Lost in Love (The Miss Apple Pants series Book 2)

by Charlotte Roth

  “You must be Frank’s wife, Abigail Daisy, and his daughter, Eleanor Rigby.” She made a gesture toward us, which made all her jewelry jingle. “I’m Phyllis—Phyllis Beatrice Rock.” She gave us both a quick once-over, then nodded at Mom. “I must say, you almost look like you could be sisters, or twins even.” Her voice was loud in that way people speak when they don’t hear too well.

  “We’ve heard that one before.” Mom’s voice was laced with pride. We had. Even though Mom was close to forty-five, people still mistook us for sisters. When I had told Grandma, she laughed and said, her voice laced with pride too, that it had to be the Danish/Polish genes, from her. “Where does that leave me?” I had asked, reminding her that I was the one who apparently looked older than my age. “It’s your eyes,” she said. “You have the soul of a much older person, and people can see that—in your eyes.” I had heard that one before. It probably didn’t help that I was drawn to older people or had become a mother at eighteen.

  Mom continued with a less proud voice, “This is for you.” She presented the sad flower arrangement to Mrs. Rock, who stared at it, not able to hide the surprise on her face.

  “Oh, you really shouldn’t have.” She said it like she really meant it. “Come in.” She stepped aside and pushed the door all the way open.

  Mom and I both hesitated before we entered, and Mom gave me a gentle push in the back and whispered, “Go on then,” before we followed in Mrs. Rock’s footsteps.

  The foyer fully matched her dramatic outfit, with its heavy velvet drapes, gold antique furniture, and an odd mix of Arabian and French bourgeoisie-style knick-knacks. It totally looked like a movie set, and I was sure Mom was already trying to establish which movie/actor/actress it reminded her of.

  “I had Lily set up a modest coffee selection in the informal dining room, in here.” She motioned to the wide and long hall to her right. “You are both coffee drinkers, I assume.” It was more a statement than a question and I couldn’t help thinking that this was how she rolled. No wonder Dad had been exhausted from all those long board meetings with her. Mrs. Phyllis Rock was not a woman who asked too many questions. She preferred to give orders.

  “We sure are. We both love coffee,” Mom said a little too chipper as we followed Mrs. Rock into the dining room, yet another room resembling a movie set for an old flick.

  “Please, take a seat.” She motioned to the two golden chairs facing the garden before she placed her small hands on top of the chair at the end of the table. “I’ll go tell Lily to bring the coffee then.” She nodded at Mom and we both stared at her purple back as she marched back down the hall.

  “Oh man, did she say modest?” Mom stepped aside and pulled one of the chairs out for me to sit and that’s when I saw what she was talking about. The table had been meticulously set, adorned with small vases of deep-red roses, shining silverware, and golden-rimmed coffee cups and plates. On each plate sat a humongous strawberry shortcake, which I could not have, of course.

  “I’m so sorry, hon.” Mom placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

  “It’s okay.” I slumped down on the chair and stared at the enormous cake. “It’s like gluten on steroids. I’m pretty sure I saw it mocking me now.”

  Mom couldn’t help letting out a small laugh. “I know, it’s not funny at all. It’s not. I feel your pain. It must be torturous.”

  “You can say that again. You can have mine.” I pushed the plate over next to hers and she sat down.

  “I’m sure she has something else you can eat. Maybe a piece of chocolate, or—”

  “—Here we go.” Mrs. Rock’s loud voice interrupted from behind us. I looked up as she entered. She was carrying a small, spotless, shiny silver tray with an even shinier coffee pot.

  “Strong Ethiopian beans, just how I like it.” She filled our cups with the hot liquid, then circled around the table and sat to pour her own cup. “Feel free to eat.” She grabbed the smooth cloth napkin, unfolded it, and placed it in her lap. From the corner of my eye, I saw Mom do the same, so I followed suit.

  “I had them delivered from the Dahlia bakery this morning.” She grabbed her spoon and looked over at my plate. “You don’t like strawberry shortcake?”

  “Oh no, I love it. It’s actually one of my favorites, besides chocolate chip cookies. It’s just I’m on this special diet and I ca—”

  “—Diets,” she echoed like it was a bad word. “They never work. Just eat a variety of foods each day. That’s all you need to do.” She scooped up a big bite of cake and continued, “I only allow myself to eat cake every other day. No need for diets.” She shook her head disapprovingly before she plopped another the big spoon of cake in her mouth.

  “It’s not really a diet-diet. I can’t eat gluten. I have celiac.”

  “You have what?” Mrs. Rock scooped up another bite of cake and squinted at me.

  “Celiac disease,” I repeated, spelling it out; but, judging from the look on her face, it didn’t help. She had no clue what the hell I was talking about, or maybe she did have bad hearing. “I follow a strict diet, mostly paleo,” I explained.

  “Paleo?” She looked over at Mom for help. We both did.

  Mom was pretty much inhaling the cake. “Sorry,” she said around the cake, “you know how hungry I get from driving. It’s nerves.” She smiled and revealed a set of strawberry slash whipped-cream-covered teeth. “She can’t have the cake,” Mom continued. “We usually only make paleo cakes.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Rock nodded, then suddenly pushed her chair out. “I’ll go check in the kitchen if we have any cookies without that, um, paleo.” She stood up and before I had time to tell her it was okay, she was halfway down the hall.

  “You know she has no clue whatsoever, right?”

  “I know. I’m sorry. And sorry for just eating over here. I was so hungry.”

  “It’s okay.” I looked down at Mom’s plate. “But, um, looks like you missed a tiny crumb, right here.” I pointed at her clean plate and smiled.

  “Sorry, I’m not being very supportive, am I?” She offered me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  “Oh, but you are, Mom. Always. I know how you and Dad go all nuts when you go out and have garlic bread and real pasta and chocolate cake. You’re missing out too. Because of me.”

  She leaned over and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear and whispered, “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true.” It was. My celiac disease diagnosis had turned not only our family meals but the entire kitchen upside down, or more precisely, divided into two food zones: one with gluten and one without. All cutting boards, cooking utensils, pots, and pans had been labeled with either a green label (gluten-free safe) or a red label (gluten). All family meals had been modified to be 100 percent gluten free, but we still had bread, cookies, crackers, and cereal for Alfred and Ava (and beer for dad), all safely sealed in their double-bagged Ziploc bags. Mom had been more than supportive. She had been amazing, so adamant that this disease wasn’t going to “win.” It wasn’t going to define me or keep me from doing exactly what I wanted. “Screw celiac,” as she had proclaimed loudly the day we cleaned out all the cabinets. “Screw it,” I had agreed, which, of course had cost us a few pennies.

  I looked at the strawberry short cake on my plate and pushed it even closer to Mom’s. “Go on now, one for the road home.”

  “You mean it?” She looked down, her eyes lit up at the mountain of whipped cream piled on top.

  “Yes, you heard the lady. She only has cake every other day. It’s you or the trash.” I smiled.

  “I guess if you put it that way…” She grabbed the spoon and nodded toward the hall. “I hear shuffled footsteps.” We both listened as they came closer.

  “Viola.” Once again, Mrs. Rock entered with another small shiny silver tray. “We found two different kinds.” She placed the tray on the dining table and picked up a little container with what looked like choc
olate chip cookies. “You said no paleo, right?” Well, these have no paleo in them.” She held up the container and started to read out loud. “Contains wheat, sugar, butter, chocolate, vanilla… That’s all.” She looked down at me with one eye. “Not a single paleo in them.” She handed me the container, nodding proudly.

  I swallowed hard and uttered a small “thank you.” I didn’t say the obvious, that wheat was gluten and that one single crumb or 1/48th of a slice of normal bread could give me an excruciating stomachache all day. That one single crumb would give me a headache and send me to the restroom for hours. That one single crumb would eat away on my intestines, make me sick for life. I had tried to explain it too many times, but it was like people didn’t really understand. It was a sickness, like loneliness, that people couldn’t see, and they all thought I was just being overly protective. Going out to eat at restaurants or at a neighbor’s house were the biggest challenges.

  Waitress: “So, you want the gluten-free bread with salad and fries on the side?”

  Me: “Only if the fries are cooked in a separate fryer.”

  Waitress: “Um, we have no gluten in our fries. They are made from potatoes.” (now suppressing an eyeroll)

  Me: “Yes, but if they are fried in the same fryer as, for example, chicken nuggets, there’s risk of cross contamination.”

  Waitress: “O-kay. So, no fries?”

  Me: “Yes, no fries and do you know if the burger pads and buns are all cooked on the same grill?”

  Waitress: “Nope, but I can go ask. And if they are?”

  Me (almost crying now): “Then, I’ll just have a Coke with no ice.”

  This would be where Mom pulled her huge Ziploc with gluten-free snacks from her purse. Mom was always there for me. Always supportive. Of course, she was allowed to cheat, on occasion. Once again, I looked over at Mom—my gluten-free Wonder Woman—for help.

  “Oh, I love those.” She snatched the container right out of my hand. “You probably shouldn’t eat them right now, just stick to milk and coffee. She gets a very upset stomach sometimes is all,” she added, addressing Mrs. Rock.

  “Oh, I see.” Mrs. Rock looked down at the other cookie container and shook her head. “Everyone’s their own,” I think she muttered as she sat down by the table. “Anyway, enough talk about cookies and cake.” Briefly, her eyes settled on me before she continued, “As you know, I asked Frank if you could meet me here today, for a couple of reasons. I know what you might be thinking: Why would an old woman like me want to tag along with Frank and his family on vacation? Well, let me explain.” She picked up her napkin and dabbed at her mouth. “One of the reasons I picked Frank’s project over many others, and believe me, there have been many … when you have money, people want you to invest in all sorts of projects. My late husband, Richard Rock, or ‘The Rock’ as he was called, was the CEO of Greenlake Enterprise and used to travel quite a bit, thank God,” she added, with a dry laugh. “He travelled all over the world, to Holland in particular. Holland holds a special place in my heart.” She looked down at her hands and cleared her throat. “One summer Richard suggested, just like Frank, I reckon, that we come with him, that is me and my son, um, Aaron.” Her tone dipped with the mentioning of his name. “It was the best vacation in my life. We left Richard with all his meetings and dinners in Hague, and then we boarded the train. We got one of those passes, Interrail passport it was called, and that gave us unlimited train rides in all of Europe for an entire month.” She got up and walked toward the tinted window facing the street below. “We went to Barcelona, Madrid, Venice, Rome, Nice, Amsterdam, and, of course, Paris.” She turned around and placed her small hands on top of one of the dining chairs. Her face looked different than just minutes ago, as if sweet memories had crept in and softened her entire face. “Paris was Aaron’s favorite place. We were there when the Tour de France ended on the famous ride on Champs-Elysees. It was the year Greg LeMond won. Afterwards, we went out to some fancy restaurant with an even fancier name and had our very first escargot, snails; or, it would be more semantically correct to say we attempted to eat snails. See, we both spit it out right there on the sidewalk as soon as we bit down on the chewy buttery fella. We laughed about it for hours.” She looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. After a beat, she continued with a somber voice, “That was our last trip together. Not too long after we came back, Aaron and Richard had a falling out. Looking back at it now, it all seems so silly, really, but sometimes when you’re in the middle of it, it’s hard to…” She looked down at Mom and shook her head lightly. “Anyway, the day we left, we both swore we had to come back one day and do it all again, the exact same things, including the snails, but we never made it back. Richard kept saying that I should go. “Bring a friend,” he said, but I knew it would never be the same. And I reckoned it was just easier to stay away. I guess in a sense, I’ve been waiting for… But I can’t really wait anymore. At my age, you never know if you’ll live to see another ball drop on New Year’s Eve.” She offered us a small smile and sat down right across from Mom. “So, there it is. I’ve finally decided to go back and revisit one last time. The kick-off meeting in Amsterdam was what made me even think about going, and then when Frank told me that you were going as a family, I thought to myself, why not? It might seem odd to you that I’m dragging along with you, someone else’s family; but, honestly, I don’t want to travel that far alone. That said, I completely understand if you say no. However, I don’t expect that we ‘hang out’ as your generation says, all day. I just expect a little company here and there.” She looked at Mom and I could see her swallowing hard. “So, what do you say? You think you can survive a couple of weeks with this old lady? Can I, um, can I come with you?” She folded her hands neatly and looked at me. I felt Mom’s hand in mine under the table.

  “Of course, of course. Right, Ella? We would love to have you with us—the more the merrier.” Those were not the exact words Mom had offered Dad when he had told us.

  “So, we’re going to go on our girls’ trip with a total stranger?” Mom had implored. “Are we going to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner with her? Sail our very first time on the La Seine with someone we’ve never even seen? It’s a girls’ trip, Frank.” Mom had looked at me for help.

  “Well, she is technically a girl,” Dad had offered with a goofy smile.

  “She’s like a hundred years old. Not exactly the image I have in my head when I hear the words girls’ trip,” Mom had sneered, not able to hide the irritation in her voice.

  But that was before we had met her, before we heard about the dear memories of Aaron’s and her last trip to Europe. Before she had basically told us that this was her last dying wish… you never know if you’ll ever see the ball drop again on New Year’s Eve.

  We both looked at her now as she sat there seemingly uncomfortable in her own skin, and I couldn’t help thinking how hard it had to be, for someone like her—a lady who didn’t like to ask questions, let alone beg for something—to ask us this very question.

  “We would love to have you with us,” I told her, echoing Mom’s words.

  “How delightful!” She clapped her tiny gnarled hands silently together and offered the first genuine smile I had seen cross her face since we’d arrived. “I have already planned everything out.” She got up so fast that she almost knocked over the fine china. “Please join me in the office. I have it all printed out.” She looked down at Mom’s slash my half-eaten cake and added, “That is, if you’re done here.”

  “I’m done,” Mom assured her and patted her belly demonstrably. “That was my almost-second.” She dropped the napkin on the table and grabbed the container with the cookies. “But maybe we can bring these?” She looked at me and smiled. “It’s me or the trash, remember?”

  ***

  Her office was the only place, as far as I could see, that looked remotely modern. Her desk—simple, white, and custom-built to fit the low windowsill—overlooked the Seattle Skyline below. It was
an impressive view, but what was even more impressive was the entire wall behind it, which was covered in kids’ drawings and paintings, from floor to ceiling.

  “Aaron’s wall of fame,” Mrs. Rock explained when she saw me staring at it. “That one—” she got on her tippy toes and placed her hand gently on one of the drawings, like it could break any time soon, “—is my favorite.”

  It was a drawing of a big purple heart, with the letters A and M, added with a sharpie right in the center of the heart. Happy Mother’s Day. From Aaron T. Rock, it said in little crooked letters at the bottom.

  “It’s cute. And the wall itself is, um, pretty impressive.”

  She nodded and ran her fingers over another kid’s drawing of a little matchstick man holding hands with a bigger matchstick man. “I had this wall done a few weeks after Rock was put in the ground. He didn’t like kids’ stuff like that, you know when people hang it on the fridge and stuff. He said it was all clutter. Sadly, I used to agree with him and hid it, away from the tidiness of our house. But still, I kept it all. And I’m so happy I did.” She turned and collected a few small binders from the table and handed one to Mom. “I kept these, too. The pictures, I mean.”

  We looked down at the binder. A grainy photo of a young man with jet-black hair, a pair of ripped shorts, and a Nike t-shirt graced the front cover. He was sitting on the grass lawn in front of the Eiffel Tower, holding up a Coca Cola bottle as if to say “cheers!”

  “He said all he needed was a hat, flip flops, and a clean pair of underwear. And that’s pretty much all he packed in his little backpack, along with his Walkman. Of course, I had Elisa help me pack a suitcase for him.” She looked up at the ceiling and shook her head lightly before she continued, “He was always so carefree, so unlike his dad, which is was what started the whole, um, disagreement between them and before I knew it… Her voice trailed off and her eyes darted to the floor. After a beat, she looked up at Mom and placed her little gnarled hand on top of the folder. “This is him, from the trip. Turn the page.”