The floor in her bedroom is made of wide wooden planks. The apartment is on the 8th floor of an imposing limestone building on the corner of Commonwealth Avenue, a stone’s throw from the Boston Public Garden. Pale-colored brick covers part of the faded facade—this is a building that whispers old money and summers on Nantucket and Harvard alumni. Inside, the lobby reminds her of an aging patrician matriarch: once beautiful and still formidable, but time-worn and washed out. The walls are mirrored and an ancient green carpet directs visitors around a massive oak table upon which sits a flower arrangement so large you can barely see the doorman in his navy blazer. He sits at a marble-topped desk, the polished brass buttons dotting his lapel a perfect complement to the brass trimming along the wainscoting. Wainscoting: this was one of many words she’d never spoken aloud, or knew of, before she moved into apartment 8F. Part of her education is living in the rarified sphere of wealth of the Carlton House (she didn’t know apartment buildings could have names that sounded like prep school dormitories); part of it is Hadley.
Hadley is her roommate and the reason she has come to live in apartment 8F—the nicest one on the entire floor with a sweeping view that overlooks the glittering serpentine path of the Charles and the block-like downtown skyline. From their kitchen window, the verdant square of the Boston Common is visible, and on warm days, she can spot tiny colorful figures sunbathing and jogging and walking their dogs, like a children’s picture book writ large.
Hadley’s grandmother (Eleanor Montgomery Bradford) used to come for high tea here every Saturday afternoon, back when the building was the Ritz-Carlton. She would famously order a string of cucumber and mint vodka cocktails, eschewing tea altogether, and instead offering a pot of Darjeeling to her guests. Hadley says her grandmother is the only person to ever finagle a recipe from the Ritz chef, and those warm crab salad-filled puff pastry rounds are still served at every happy hour in the Bradford household.
After the hotel was converted into condos, her grandmother purchased one for an unmentionable amount of money, and has kept it in the family, using it occasionally when they came “into town” for the theater or a dinner. When Hadley accepted her residency position at Mass General, her grandmother offered up the apartment. Actually, offered is the wrong term for this: Taffy (as Hadley’s grandmother is known—a nickname whose provenance has still never been fully explained) all but commanded Hadley to take the apartment one night over Gibson martinis and clam spaghetti at Sportello. “Darling, don’t bother looking elsewhere, I couldn’t stand thinking of you in some...hovel.”
She nearly choked on a mouthful of gin, and Hadley subtly rolled her eyes at her. Hovel? Taffy would probably consider anything less than a classic six with a walk-in pantry a disappointment. It was clear, as she waved over the waiter to request extra pearl onions, that she would brook no argument though—the conversation was over, and it was as if she had merely suggested that Hadley borrow her car instead of riding the train or take the last biscotti that came nestled alongside their dessert affogato.
The sum total of that dinner is that Hadley moved into apartment 8F and she, the lucky recipient of so many strangely luxurious perks of being her best friend, moved in too.
And it is here that she wakes up on this particular Friday morning. Last night was one of the first truly cold autumn evenings and the radiators in the building have yet to come on, clanking to life as if tiny bellhops were furiously working away with hammers inside. She went to sleep in her pajamas with thick woolen socks, and as she swings her feet out of bed, she nearly slips on the polished wood.
Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun, and a few loose strands escape and fall into her face. She eases open the door and steps into the long hallway which leads down to the open kitchen and living room, past Hadley’s bedroom and another that sits untouched—decorated in what they jokingly refer to as “Maine coast chic.” The walls are covered in a luxurious striped wallpaper in cream and marine blue; the bed has an ornately carved walnut headboard and a pile of layered linens and pillows so complex that she can’t imagine how someone could remember the right way to remake it. Each sheet has a pretty scalloped edge in a delicate peach. Her favorite part of the room is the antique writing desk in the corner, as if Hemingway might swan in at any moment to pen a few lines.
It’s the sort of room that begs you to make getting ready for an evening out an event, sitting in a silk robe with a dressing drink in hand, pinning your hair back into a sleek chignon and slipping on a pair of heavy pearl earrings.
The room isn’t used much, unless one of Hadley’s many cousins or aunts happens to be passing through town.
The kitchen is her favorite part of the apartment. It isn’t what she would have chosen on her own, but it has a coziness and charm that draws people into it. Even though Hadley doesn’t cook (unless you count making a huge bowl of Rice Krispie treats on the stove and eating it with a spoon, or adding a spoonful of crushed fennel seeds to jarred pasta sauce—a trick from her Italian roommate during her boarding school days), the kitchen is the spot towards which they gravitate.
Some of her most comforting moments happen around the kitchen island: Making pasta with pancetta and peas while Hadley studied her textbook on radioluminescence microtherapy. The night their best college friend Astrid came over after her boyfriend of three years—a sports announcer named Brent with adorable dimples who they’d always suspected was routinely kissing other girls—broke up with her, and they made s’mores under the broiler and ate them over an open carton of vanilla ice cream. The slow weekend mornings, after she’s taken her run or gone to 9 AM power flow class at Beacon Hill Yoga, when they drink coffee sitting in the oversized rattan stools at the island. The many evenings with glasses of white wine, glasses of red wine, glasses of Kir Royales made with cheap Prosecco and expensive cassis, cold bottles of citrusy IPAs, tumblers of icy margaritas (they always use Hadley’s aunt Clare’s famous recipe, which calls for Scotch whiskey infused with orange peel instead of Cointreau).
Neither of them is much of a drinker but sitting with something at night gives them that heady thrill of adulthood—something she’ll later realize only signifies how far from an adult you actually are. When you’re middle-aged, the trappings of adulthood don’t give you such a zing.
The kitchen itself has shiplap cabinets in such a pale dove gray they’re almost white. The counters are a gleaming quartz, into which someone cleverly set a huge sunken farmhouse sink and a butcher block inset. The grays and whites make her feel a bit as if she’s inside a cloud, or atop a ship—the only splash of color comes from the brass knobs and trimmings, and the six-burner royal blue La Cornue range.
It is here, in front of the stovetop, that she stands on this Friday morning. A white bakery box sits ajar in front of her and she’s carefully packing it full of the cinnamon twists she baked last night to bring to him. The dough had risen all afternoon in the refrigerator while she was at work, and at night she had rolled it out and coated it in softened butter and a thick layer of cinnamon- and cardamom-spiced sugar before slicing it into long strips and twisting them around her fingers. Each twist has a cap of crunchy sugar, and the bottoms are glassy where the butter and sugar has caramelized as they baked. She layers them in parchment paper to keep them intact, thinking of giving him one. Her cheeks are pinked from the fall air, and she’s hungrier than usual—a combination of perfect running weather pushing her three extra miles, and the chill outside.
With every single step, she thought about tonight. She tried meditative breathing; she tried to focus on work; she tried to catalog her to-do list for the day (three pressing emails, one institutional summary to complete and submit, a meeting on potential funding options with a client over lunch). None of it worked.
All she pictured, with the thwack of her shoes hitting the pavement repeatedly, was exactly how he’d look when she walked into the restaurant.
They’re going to meet at Raleigh, a pretty white-washed restaurant in downtown Portsmouth with sleek black industrial light fixtures and an absolutely killer cocktail menu. To get there, she’ll take the bus from South Station, getting off at the tiny depot and walking the five minutes it takes to get to the harbor, and the restaurant.
The bus headed to the New Hampshire Seacoast will be full on a Friday evening, crowded with people looking to spend a long weekend walking blustery Jenness Beach or eating clam chowder in downtown Kittery. She’ll have to execute a clandestine outfit change in her seat: shimmying out of her work clothes (faded jeans and a Patagonia pull-over) into something date-worthy (a silky black tunic that hits mid-thigh, sheer black tights, and leather boots).
Trying to put on a swipe of mascara and the tinted red lip balm he gave her last Christmas will be even more difficult given the swaying, jolting motion of the bus. She’ll run a brush through her hair and dab her wrists and collarbone with Le Labo Rose 31.
Perfume is the last thing she puts on—just a little—before she sees him after being apart. (For years to come, the fragrance will forever give her the jittery, shimmery feeling she associates with the moment of anticipation right before she catches sight of him: a sensation she had always wrongly assumed was meant only for teenagers and the very first weeks of dating.)
He’s already in Portsmouth, having driven down after his last meeting that morning to have lunch with his cousin Philip. Philip and his wife own a weekend house just south of the small city. Philip has been there all week; he’s an architect and escaped the chaos of their Charlestown townhouse for a few days to finalize drawings for a house he’s designing in Stowe, Vermont: a glass-and-pine dream of a ski getaway for two extremely wealthy (and famous) Boston athletes.
Philip’s oldest daughter is a sophomore at Amherst, and they’re spending the weekend with her on campus, leaving their house empty.
This is where they’ll stay for two glorious, uninterrupted nights: in the upstairs guest bedroom whose windows overlook the charcoal-gray November sea. Philip’s wife, Emie, has exquisite taste; she’s an interior designer who works for clients in places like Bryn Mawr and Palm Beach and Sag Harbor.
The first time he brought her to visit Philip and Emie’s house, she had said, “This house belongs in a magazine!” and Emie had kindly refrained from mentioning that it had been on the cover of Architectural Digest once—a fact she found out later by walking by the framed spread, and then blushed deeply with embarrassment at the memory of her comment.
A swimming pool, all done in slate and marble, takes up one end of the vast lawn, which terraces down a level and overlooks the beach. Climbing trellises of roses flank one side of the yard and the other is framed with neatly manicured boxwoods and voluminous hydrangea bushes. The patio is stunning, with its French-inspired herb garden and black slate planters, but inside is where she could spend days.
Philip’s office is on the uppermost floor at the end of a long, airy hallway—two wide swinging barn-style doors slide open into it. The walls are painted a deep hunter green; gold frames and hardware accent the furniture and art. She has never seen a room so appealingly colorful before. Emie works in a separate office which is, in contrast, starkly white.
“I keep it that way as a blank canvas for any current project,” Emie had told her. One entire wall is made up of pegboard and canvas, where she pins her photos for inspiration and design.
The front door (a bright Aegean blue) opens up into a vestibule with cavernous ceilings and a sweeping staircase—all in white. Emie has layered a vintage Moroccan rug in candy pinks and greens on top of a textured jute rug.
It is because of Emie that she knows about Christopher Spitzmiller lamps and Swedish Hästens mattresses and sapele wood trim and curtain-wall windows. (It is because of Philip that she knows about Château Lafite wines, Humphrey Bogart films, and that the best pre-dinner food is Brie cheese on a Carr’s water cracker.)
But first, tonight, and dinner. When she walks in, he will be leaning against the bar, talking animatedly to the bartender. When he catches sight of her from the corner of his eye and turns, he will look at her like he’s watching the first pop pop pop of a fireworks display or like the curtain is just rising at a darkened theater: all awe and delight and anticipation.
She will drink the gin and strawberry mead cocktail, and he will order a glass of the Anne Amie Pinot Blanc. They will split the warm round of Portuguese sweet bread with apple butter that shows up with their drinks. They will order crab dip with housemade crackers and she will pull a face when he suggests the potato millefeuille, a delicate stack of paper-thin crisped potato slices layered with anchovy tapenade and a poached quail egg.
(On one of their first dates, they discovered that they have nearly identical dislikes, with the exception of anchovies —her—and mushrooms—him. She knew this wouldn’t sound like the stuff of grand romances but finding out they both loved the occasional burnt Cheez-it cracker in the box felt like one of a million tiny ways that her edges fit against his.)
She will have the scallops with roasted pumpkin; he will try the duck breast with endive and plump cherries soaked in cider, one of which he will feed her across the table and she will have to try not to close her eyes and groan, because that’s not polite but truly is that one of the best things she has ever tasted?
He will claim he doesn’t want dessert but the adorable waiter—an eager, fresh-faced boy wearing the restaurant’s signature striped apron with red trim—will gush about the apple crostata with frozen custard, and they will smile and say yes.
She will take a bite of the ice cream, melted around the edges from the warmth of the pastry, without taking her eyes off of his, while his knee is pressed gently against hers. And at that, they’ll leave the dessert half-finished, rushing to sign the check and find their way to his parked car, then down the few miles of darkened road to the house.
The next morning, there will be the soft imprint of their bodies in the big white bed. There will be the Dragonfly Coffee Roasters Terre Celesti in the French press (she asked Philip once why he bought coffee beans from Nevada and then had to endure a minutes-long soliloquy on the importance of micro-roasting). There will be the cinnamon twists, warmed for 10 minutes in the oven, eaten with their hands on the teak chaises on the porch under one of Emie’s plush blankets, his fingers sticky with cinnamon sugar against her lips.
Cinnamon Twists
For the dough
480g (3 cups) all-purpose flour
2 1/4 teaspoons (1 package) instant or active dry yeast
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
227g (1 cup) whole milk, warmed slightly
3 eggs
1/4 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature
For the filling
213g (1 cup) brown sugar, divided
1 tablespoon cinnamon, divided
1 teaspoon cardamom
pinch of salt
85g (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter, slightly warmer than room temperature (spreadable), divided
For the dough: Add all of the dough ingredients to the bowl of a stand mixer and mix on medium-high speed until the dough comes together. It may be a bit sticky, which is fine, but it should start to smooth out rather than looking rough.
Cover the bowl loosely and let rise at room temperature for 1 1/2 to 2 hours — the dough should look and feel more airy than when you began but won’t necessarily double in size.
For the filling: When the rising time is almost up, make the filling by mixing together 1/2 cup of the brown sugar, 1/2 tablespoon of the cinnamon, cardamom, and salt.
To shape: Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and roll to a large rectangle, about 15” x 13” or so. Aim for the dough should be uniformly thin all over.
Spread 70g (5 tablespoons) of the softened butter across the dough and sprinkle evenly with the brown sugar mixture.
Fold the dough in half (ending up with a rectangle about 7 1/2” x 13”) and use a pizza wheel or sharp knife to cut it into strips, about 1 1/2” wide. (Don’t worry too much about the measurements of everything here!)
Working with one strip at a time, twist the strips around your fingers to form a knot (shaping doesn’t need to be perfect here but try to pull the end of the dough through the knot so it won’t fall apart).
Place the knots on a parchment-lined baking sheet, cover loosely, and let rise for 20 minutes.
Towards the end of the rising time, preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.
Melt the remaining 14g (1 tablespoon) of the butter and mix it in a separate small bowl with the remaining brown sugar and cinnamon. Sprinkle this mixture (it should be wet and sandy) over the tops of the twists.
Bake the twists for about 20 minutes, or until a pale golden brown. Remove from the oven and let cool.