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

by Charlotte Roth

  “You sure are a nice surprise, Mrs. Rock. Here Ella and I thought that you were just some, some—”

  “—rich old asshole. I know.” She looked at me, then threw her head back and laughed out loud.

  “I never said that,” I started protesting, but she held up her hand to stop me.

  “You didn’t need to, Ella. I saw the look on your face when you came to visit me. I recognized the look immediately. My cleaners and gardeners have the same look when they step into my big old, pre-historic decorated house, and see me—the pre-historic hostess—for the first time. They look at me like they just landed in another century. Richard used to call it the ‘envy stare,’ which infuriated me. He was such a snob. Or, more correctly, he was a rich old asshole.” Once again, she looked up at the blue sky, a smile moving across her face.

  “Well, rich asshole or not, I think you’re pretty awesome.” Mom propped herself up on one elbow and looked up at Mrs. Rockefeller.

  “Me too.”

  “And thank you for sharing this with us—your family history and the fate of so many others. Thanks.” Mom rolled over on her back and placed her head in Mrs. Rockefeller’s lap, which almost took both me and Mrs. Rockefeller by surprise.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Rockefeller whispered in a way that suggested that she was afraid of the sudden intimacy, and I couldn’t help thinking about Aaron and what she said the other night. It also made me think about Grandma, probably sitting on her front porch, all alone, sipping homemade lemonade.

  “Come here, sweet pea—cheek to cheek,” she would always remind me when I didn’t sit close enough to her on the front porch swing. And even though it was way too hot and humid to sit so close together, I would do it anyway. Mostly because I loved her, but also because of what Mom had told me about the importance of the human touch many years earlier.

  “You know, some older people are never touched. They have no family or, if they do, some people just don’t like to touch old people, with their leathered skin, liver spots and protruding veins. Old people scare some people—especially small kids.” I always liked old people, so I didn’t really understand that, but still, it made me sad to think about all those lonely old people sitting all alone in their recliners and rocking chairs. And I swore when I got older, I would never put my mom and dad in a home but would have them move in with me and live with me forever. I had never imagined, though, that I was the one to move in with them (or, more correctly, never leave home in the first place.)

  “You okay, Mrs. Rockefeller?” Mom’s voice cut through the quiet afternoon breeze like a bird’s song.

  “Yes, dear, it’s just…” Mrs. Rockefeller dabbed her face with her handkerchief and nodded. “I’m not used to this kind of... I haven’t… It’s okay.” Clumsily, she ran a hand over Mom’s hair, her hand shaking as she did so.

  “Well, we probably should get going,” Mom began, sensing Mrs. Rockefeller’s unease. “The kids are probably starving by now.” Mom sat up and looked in the direction of the entrance, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.

  “And here they come. I swear their little tummies heard what I just said.” She smiled at Mrs. Rockefeller, who was now balancing on one knee, smoothing her nice silk dress. “Let me help you there.” Mom grabbed underneath her arm and dragged her to a standing position.

  “I’m hungry, Mom.” Ava announced.

  Alfred looked up at me and nodded. “Me too.”

  “Are you ready to go?”

  “Uh-huh, but can we go somewhere fun now—where people smile?” His eyes darted over to Ava and she nodded like they had been discussing this. “I thought you said Berlin was going to have fun stuff,” Alfred continued, pulling at my pants.

  “But, honey.” I squatted down next to him and adjusted the collar on his little Polo shirt. “Are you not having fun?”

  Once again, he looked over at Ava and shrugged. “Are you?”

  The question came so promptly and straight from his little tiny heart that I didn’t even consider giving him a little white lie.

  “The truth?”

  Alfred and Ava both nodded.

  “I think this—this place was very touching and interesting—probably mostly for us grownups—but Berlin has been a bit of a disappointment. I didn’t quite get to find what I was hoping for.” I looked at the little blond curls in the back of his head and, for a moment, I remembered running my hands through the exact same curls—on Hans.

  “No?”

  I took a deep breath and shook my head. “No, it’s been… It’s been hard.”

  “Well, about that…” Mrs. Rockefeller said behind my back with a strenuous voice. “I still have one last thing we haven’t tried. And if that doesn’t work, I have a plan. A fun one.”

  We all turned to Mrs. Rockefeller. She was standing with both her arms crossed over a straight body, her lips painted with a fresh coat of red lip stick. She was back in the Mrs. Rock character—one of not asking any questions but handing out orders instead. Hopefully this meant she had a few tricks up her silk sleeve. Maybe Mrs. Bennett and the dusty old rooster could come in handy once again. And maybe this time, it could give us some more answers.

  ***

  Ella. R. Jensen — feeling emotional.

  It’s been quite the emotional roller-coaster today so far. Mrs. Rockefeller took us to the memorial site, right here in Berlin. I didn’t know what to expect and, honestly, I don’t have the right words to describe it right now, but it will, for sure, make you feel both sad and overwhelmed but also (selfishly) make you very grateful and appreciative for what you have. How anyone could survive a life like that—to be separated from your kids, loved ones, to be treated like a homeless dog or less. Well, a lot of Jews didn’t make it. They ended up dead; (and the memorial site is there to remember them… all 6 million Jews. The design of the site mirrored the feelings and atrocity so well… endless gray and cold walls, a maze of human tragedy. Mrs. Rockefeller had brought a small yellow tulip flower bouquet—which symbolized ‘forgotten and neglected love’ (see the picture), and she had Ava place it on top of one of the gray slabs—among a lot of other withered and fresh flowers. And now I wonder if every single person in Berlin/Germany has a relative or knows someone with a relative who was either killed, sent to a concentration camp or fled to France, Denmark, or Sweden. It was pretty mind-blowing, especially when you think about the latest debate about Holocaust deniers. How can you deny this when we have footage, a mass of graves, and even people who bear witness? It’s kinda like saying that the systematic lynching of the Native Americans never took place. Okay, going off on a thread here, but as I said, it makes you wonder. And it makes you think about what really matters in life, and it makes me wonder what we, or what I’m doing here in Berlin… Might find out soon. We’re meeting with a high society guy who, according to Mrs. Rockefeller, knows everyone in Berlin. TBC…

  Martha Jensen

  Thomas T. Jensen

  I’ve never been to the memorial site, or Berlin for that matter, but I can only imagine how it must feel to walk down the long aisles of death/cold gray slabs. Of course, it’ll make you feel vulnerable. Of course, it’ll make you wonder. Also, I think travelling and time (time-travelling?) make us all wonder about where we’re coming from and where we’re going. It has made me think a lot… I know quotes are your dad’s/the professor’s department but last night, when I couldn’t fall asleep, I kept thinking about this famous quote…. (not sure exactly how it goes): “The whole object of travelling is not about finding new places but finding yourself.” I feel rather silly right now that I had to go all the way to Europe to find myself—or be true to myself and my feelings. And of course, as I sit here alone, outside, getting eaten by mosquitos, I’m being eaten up by bad conscience too. To use another quote/cliché (sorry, Frank ) … Sometimes, we can’t see the forest for the apple trees…

  “We’re almost here.” Mrs. Rockefeller turned in her seat and looked down at the open laptop in my lap. �
��Are you enjoying it?”

  “I am. It’s the perfect size, too. And with the hotspot option, yeah, it’s damn near perfect.”

  “Um, hotspots?” She inched closer, inspecting the laptop.

  “It means I’m connected to this—the Wi-Fi.” I held up my phone.

  “Oh.” The expression on her face told me she had no clue what I was talking about. “Did you, um, update the travel diary—the Facebook journal or whatever you call it?”

  “I did. I posted a picture of the beautiful bouquet we left. The picture turned out pretty good. See.” I flipped the laptop around for her to see.

  Her eyes scanned the screen as if she was looking for something. “Did anyone write something new?”

  “Just Martha who, quote, loved it, unquote, and, um, Thomas, who left another long comment.” I looked down at Thomas’s profile picture and couldn’t help smiling. I had finally convinced him to replace his old profile picture—a faded picture of him dressed up as a Homer Simpson—with the one I had taken of him and Eleanor, both tanned and happy, on Alki beach not too long ago.

  “You’re never gonna find a nice girlfriend looking like a total geek on your profile picture,” I had said, laughing as I zoomed in on the cracked yellow face paint and exaggerated black painted eyebrows on his current picture.

  “But I am a geek,” he had insisted, reminding me about the first time I had met him out in Martha’s temporary yard.

  “Yes, but not really, you know. You’re a geek by profession but not a geek like, um, Ethan.”

  “Ethan?”

  “Yeah, you know, long socks and pants that are way too short.”

  “Like this?” He had stood up and pulled his skinny jeans all the way up—or as far as his skinny jeans would let him—and started walking comically in the sand.

  “See?” I had laughed, tapping Eleanor on the shoulder, pulling her from her mesmerizing book. “That right there shows you’re not really a geek. Skinny jeans and geeks don’t go together, right Eleanor?”

  “He’s pretty awkward though,” she said without even looking at him.

  “No, he’s not. He’s your dad and that just makes him awkward per definition, but he doesn’t look like a geek at all.”

  “If you say so.”

  “So.” Thomas threw himself next to me on the blanket, sending my gossip magazines flying everywhere. “I’m guessing it’s a good thing, I mean, that I don’t look like a geek.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked at Eleanor. “Right?”

  “Whatever.”

  His eyes shifted to me and I felt myself blush a little. “So, what makes me not look like a geek—aside from the skinny jeans, which, by the way, are not skinny but are called slim jeans and—”

  “—My point exactly. A geek wouldn’t know the difference between ‘a skinny jean’ and ‘slim jeans.’ Heck, I don’t even know.” I looked down at his slim jeans and raised an eyebrow for show.

  “Okay, aside from me knowing the difference between the two jeans, what is it about me that does not look like a geek?”

  I tapped my finger on my chin, pretending to think but, the truth was, I didn’t know. He just didn’t have that geek quality about him. Maybe it was his warm and open personality, the way he moved and talked, the way he would look people straight in the eye when he spoke to them… Those killer blue eyes…

  “It’s … it’s—” I began.

  “Maybe he’s just too good-looking to be a 100 percent geek.” Eleanor looked up from her book and smiled at me.

  “Well, you’re the one who said he was awkward,” I joked, looking down at one of the magazines facing up. George Clooney was gracing the front cover, his big sexy brown eyes looking at me as if he knew how sexy I really think he is, even though I would never say that out loud. And, of course, even though Eleanor was right about Thomas—that he was, indeed, way too good-looking to be a 100 percent geek—I would never admit that out loud as well. So, instead, I just stood up with my phone and demanded Eleanor scoot closer to her dad.

  “Well, geek or not, let’s get you another profile picture.” I waved my phone in the air. “Now, sit up straight. The beach in the background is the perfect backdrop.”

  “From Homer Simpson to Hottie Jensen.” Eleanor sat up and looked back and forth between me and Thomas.

  “Hey, young lady.” Thomas sat up next to her and pulled her closer. “One, you’re my daughter. Two, you’re too young to talk like that.”

  “You think I am, Ella?”

  “You are what?” I looked at her through my camera.

  “Too young to talk about whether a boy is good-looking?”

  “Yes, you are.” I looked at her away from the camera, adding, “And your dad is not a boy. He’s a full-grown man. Now, smile at the camera.” I looked into the camera—at Thomas and Eleanor sitting cheek to cheek with their tanned and flushed faces, and I felt my own cheeks burning. Thomas was right. Eleanor was his daughter and shouldn’t talk or think about him in those terms. Neither should I.

  “So, you think it’ll work?” Thomas got up and started brushing the sand off his pants.

  “What will work?”

  He looked at me like I was speaking Mandarin. “The new profile picture—hello?”

  “Oh.”

  “Let me see.” Eleanor stood beside me and started scrolling through the pictures. “Oh man, these are awesome. Not much Homer Simpson over these pictures, Dad, you’re a totally ho—”

  “—Look, I am your father,” he said with a Darth Vader voice, not unlike the one Dad used from time to time. “Your old man,” he added.” Without warning, he grabbed the phone right out of my hand. And as he started scrolling through the pictures, his lips pulled into a smile. “These are pretty good. I like the new me—on my profile picture.” His eyes shifted to mine. “Maybe this will help me ‘find a nice girlfriend,’” he said in a mocking tone. He smiled and then, with a sober voice, he added, “Would you date me based on this picture?”

  I swallowed hard and looked down at the picture of George Clooney and his gorgeous salt and pepper hair and nodded. “I would, if you weren’t almost as old as Clooney.” I looked up and offered him my best smile.

  “Ouch, that stung,” he cried. “Am I really that old? Am I really that old to you?” He looked over at Eleanor and smiled but, still, I could sense the hurt in his voice.

  “Wow, that was fast.” Mom’s voice pulled me away from Alki beach, Thomas’s emotion-filled question and back to the town car, back to Berlin and my mission impossible.

  “What was fast?” I looked up from my laptop and found her gazing at me.

  “To leave a comment.” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. The moment the town car had started moving, Ava, Alfred, and Mom had dozed off. Poor Mom—she was even worse with jetlag than the kids. “You would think he had other things to do than to sit and wait for updates from you, I mean he’s on a vacation, in Europe. With his girlfriend.” She leaned over and grabbed the laptop from me.

  “So, no one else saw this?” Mrs. Rockefeller’s eyes darted to Mom and the laptop.

  “Yes, Maddie and someone called, um, Aaron T. Ro—” Mom stopped mid-sentence and stared at me. “As in?”

  “I invited him to the group and she knows about it.” We both looked at Mrs. Rockefeller, who looked a little uncomfortable all of a sudden.

  “He, he liked it?” she asked with a small voice.

  “He saw it. You don’t have to like, love, or comment on posts,” I explained, trying to make her feel better. “That’s the good thing about Facebook compared to an email. At least he saw it. And he saw the beautiful tulips we put there. He knows what it means.”

  “Oh, hold on, someone is writing something.” Mom inched closer to me, balancing the laptop on her knees.

  “How can you tell?”

  Mom held up the laptop for Mrs. Rockefeller to see. “See the little dots?” She pointed her sunglasses at the screen and Mrs. Rockefeller squinted her eyes at the screen.
>
  “Can you tell who?” she asked again, a bit of quiver apparent in her voice.

  “Nope. But hold on.” We all stared at the screen—at the little dots.

  “It’s Thomas writing,” Mom almost yelled when the comment was finally published, “or, Eleanor, it looks like.”

  I moved closer to Mom and read it out loud:

  Thomas T. Jensen

  THIS IS ELEANOR: Hi there. Still too much sausage and rain here. Dad is acting weird and Jennifer has been busy with her family. Thank God for Wildcraft

  P.S. Dad told me yesterday that Frank and Abby used to call you Miss Apple Pants. Hilarious. He didn’t know the whole story, but he said it made perfect sense, knowing you. And then he said something about not being able to see the forest for all the apple trees. He said it was too complicated to explain. But now I want to know… What did he mean? And why Apple Pants? LOL

  “Oh.” Mrs. Rockefeller turned around in her seat and said something to the chauffer in German.

  The chauffeur slowed down and pointed up at a big gray building. I pulled at Mom’s shirt and mouthed, “I think she thought it was Aaron.” I pointed down at the screen.

  “Oh.” Mom’s eyes moved to the screen as well. “But he is,” Mom exclaimed. “I mean, he liked it. Look!”

  Mrs. Rockefeller turned in her seat and stared at Mom. “What was that?”

  “Aaron—he just liked the post—the one from the memorial site. He liked the tulips.”

  “He did?” she whispered, not able to hide the excitement in her voice. She clapped her hands together and looked back and forth between me and Mom, then, after a beat, she cleared her throat. “I mean, that’s nice of him,” she added, this time in her usual controlled voice.

  “It is. Maybe he’s remembering too—the tulips, the visit to the concentration camps, your trip... Maybe he wishes he was here, too.”