On the day Charley Benton received his first Social Security check (early election—it was time to finally start collecting something), Charley suddenly realized he hadn’t given any thought to a legacy. Sure, there were his kids, and the relatively small retirement account that had been building (lately at a death-march pace). But really, money wasn’t a very distinctive legacy, not in the numbers he was talking about. And his kids, with whom he was only intermittently in touch, were about as much a monument to his life as the trees he’d planted in the back yard of his old house (why did his children always ask what was new? At his age, that meant cancer!).

This question of a legacy dogged Charley all that day (like the ghost of his dead spaniel), and on into the night (dead spaniel dreams), causing him a fitful sleep. The next morning he woke grumpy, though his wife, Chastity, waking beside him, seemed not to notice. Which caused Charley to wonder, not about his wife’s attentiveness (she noticed everything), but about whether he was grumpy all the time.

The question of a legacy hung over him at work the next day, like an impending doctor’s appointment. It followed him home (that damned spaniel again!).

Standing in the bedroom getting ready for a dinner out, staring at himself in the full-length mirror (did he really look that bad?), Charley finally couldn’t stand it anymore. “I think I should have waited to start collecting Social Security.”

Chastity turned, sensing his ill ease. “I thought you ran the numbers?”

He had run the numbers. What he hadn’t counted on was this sense of The End. The numbers only favored him if he died young.

“It all seems so soon,” he lamented, barely breathing the words (a premonition of his last words?).

Chastity smiled. “Dinner out will take your mind off it.”

A celebration of his first retirement check. A sort of warm-up to actual retirement. Not that Charley had plans to completely retire. That wasn’t anywhere on the horizon, though when Charley thought about it, he couldn’t imagine why he would want to push on with work to the end. That wouldn’t constitute a legacy, only heroic endurance.

“Charley?”

His wife was staring at him, as he was staring at the menu in his hand.

Charley looked up. A waiter was staring down, an annoyed and haughty expression on the man’s face.

“A drink, sir?” the waiter asked, obviously for the second time.

“Scotch,” Charley murmured.

The waiter turned and shambled off.

Charley stared. How had they gotten there? Why did they come? This restaurant was too expensive.

A moment’s irascibility nearly propelled him from his chair. It wasn’t too late to leave. He and his wife could have dinner at the small Italian place they generally frequented, where the chef didn’t have an attitude about going light on the salt.

But looking at his wife, Charley could see she was pleased to be there. Now and then, a change was welcome.

Charley’s ill ease grew. “Have you ever wanted to do something?”

Chastity considered the question. “Like go on an exotic vacation?”

“Like make something.”

Chastity was curious. “Make what?”

Charley’s gesture was explosive, in part because words, like ideas, failed him. “I don’t know. Something.”

“A boat in a bottle?” Chastity suggested.

Charley supposed a hobby was exactly what he needed. “Not that.”

“Did that check make you feel old, Charley?”

The waiter placed a glass of Scotch in front of him.

Charley picked it up and took a sip. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He supposed he was simply feeling the Reaper’s first glance, an unwelcome interest. Each day now he’d be looking over his shoulder. He would end up walking into a lamppost.

Charley glanced down. Dessert was sitting before him.

Time had slipped its mooring, perhaps emboldened by that first retirement check. The (few) remaining days would be a blur.

Charley picked up his dessert fork and scooped up a bite of the pastry chef’s offering, desire momentarily edging aside temporal concerns.

But if Charley had been expecting a mouthful of manna, a moment’s terrestrial bliss, he was beyond disappointed. The tiramisu he’d ordered was awful. The cake was dry; the cream, curdled. The entire confection reeked of cheap brandy.

Charley set down his fork. He turned to look for a waiter.

But at that moment, the dining room was devoid of staff.

“Is something wrong?” Chastity asked.

“This is an abomination,” Charley declared, gesturing at the tiramisu. He smacked the edge of the dish with his hand. The heavy ceramic didn’t budge.

“Send it back,” Chastity suggested.

“I intend to!” Charley stated, still looking for a waiter. His anger, he realized, went beyond this culinary slight. He was angry because his life was nearly over and he’d barely lived it.

A do-over was what he wanted (could one actually sell one’s soul?).

Charley had to wonder just how long he would hold down the rewind button.

He glanced at Chastity, and felt a pang of guilt.

The tiramisu, like a toxic toad, sat smirking at him. There would be no do-over.

Charley gave the dish another, harder smack. This time, it moved an inch. “I could do better,” he declared, righteous indignation mixing with bravado in just the proper proportion, a balance that had eluded the pastry chef.

And as Charley sat there brooding, indulging his irritation, it came to him: what his legacy could be. He would make the perfect tiramisu. He would create a recipe that would be passed down from generation to generation—Charley Benton’s Tiramisu.

The next day saw Charley on his computer trolling for recipes, a new purpose in his life (finally a purpose?). His enthusiasm faded, however, when Google announced there were 27,000,000 hits for tiramisu.

Charley stared. He hadn’t realized a simple dessert could have so captured the popular imagination. And everyone seemed to be an expert. People blogged about tiramisu.

Charley pushed himself away from the computer. What would be the point of pursuing this? If he succeeded, who would know? His entry in history would be 27,000,001.

Again, Charley felt Death creeping closer, as if his reluctance to take up this gustatory challenge was the existential equivalent to giving in to a disease.

And then it came to him, life’s great secret: he would know if he succeeded.

Charley clicked on the first recipe, and started reading.

That Saturday saw Charley in the liquor store buying Marsala. In the grocery store, he purchased cake flour, mascarpone, and everything else he needed.

Two days later, spoon in hand, a dribble of the mascarpone cream clinging to his lip, Charley experienced his first culinary defeat. His tiramisu was awful, the flavors and textures of the ingredients at war with one another. Tiramisu, like a successful life, required balance.

But how to find that balance? Would dogged persistence be enough? Was a moment of inspiration needed? What if it never came?

“You’re perky!” Chastity exclaimed.

Charley looked up from his thickening Sabayon cream. He realized he was perky, something he hadn’t felt for decades. Cooking was fun.

“You could market this,” Chastity decided, licking the spoon she was holding a second time, as if in search of that last molecule of cocoa.

“The recipe?” Charley wondered.

“The cake!”

He could supply area restaurants. He wondered whether he could make a profit doing that?

“This is just for fun,” he decided.

“We’re getting fat!” And with that, his wife took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

There were philosophical concerns (beyond the morality of seducing his dieting wife with sweets). His tiramisu was edging away from the mainstream concoction. Should he (the company man) rein himself in? Or was the mainstream concoction itself the problem—expediency and cost dictating aesthetics? Didn’t a person have to step out of the mainstream to define himself? Wasn’t that what greatness demanded—(culinary) courage?

The annual town fair had a dessert contest.

Charley won.

A bitter-sweet victory, he decided, because his tiramisu wasn’t perfect yet. Perfection, like a shy inamorata, eluded him. Was perfection a moving target?

“Where are you going to hang the ribbon?” Chastity demanded.

“In the kitchen, I suppose,” Charley replied.

So now, while Charley stirred his Sabayon, and contemplated the failings of his dipping syrup, that blue ribbon mocked him. Success was easier to achieve than perfection.

“Charley!”

Charley opened his eyes.

Chastity was staring down, a look of relief on her face.

“You gave us a scare there, Charley boy.”

Charley boy turned left, then right, struggling to make sense of his surroundings—florescent lights, hanging curtains, stainless-steel wall plates.

“Where am I?” he cried.

An alarm sounded.

Charley tried to sit up, and felt a stabbing in his chest. An unbelievable pain.

“Lie still, Charley!” Chastity warned.

Charley lifted his hand, to assess the damage to his chest, and discovered tubes coming out of his arm. His panic grew.

“The doctor said you’re going to be fine,” Chastity offered.

But fine, as far as Charley could tell, was a long way off. He barely had the strength to move his head. “What happened?”

“You shouted.”

Charley stared. He had no recollection of having shouted, or of what might have prompted him to shout.

“I don’t remember.”

“I found you on the floor, in the kitchen.”

He’d been making adjustments to his dipping syrup. Had his cry been a shout of exaltation? Or simply pain? He couldn’t recall.

His agitation increased. “I was working on my recipe.”

Chastity smiled and patted his arm. “Of course, you were.”

His little hobby.

Chastity gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.

The gesture put Charley on alert.

“The doctor said you have to make some changes, Charley.”

His wife looked sympathetic. Charley knew the sort of changes the doctor had in mind. From now on, his grocery shopping would be confined to the produce section of the supermarket.

Changes that would have to wait, Charley decided, at least for a little while.

He pushed himself up an inch. “I guess we’ll see.”