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

by Charlotte Roth

  “You-you told him that?” I felt a tightening in the back of my throat as I pictured Maddie, loaded on pink drinks and girlish confidence, as she told him, pointing a long finger at him the way she did when she was trying to prove a point. But it all made sense now—the way he suddenly had acted all weird, almost like he was avoiding me, and the awkward goodbye when he and Eleanor left the party.

  “Well, bon voyage then,” he had said, already halfway out the door. “Stay safe in Europe, and I hope you find what you’re looking for.” There had been no bad jokes about French policemen and the funny way they pronounce the word investigation—our favorite word from Hercules Poirot. There had been no silly comments like “be careful Alfred doesn’t pull down his training pants and pee in one of the sacred fountains in Rome.” It was a quick goodbye, so very different from the warm and fuzzy happy birthday greeting I had received earlier.

  “What else did you tell him?” I asked, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice. I didn’t want to be mad at her minutes before she was leaving.

  “El, it was just a little Freudian slip. He had just gotten off the phone with her and I heard him tell your mom that she couldn’t make it after all, and I, um, kinda started singing Beyoncé, you know,” she cleared her throat and started singing, “If you liked it, then you should’ve put a ring on it, oh-oh-oh…” and then I started laughing. He asked me what the hell I was babbling about and it kinda just slipped.” She placed her head in my lap and looked up at me with her bloodshot eyes.” Are you mad at me?”

  “Just a tiny bit,” I lied. “He’s my friend, you know, and not just that. He, Martha, Frederick, and Eleanor have become almost family.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I was drunk.”

  “You know what they say: ‘drunk people, children, and leggings always tell the truth.’ So, you just told the truth, I guess.”

  “Hmm,” she muttered, staring up at the ceiling. After a few beats, she looked at me with glossy eyes and whispered, “Speaking of truth … I did it for you, my dear friend.”

  ***

  Maddie’s words were still playing inside like a tape when we, only two days later, were back at the airport, this time welcoming our trip to Europe, not saying a tearful goodbye. And this time, without a numbing hangover, or toxic waste bags, thank God.

  “Can you imagine,” Martha yelled loudly, making the entire line in front of us turn their heads. “We parked in the exact same spot as yesterday when we dropped Thomas and Eleanor off, right Frederick?”

  With the mentioning of Thomas, my hands turned moist. Aside from a short group message with the words, “and we’re off,” I had not heard from him, or Eleanor, since they said their goodbye at the at the party.

  “Yup,” Frederick confirmed. “6M68.” He grabbed Martha’s hand and looked at her the way only an old married couple could do.

  “Oh, how I wish we were going, too, but with Frederick’s knee and my blood pressure, it’s just too much.”

  “I’m sorry, Martha.” Mom leaned in for a small hug.

  “Speaking of too much.” Dad made a discreet nod toward the far entrance.

  Mrs. Rock, or what we could see of her, was charging down the crowded hall, pushing a cart with not one but three large old-school leather suitcases.

  Mom looked at Dad, her mouth wide open. “OMG. How on Earth is she going to carry all that?”

  “It’s not a question of how, but who,” he said with a giggle. “Remember, I’ve worked with her, or rather for her, for a few months now. Good luck in Europe, girls.” He looked at me and my small backpack leaning against Alfred’s umbrella stroller.

  “We can’t, I mean, we have a backpack and a stroller each. There’s no way we can help her carry any of that stuff even if we wanted to.”

  “I’m just saying,” Dad offered again, as Mrs. Rock was only five feet away. “Good luck with that.”

  “Morning, morning.” Mrs. Rock parked the tower of suitcases and waved at us. “Oh, I see you already checked your bags. Good.” She nodded politely in Martha and Frederick’s direction.

  “No,” I said, not able to hide the laughter in my voice. “This is our luggage.”

  “That?” She stared down at our three matching REI backpacks and almost gasped. “That’s your luggage? You do know that we are staying for two weeks.”

  “You do know that we have to carry everything around with us for those two weeks?” Mom leaned over and knocked on the huge tower of suitcases.

  “Well, they have bell boys in Europe, too, as I recall. They probably invented them, as with everything else. This is my luggage and that’s that.” Mrs. Rock’s eyes darted to the closest Delta service station and, before any of us had time to say, “Drop one of the suitcases, missus,” she set off running.

  “Oh dear, I don’t think you’ll be bored traveling with Mrs. Rock. Entertained is more likely the word … anyway.” Martha looked up at the big clock and smoothed the front of her dress. “We’d better get going. We, um…” She stopped to clear her throat. “Oh dear, here I go again. I swore, just like yesterday, that I wouldn’t cry,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the last syllable. “I know it’s rather silly. It’s not like you’ll be gone for ages. It’s just, at my age, well, you never know.” She pulled a small napkin from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose.

  “Don’t be silly. We’ll be back before you know it.” Mom wrapped an arm around Martha and gave her a sideways hug.

  “And remember the Facebook group,” I reminded her as I grabbed her from the other side. “You will be able to watch every step we make, every breath we take.”

  “I’ll be watching you,” she sang-song with a teary voice.

  “Okay, we’d better get going.” Dad grabbed one of the backpacks from the floor and held it up for Mom. “Mrs. Rock is at two o’clock and it looks like she found herself a few bell boys. I think it’s time to check in our bags and Mrs. Rock’s entire wardrobe.”

  We all watched as Mrs. Rock zigzagged through the crowd with three tall men—dressed in blue-and-red Delta uniforms—following in her determined footsteps.

  “You nailed it, Martha,” Dad continued. “This will be entertaining as hell.”

  ***

  Ella R. Jensen is feeling excited.

  Hello Facebook group!

  We finally made it on board. It took a while (and three Delta dudes) to check in Mrs. Rock and her three oversized suitcases. Man, what did she bring in those bags? Her 12-person coffee set? LOL.

  Alfred and I are seated right across from Mom and Ava. First time ever sitting in this fancy Business Class. It’s ridiculously luxurious. We were just served champagne. I wanted to say no (post-Mom’s mysterious pink drinks promise) but how can I say no to free champagne when I'm flying Business Class? It's like all part of the experience. And maybe Maddie was right? Maybe the human brain is so stupid that we keep repeating our stupid selves? Besides the champagne, I was offered a gluten-free snack and I was told that they have prepared an entire gluten-free meal for me to enjoy. I'm in celiac heaven—well, closer to heaven, for sure. It’s not every day a celiac girl gets to feel special in a good way. One point for you, Delta!

  Next time I write, we’ll be on European soil. (or maybe I’ll have time to check in in New York/layover)... Europe, here we come!

  PS. I found a new nickname for Mrs. Rock. She is now officially Mrs. Rockefeller since I have a feeling this is what we have in store: Mrs. Rock/Rockefeller will have an entourage of fellars carrying her stuff all around Europe, like a freaking queen ... and she's rich as $h#t. LOL. This is gonna be quite entertaining, as Martha said. (thanks for driving us to the airport, Martha Jensen. I love you)

  PPS. This is picture of Mrs. Rockerfellar’s huge suitcases. I’m not kiddin!

  I took another sip of the champagne, pushed my 4000-dollar seat back, and looked at the screen. The Facebook group was officially alive, and maybe by the time we made it to Amsterdam, I would know if Mrs. Rock’s son had accepted
to join the group and if he had seen the post. Now, I only had to tell Mrs. Rock and get her to accept what I had done, behind her back.

  “You naughty little girl.” Out of nowhere, Mrs. Rock was standing in the aisle right next to me, one hand resting on Dad’s seat in front of me, the other balancing the complimentary glass of champagne.

  I snapped the laptop shut and grabbed my champagne glass. “Um, excuse me.”

  She pointed her champagne glass at mine. “I thought you said never again? Or that’s what Abby said when I called to say thank you for inviting me to your birthday party which, I might add, was such a delight. I don’t get out that much anymore; well I do, but not to parties with so much youth, life, and laughter. I mostly attend the bridge night at the club where the average age is between seventy and mortuus.” She grinned. “You like the laptop?”

  “I do. It was a very generous gift.”

  “It was,” she agreed without a trace of irony in her voice. “But what else was I going to give you? Well, now that I come to think of it, I could’ve gifted you an upgrade on your travel gear … a portmanteau, perhaps.”

  “A what?”

  “A large suitcase instead of a fluffy backpack. Last time I wore a backpack was when I went to a girl scout camp in fifth grade.” She threw her had back and laughed, and I realized that this was the second time I had seen her so relaxed and happy. Maybe it was the alcohol, but she sure seemed a lot different from the very stiff and formal widow who had greeted Mom and me at her door not too long ago.

  “I really should drink more often,” she said as if reading my mind. “I don’t know what it is, but lately I’ve felt a little more, how can I put it, lighthearted. I know alcohol is not that good for you, but at my age pretty much everything can kill me. Cheers.” She held up her glass and I did the same.

  “Cheers. I think it really suits you to be happy.”

  “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I said lighthearted.” She took another sip and smiled down at me.

  “You know, let’s take a selfie,” I suggested, thinking that a photo of a happy and relaxed Mrs. Rock, sipping champagne with me, wouldn’t be the worst image to share with her estranged son.

  “A selfie?”

  “Yes. For the Facebook group.” I pulled my little blanket over Alfred’s feet and got up. “Now just look like you just did, happy and relaxed.” I wrapped my arms around her tiny waist and raised my glass. “To a fun trip with 200 pounds of suitcases and three fluffy backpacks. Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” she echoed, and I hit the key.

  CHAPTER 10

  Mrs. Rockefeller

  The first leg of the trip went by smoothly and quickly. While I was busy sipping (more) complimentary champagne and flipping through the movie channels, Alfred was entertained with endless cartoons and by the two very attentive flight attendees—one extremely tall, the other one unusually short—both of whom, I swear, managed to fall in love with him before take-off.

  “He’s the cutest little blond guy ever,” the tall one said as she refilled my glass.

  “He’s simply a-dorable,” the short one squealed over the loud engine noise as she served him crackers and juice. “Did you have blond hair as a little girl?” she asked, staring down at my fiery red strands.

  “No, his father is a blonde,” I confirmed, which made them exchange a look.

  “Makes sense,” the tall one said. At least they didn’t say the obvious—that he looked nothing like me and that he “clearly got his good looks from his dad,” as I had once overheard an older lady whisper in Target, in the toothpaste section, like me and my red-haired and freckled body was simply the one hosting this blond, porcelain-faced wonder boy.

  “Well, there’s always hope for him,” I joked, adding that I would like some more complimentary champagne.

  A few glasses later, we arrived at John F. Kennedy Airport. When we learned that our next connection flight to Schiphol, Amsterdam had been delayed two hours, we set up camp in the waiting area where I installed the kids with Dad. I got Mrs. Rockefeller an espresso and a blanket for her “old legs,” as she had referred to them, and brought Mom the latest version of People magazine (which she only gets to read twice a year—at the hairdresser and at Grandma’s house). When everyone was happy, and Mrs. Rock was already a few minutes into her afternoon nap, I plugged in my laptop. My post had already garnered four likes/loves and the same amount of comments. But still no sign of Aaron T. Rock.

  Maddie S. Camden

  Hey Ella. You guys rock (pun intended). Jealous over your Business seat. My flight from Seattle was awful. Sat next to a dude with a serious case of sneezing and rudeness. Can you bring an effing napkin next time, dude? Anyway, I’m home and finally cured from my hangover. Mom says hi. I miss you heaps. Love M.

  Martha Jensen

  It was our pleasure to drive you to the airport. And sorry for the tears. I’m a sentimental fool. Rain is back, so enjoy the Italian rays of sun. All my love. Frederick says hi.

  Jen Cramer

  Have a safe trip, Abby & sweet family. Will miss you on Thursday for the planning meeting. Stay cool. Take home sun LOL.

  I could see someone writing so I waited a few more minutes before my next update. When I saw who it was, my stomach fluttered, thinking about how we had parted.

  Thomas T. Jensen.

  Eleanor here: Bristol is cold and rainy and kinda boring (don’t tell Dad LOL). So far, we’ve only seen unending fields of cows chewing grass. Food is okay, but do they really have to serve sausages all day long, like seriously? The beds, though, are so soft and huge. And I have my own room for the first time in my life. #NoBabyAnymore LOL. Take care. <3 E.

  Thomas: I’m right here, you little shit ha ha ha. But, she’s right. It is kinda cold and gray, but it’s all good. I’m sorry we left in such a hurry from your party. We had to get up early the next day and, well, I haven’t been myself lately. Lot of stuff going on! I will explain later when I get a chance. I’m smiling when I imagine Mrs. Rock and her entourage of three young men carrying her stuff. She can be quite bossy. I tried to set the dinner table with her but had to give up. She’s like Mary Poppins on speed Anyway, we’re heading to bed. We’re 5-6 hours ahead of you. Tomorrow, we’ll be on the same time zone, which will make things a little easier. As I told Mom, I don’t like to be on different time zones. It makes me feel as if we’re so far apart…

  “Seriously?” Mom mumbled, pulling me away from the screen for a moment. “Married for the fifth time. Who are these people?” Mom had moved onto the floor, her head resting on Dad’s thigh. She was practically inhaling the People magazine, frantically turning the pages, whereas Dad looked like he was he was meditating, his eyes closed. They looked so opposite and still so connected, their bodies melting into one. I looked down at Thomas’s last sentence and couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t like to be on different time zones. It makes me feel as if we’re so far apart.” The words were taken right out of Dad—the professor’s mouth as he would leave us to go to the airport, though, he would probably have added, “my loved ones.” But Thomas hadn’t. He was already with his loved one, right now, going to bed with Jennifer, in their own bedroom, in a grand, fluffy bed. And I didn’t like how that thought made me feel.

  ***

  Ella R. Jensen is feeling excited.

  #Day 1. Thank you for all your sweet comments. Keep ‘em coming

  We’re still on American soil, at JFK, waiting for our delayed flight. The picture you see is from the flight—about two hours and two glasses of champagne in—of me and Mrs. Rock, now officially nicknamed “Mrs. Rockefeller” (this was, as I said, after some amount of champagne). Apparently, she’s a big fan of Laura Spelman Rockefeller (wife of John Rockefeller) who was a famous American abolitionist. She’s in the namesake of Spelman College, founded to educate black women in Atlanta. Obviously, I just had to look all this up LOL. But she does sound rather cool. So, now that we have the nickname sorted out, we just have to work
on the suitcase situation. LOL. Boarding soon and have to get Alfred to the loo before we go. He’ll probably refuse but let’s see what happens. This might be it. His first dump might be at JFK airport… sorry, TMI. All my <3

  “Okay, Freddy. Time to go to the potty.” I crawled on my knees over to the stroller and lifted one of Alfred’s Mickey Mouse head phones off his ear. “You gotta try to go potty, big potty, okay?”

  “Uh-uh.” He looked down on the screen again and shook his head. Of course, he didn’t have to go. He had no trouble asking to go the restroom when he had to pee, but he simply refused to go number two without a diaper. Maybe it was the standing up versus sitting down, or maybe, as I recalled from my Mrs. Kim slash Freudian years, it was fear of losing control, or in Freud’s words, “of losing his dropping to his parents.” When I had told Dad about it, he said it was just all a bunch of psychoanalytical crap, pun intended. “Alfred is just lazy, like most boys. If you can do the dirty job for him, literally, he’s happy.”

  I looked down at Alfred’s big blue eyes and smiled. “No, but Mommy needs to, and you need to go too, before we go on the big Jay-Jay. Okay?”

  “Fine.” He up got up and looked down at Ava. “Ava go potty?”

  She nodded and removed her head phones. “Ava go potty, too.”

  “Of course, you have.” I looked over at Mom. “Earth calling Mom! Potty time, for all kids and moms,” I informed her with my loud speaker voice.

  “What?” She looked at me like I was speaking Mandarin. “Do you know who this Megan person is?” Mom flipped the magazine around and pointed at a picture of a tall and slender sun-kissed woman.

  “No clue. Probably some reality star. We really should start watching all the reality shows or you won’t have a chance in hell with those magazines.”