinsed my spoon. As I put it in his dishwasher, I said, “I know a woman who has a million in cash in her home safe.”
He raised a CPA’s suspicious eyebrow. “Legitimate money?”
“Yeah. Her husband’s an oil trader, whatever that is.”
He grunted, and I went to get Billy Elliot’s leash. Billy had waited long enough.
Billy and I ran around the oval parking lot track like banshees on holiday. When Billy was happy and I was pouring sweat, we rode upstairs in the cool elevator. Tom was at the kitchen table working on papers of some kind. Before I replaced Billy’s leash in the foyer closet, I went to the kitchen. Tom looked over his glasses at me. Probably thought I was going to ask for a second mamé sapote.
I thwacked the end of Billy’s leash against my open palm. “Tom, exactly what does an oil trader do?”
He shoved his glasses up on his nose. “Crude or paper?”
“Crude, I think.”
“Then he sells oil, big tankers full. Say he represents an oil producer in Norway. They notify him that they’ve filled a tanker with oil, and he seeks out a buyer. Maybe the buyer is a refiner in Japan, so he strikes a deal with them and notifies the tanker to sail to Japan. But maybe on the way, a refiner in England wants the oil and is willingto pay more. So he strikes a deal with Japan to sell the oil to England, and notifies the tanker to change course. He can do that over and over, and every time the oil changes owners, he gets a percentage of whatever the selling price is, plus fees from both the sellers and buyers for handling the sale. Traders spend their days looking for people willing to pay more or sell for less. It’s a lucrative business, but
He said, “A friend just left me a bag of fresh-picked mamé sapote. They’re in the fridge. Want one?”
Offering a sweaty Floridian a taste of ripe mamé sapote is like offering warm blankets and hot chocolate to somebody just pulled from the icy waters of the Bering Strait.
I gave Tom such an eager “Yes!” that Billy Elliot gave me an injured look. No matter how many legs we have, we all think our needs should come first, and Billy didn’t want to wait for his run.
Tom rolled into the kitchen and got a brown paper bag from his refrigerator while I got two dessert spoons and a sharp knife.
Mamé sapote is a fruit about the size of a soft ball, with a tough leathery skin. The flesh is deep orange in color, with a flavor that’s a combination of chocolate and pumpkin and ice cream and delicate spices not yet discovered.
Tom cut a brown globe in halves and handed me one. We spooned its cold sweetness straight from the rind.
Tom said, “I love this stuff.”
I said, “Todd and I had a mamé sapote tree in our backyard.”
The minute I said it, I wished I hadn’t. Remembering that tree made me remember how thrilled we’d been when it first bore fruit. One night we took the fruit to bed to eat while we watched TV. We didn’t watch TV long. With our lips coated with flesh from the mamé sapote, we fell on each other like bears after honey, inhaling each other’s scent and eating each other’s taste. Christy was conceived that night, and Todd had always said that when she was a grown woman he would tell her that I’d been too turned on by mamé sapote juice to take time to put in my diaphragm. Unless he and Christy are somewhere in heaven together, she will never hear that story.
With an effort, I pulled my memories away from that night so my heart wouldn’t crack in Tom’s kitchen.
Tom said, “I was just reading that a penthouse condo onSiesta Key sold for seven million dollars. The sellers had to reduce the asking price from eight million because times are so tight right now.”
I said, “My heart bleeds for them.”
Tom waggled his hand. “It’s all relative. To a billionaire, a million is like a hundred to everybody else.”
I tossed my fruit rind in Tom’s kitchen trash and rinsed my spoon. As I put it in his dishwasher, I said, “I know a woman who has a million in cash in her home safe.”
He raised a CPA’s suspicious eyebrow. “Legitimate money?”
“Yeah. Her husband’s an oil trader, whatever that is.”
He grunted, and I went to get Billy Elliot’s leash. Billy had waited long enough.
Billy and I ran around the oval parking lot track like banshees on holiday. When Billy was happy and I was pouring sweat, we rode upstairs in the cool elevator. Tom was at the kitchen table working on papers of some kind. Before I replaced Billy’s leash in the foyer closet, I went to the kitchen. Tom looked over his glasses at me. Probably thought I was going to ask for a second mamé sapote.
I thwacked the end of Billy’s leash against my open palm. “Tom, exactly what does an oil trader do?”
He shoved his glasses up on his nose. “Crude or paper?”
“Crude, I think.”
“Then he sells oil, big tankers full. Say he represents an oil producer in Norway. They notify him that they’ve filled a tanker with oil, and he seeks out a buyer. Maybe the buyer is a refiner in Japan, so he strikes a deal with them and notifies the tanker to sail to Japan. But maybe on the way, a refiner in England wants the oil and is willingto pay more. So he strikes a deal with Japan to sell the oil to England, and notifies the tanker to change course. He can do that over and over, and every time the oil changes owners, he gets a percentage of whatever the selling price is, plus fees from both the sellers and buyers for handling the sale. Traders spend their days looking for people willing to pay more or sell for less. It’s a lucrative business, but
Similar Books
