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

by Charlotte Roth

  “Frank!” Mom exclaimed as loudly as Alfred’s “surprise” only seconds ago. “Great job.”

  “What? I didn’t say anything.” He gestured toward the end of the table. Ava and a pouting Alfred were both staring at him.

  “Yes, you did, Frank. You just did.”

  Dad was about to say something when it dawned on him. “Oh, I just did, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did.” Mom reached over and placed a hand on top of mine. “So, baby, you’re having a surprise party. And that’s all we’re going to tell you.”

  “Who’s coming and who—”

  “—They’ll be there—Martha, Frederick, Thomas, Eleanor, Jennifer, Pete, Anne, Michelle, etcetera, and that’s all you need to know.”

  “Just wait until you taste the gluten-free cake we’ve ordered for you and—”

  “Frank, I swear—” Mom began, but both Dad and a potentially penny in the swear jar were saved by the waitress coming back with the bill.

  “So, a surprise party, huh?” I kissed Alfred on top of his head and pulled the hoodie over his head.

  “Are you mad at me?” He looked up at me with his tired eyes and slid his little sticky hand in mine.

  “No, baby. It can be hard for little people to keep secrets like this. I know.”

  “And big people, too.” He looked over at Dad, holding the door for Mom.

  “Yes, secrets can be really hard to keep. But as we get older, we sometimes have to,” I explained as we headed to the entrance.

  “Why?”

  “Because we, um…” My phone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out. It was another text from Thomas:

  “I was kidding, I’ll miss her, too. Especially her gluten-free burritos on a cold Sunday afternoon, watching football with Frank. I hope he (Mr. German dude) knows how lucky he is. It’s the whole package. P.S. Now you don’t leave without saying goodbye?”

  “Why?” Alfred repeated, his eyes glued to my phone as well.

  “Because sometimes the truth just doesn’t fit into who we are, or who we want to be, and things are just easier if we pretend.”

  “Uh-huh.” He gave me a puzzled look but soon forgot all about it when he saw the waitress waving a lollipop right in front of his nose. “Can I have one?”

  “Sure.” I looked down at the text and hit reply.

  “I’ll see you at the not-such-a-surprise surprise birthday party I’m sure,” I wrote back with a winking smiley.

  “What party?” He obviously didn’t want to reveal that he already knew.

  “Yeah right! I get it. You never kiss and tell… LOL Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” I wrote back, followed by a silly smiley.

  “Good to know. I’ll share a few secrets with you. One day.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Bridge over troubled water

  The Beatles and “Love Me Do” was blaring so loud from the speakers that we most likely would’ve missed her intense knocking if it hadn’t been for Dad—the self-proclaimed weather man—sticking his head out the window to check on the weather. We didn’t expect anyone until at least another hour for the so-called surprise party, but she sure was a surprise and a sight for sore eyes.

  “Oh, hi there, Mrs. Rock. I’ll come around to the door.” Dad yelled from the window, his feet dangling from the window. He turned to face us. “It’s Mrs. Rock,” he whispered sideways above the loud music.

  “Shit.” Mom looked down at herself. She was still in her PJ pants and a faded, wrinkled Fab Four t-shirt. At least she was matching the loud party music.

  “Do you mind?” Dad motioned to the old record player and Mom rushed over to mute Lennon and McCartney.

  “She’s early, huh?” Mom whispered a little too loudly as the three of us headed to the door.

  “Am I too early?” Mrs. Rock stepped inside and handed Dad her umbrella like he was the bell boy of the Jensen residency.

  “No,” Mom lied, smoothing the front of her wrinkled t-shirt. “Come on in.”

  “I am early. I know. I don’t like to be late, and I’ve never been all the way out here before.” She made it sound like we lived in the wilderness. She looked down at Mom’s bare feet. “And I don’t like to be underdressed. I know they say less is more these days, but I would rather be overdressed any day.” We all looked at Mrs. Rock’s fancy outfit. It was the understatement of the year. She looked like she was going to five o’clock tea at Buckingham palace and not to my not-so-much-of-a-surprise surprise party. There was not a single inch on her that didn’t sparkle or jingle.

  “You look lovely, Mrs. Rock.” Dad offered his arm to her.

  “Well, thank you, Frank.” She lifted her heavy tote bag and linked her little sparkly arm with his.

  “This way,” Dad said as he steered her into the living room, Mom and I following in their footsteps.

  “Where are the little ones?” Mrs. Rock looked around the living room with a curious set of eyes.

  “Napping.” Mom and I said at the same time.

  “In that noise?” She let out a small humph. I guess there was no way the loud music could’ve escaped her ears. Not even if she did have bad hearing.

  “They can sleep anywhere. We trained them well.” Mom looked at Dad.

  “The Beatles is like lullabies to them.” Dad laughed.

  “Well, do sit.” Mom motioned to the couch and Mrs. Rock sat down on the edge of the soft cushion and gave the living room a quick once-over, not unlike the one she had given Mom and me just a few weeks earlier. I could only imagine what was going through her head. Compared to her well-kept mansion-sized house—a mix of heavy furniture, gold, and, presumably original art on the walls—our house was like the little pool house, with mismatched furniture, posters, drawings, and what not, nailed to the wall with colorful pins.

  “It’s so very, very cozy in here.” Mrs. Rock’s eyes settled on Mom’s huge memory wall and she smiled. “How um, interesting. And very artsy. Is it all of you?”

  Mom nodded. “Mostly. As you can see, I love Polaroids. I know,” she said looking at me now, “iPhone photos are so much better quality these days, but there’s just something about the moment. You can’t erase these.” We all looked at the wall now. Mrs. Rock was right about one thing. It sure was interesting.

  Mom had come home one day from yet another garage sale (this was before the pre-historic earphones) with a Polaroid camera around her neck. This had been the beginning of her Polaroid phase. When she figured she had enough photos, she ventured to Bed, Bath and Beyond and bought three long shower organizers, the kind you hook onto the door. She had then turned the entire wall into one big Polaroid mosaic. Instead of brushes, shampoos, shower caps, and toothpaste, each pocket had its own little colorful Polaroid picture (75% of me, Alfred, and Ava).

  “It’s all the little moments that make the big picture, right? Speaking of…” She leaped across the floor and grabbed the Polaroid camera from the hook next to the mantel. “We need to get a lot today.” She held up the camera for us to see. “And I got a brand-new organizer somewhere.” Her eyes darted to the dinner table. “A clean slate for Ella’s sweet twenty-one.” She brought the camera up to her face and yelled, “Cheese.” And, once again, I was blinded by her trigger-happy finger.

  “Do you mind?” Mrs. Rock gestured toward Mom’s mosaic wall.

  “No, of course. Knock yourself out.”

  Mrs. Rock got up but then, as if something dawned on her, she sat back down quickly again and pulled her tote bag onto her lap. “Of course, how could I forget? Now, since it’s not a surprise party anymore, I might as well give you your little gift.” She patted the seat next to her, motioning for me to sit down and so I did.

  “Here. For you.” She retrieved a big rectangular box, nicely wrapped in sparkly pink wrapping paper and green ribbon and handed it to me. The travel folder, with the Eiffel Tower and Aaron and his Coca Cola, was fastened by the ribbon on top of it. She tapped her index finger on top of it and yelled, “Colleen al
ready got back to me. This is the second edition. We’ve already cancelled Barcelona and maybe Rome, depending on how we feel after a week of travelling. And added Berlin and Denmark.” She looked up at Mom.

  “You sure about this?” Mom looked in the direction of the new folder. “I mean, you wanted to go back to the exact same places,” she reminded her.

  “True, but Paris was my main goal. Vienna too. That’s where I had the fondest memories. Besides, both Rome and Barcelona are a lot of walking. Vienna is a better choice for these old feet.” The three of us all automatically looked down at her gilded feet. “And for Ava’s and Alfred’s little feet, too. In Vienna we can just ride the gondolas all day. And in Denmark, they have the oldest amusement park in the world. Did you know?”

  I looked up at Mom and we both nodded. What we hadn’t learned from Martha and Frederick’s letters back then, we had most certainly learned from Martha now. Ever since I had blurted out that I was going to Europe, too, at the dinner in front of everybody, she had been sending us little magazine clippings, restaurant reviews, and articles about yet another thing to see or taste in Denmark. “And don’t you forget to try the delicious floedeboller,” she had added almost every single time, like it had now become a natural part of her email signature.

  “Besides,” Mrs. Rock continued in her loud voice, “I never did go to Denmark. Anyway, it has all been planned out. Now, are you gonna open it or not?” She motioned to the gift still attached to my hand.

  “Of course.” I started to pull the ribbon off when she confided, “I had Frank help me out.” She looked down at the unwrapped gift with excitement.

  “Dad?” This time I was the one offering a statement rather than asking an actual question. Dad sucked at buying presents. Period.

  “He was very helpful,” she added as I slowly started to unwrap the gift. Dad, please tell me you didn’t tell her that I wanted yet another set of Backgammon or a book about the Amazonas, or Joe Biden. I took a deep breath and looked down at the half-unwrapped gift, and there—in the right-hand corner—I found a little symbol of hope: the apple icon. No way! I ripped the paper all the way off and, yes, there it was—a brand-new MacBook Pro. What the fuck? She bought me a laptop?

  “Oh my gosh, Mrs. Rock, you shoul—”

  “—You said you wanted to write about the trip, and Frank said this was the right one so… You like it?”

  “N o, I love it.” I looked up at Mom and mouthed, “She gave me a freaking Mac.” Mom nodded and motioned for me to give Mrs. Rock a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I leaned over to hug the little old lady, but I could see her entire body stiffen instantly, like she was not used to someone being so close to her. “Can I get a hug?” I asked a bit awkwardly.

  “Well, of course.” She hesitated for a moment but then inched closer and wrapped her little arms around my waist. On cue, I heard the now-familiar sound of Mom’s old Polaroid camera.

  “Thank you, thank you,” I whispered behind her back as I gently wrapped my arms around her frail body. “We’ll use this to document our trip, to share it with the world.”

  She let go and took a step back. “Share it?”

  “Yes, Martha gave me a great idea. I’m making a Facebook page where we post pictures and write little notes, almost like a virtual diary.”

  “A virtual diary?” Her voice matched the skeptical look on her face.

  “Yes, with this.” I hugged the laptop. “I’ll tell you all about it. Now, let’s get this guy hooked up. We have plenty of time before the other guests arrive. Maybe Mom can serve us some of her surprise punch, now that I am old enough to drink.” I looked at Mom, then at Mrs. Rock and winked, and to my big surprise she winked back with a warm glow in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. Maybe she’d been needing that hug for a long time, I couldn’t help thinking as we headed for my room.

  ***

  “What’s in it?” Mrs. Rock swirled her pink drink around one more time and squinted at it.

  “That’s the surprise.” I giggled. I had only had a few sips, but I was already feeling tipsy. Besides the occasional sip of Mom’s colorful drinks here and there and the cognac at Miss T’s house that magical night years ago, (and of course that beer with Hans, which was really just for show); I had never really indulged in any kind of alcohol. When I had told Martha—we were discussing what to do on my 21st birthday—she had called me Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes.

  “By the time Thomas turned twenty-one, I had already picked him up at a lot of friends’ houses—where the parents were a little, um, how shall I put it, booze-liberal. Thomas was definitely not sober. He was wasted,” she had said, giggling, which made Thomas roll his eyes directly at me.

  “Yeah but was Ella ever really twenty-one or will she ever be?” he had corrected himself. “I mean, I think she went from seventeen to thirty in one big beautiful breath.” His eyes moved to Alfred, sitting comfortably between my legs with his favorite pillow and pacifier, then looked up at me and blinked.

  “What?”

  “You’ve never been drunk, you’ve never been to a club, you’ve never sneaked out of the house at night, you’ve never lived at a dorm, ate tuna for dinner, right out of the can, three nights in a row, you’ve never—”

  “—I did get knocked up at seventeen,” I had added, pointing to the cute blond evidence still squeezed in-between my legs.

  “Exactly my point. You had to grow up really fast. I say we go out and get you really, really drunk on your birthday.” Thomas had offered Mom a high five and she took it. “My treat.”

  “I agree,” Mom replied, which had earned her a raised eyebrow from both Martha and a comment all the way from the living room.

  “I heard that,” Dad had yelled around whatever leftover he was eating.

  “I know you did,” Mom had said, giggling. “No, seriously, you deserve this. You need to live a little.”

  I had just shaken my head and muttered, “Last time I followed that advice, I...” Once again, I pointed down at Alfred. “Besides, I don’t really like the taste of alcohol.”

  “Ah, nonsense. I can make you a pink drink that’s so sweet you don’t even taste the liquor but strong enough it’ll make your feet tingle.” Mom had announced with pride.

  “Great, I’m now taking how-to-drink-booze advice from my mother, the drink-pimp. What’s next? You’re gonna teach me how to roll a joint?”

  “Don’t answer that, Abby,” Dad had yelled with his mouth full, which made us all laugh. This was obviously before Dad had spoiled the birthday surprise. Before Mrs. Rock had turned up with an expensive laptop.

  Mrs. Rock swirled her pink drink again. “Goodness gracious. I might have to call a town car home.” She took another sip and made a gurgling sound. “Pink drinks on a Saturday afternoon. How old is your mom?” Once again, it wasn’t really a question but more of a statement.

  “I know, she’s like the teenager around here,” I agreed, once again thinking about what Thomas had said about me coming off a lot older than I am. Was I really that boring?

  “So, we are now starting in Venice.” Mrs. Rock reached for the itinerary folder next to the charging laptop. “She got us the nicest hotel you can find—with this expedited time frame anyway.”

  “Speaking of time frame,” I began, already feeling my pulse picking up. “You think, um, she could move something around so we can go to Berlin first?” I grabbed the pink drink from my desk and took a long sip.

  “Dear lord. What now?” She placed the folder in her lap and narrowed her eyes at me, and I could feel heat creeping up my neck. “You want to go to Berlin first? Colleen had to pull a lot of strings to get us into that hotel,” she explained to me, not able to hide the annoyance in her voice.

  “It’s just, um, I talked with Mom and we just think that, um, Berlin would be a better place to, um, to start, you know. Um, then we could work with, no, go with …” What was it Mom had said? Go where the sun takes us—from less sunny to sunnier?

&nbs
p; “I have a feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.” Her eyes were searching mine, and I had to resist looking away.

  “There is,” I finally confessed. “I’m going there to see someone.” I slumped down next to her and leaned my head against the wall.

  “Someone as in…?”

  I closed my eyes and whispered, “Alfred’s father.”

  For a moment the room fell completely silent. Only sound you could hear was Mom and Dad moving the furniture around in the living room.

  “So, Alfred’s father is in Berlin?”

  I nodded.

  “And you, we, are going to visit him.”

  “Not exactly.”’

  “No?”

  I sat up straight and faced her. “He doesn’t know.”

  “He doesn’t know you are coming?”

  “He doesn’t know about Alfred.”

  Her mouth opened into a silent O before she cocked her head to the side and said, “I see.”

  “Yes. It’s crazy and it’s … it’s—”

  “—Well, now we’ll just have two missions.”

  “Missions?”

  “Yes, you’re going to find … what’s his name?”

  “Hans.”

  “Hans,” she repeated with what sounded like a perfect pronunciation of his name in German. “You met him here?”

  I nodded. “I did. But it’s not what you think.”

  “I didn’t say anything.” Her eyes darted to the huge poster on the opposite wall—the one Dad had found online, at something called ‘geeks and gadgets.’ It was a comical drawing of a big purple elephant, trying to cover up his or her private part: “The big naked elephant in the room,” it said in big bold letters on the bottom.

  “Well, I know how it looks, but I want you to know tha—”

  She held up a hand to stop me. “—You don’t need to explain anything to me. I might be a little, um … bossy, but I’m certainly not nosey.”

  “But I think that at least, I mean, now that we’re going to Berlin together, at least I can tell you what happened.”