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

by Charlotte Roth

  “Exactly my point. Who is this Thomas and why is he writing comments like that when we are looking for Hans?” His eyes darted back to mine. “They almost read like Napoleon’s letters?”

  “Napoleon’s letters?” I looked at Mom for help, but she was concentrating on gaping at Franz.

  “To Josephine De Beauharnais,” he explained further, which didn’t make it any clearer. “His wife,” he clarified when he saw the look on my face.

  “Pardon my Napoleon French, but what the hell are you talking about?” Mrs. Rockefeller looked back and forth between me and Franz.

  Franz opened his mouth to say something but decided against it, and instead he leaned back in his chair and gave me what looked like a serious once-over.

  “What Franz is trying to say is that he thinks Thomas’s comments are very, um, are incredibly sweet. But we already know that. Thomas has always been very attentive—”

  “—I can see that, especially whe—”

  “—But,” Mom interrupted Franz, “we’re here to find Hans and maybe we should focus on that. Do you have any more you would like to know about Hans that might help narrow it down a little?”

  Briefly, Franz looked up at the ceiling and I noticed his lips moving as if he was trying to remember what questions to ask.

  “Oh yes, hold on.” He reached into his back pocket and took out a small black book. “I know it may sound a little old-school or even a little snobbish, I think you say, but did he seem to come from a family with higher, um, educations and jobs? I mean, not working-class people?” he explained further, adding a sheepish grin.

  I looked over at Mom and she gave me a look that said that she was thinking the exact thing that was swirling around in my mind: thank God Dad was still back in Holland. If not, he would surely give Franz his favorite (very long) lecture about the “fixed and oversimplified image of the working-class man,” and how Trump had made that kind of stereotyping even worse.

  “Well, beats me. How can one tell a working man from another man who goes to work?” I asked, sounding an awful lot like Dad. “If by ‘working class people’ you mean, he wore denim overalls, then no,” I joked.

  “No no. I didn’t mean to be rude.” Briefly, Franz’s eyes darted to Mrs. Rockefeller, who by the look of it, found the conversation very amusing. “I mean, it could help us… Did he grow up going to a preppy school here in Berlin, etcetera? It could perhaps narrow it down. So?”

  “Well, we shared a bowl of leftover pasta late that night and I did tease him that he ate it with a knife and fork, which seemed very preppy to me so may—”

  “—Well, dear,” Mrs. Rockefeller interjected, still looking quite amused, “that’s what all do—here in Europe, working class and/or overalls or not.” She winked at me, then looked at Franz. “Right, Franz?”

  “Right indeed. I’ve even seen people here eat a hardboiled egg with a knife and fork. It can be done. I adapted a bit when I lived in New York back in the nineties and would eat my salad with just a fork, but I never liked it. It made me feel like a pig, shoveling food into my mouth, but now at least I know why it’s called ‘stuffing your face.’” He leaned back in his chair and laughed.

  “Well, speaking of…” Mom reached over and grabbed another flaky and buttery chocolate croissant from the basket. “Who cares about knives and forks or manners when this—” she held up the croissant like it was a gold nugget, “—this could very well be my very last real French chocolate croissant.” She took a big bite and smiled, revealing a set of chocolate—and crumbs—covered teeth.

  “It’s German,” I reminded her, “but go for it.”

  She took another huge bite and waved me off. “Potato, potato,” I think she said.

  “Anyway, I guess we won’t get any closer with Hans and his social status. What about family? Did he mention his family?”

  “Yes,” I almost yelled when I suddenly remembered some details about him, other than he was a blond symmetric hunk. “He had three sisters. He joked, or maybe that was me, that he had three yodeling sisters. He was the youngest, but he didn’t mention any names, as far as I recall. Did he?” I looked over at Mom for help. She had placed the three different cups of latte, side by side, and was now sniffing them one by one. “Mom?” With the mentioning of her name, she looked up.

  “No, you never mentioned any names.”

  “Okay, so no names.” Franz opened the little black book, then reached over and grabbed one of the kids’ big crayons. “So, he has three sisters. With the distinctive features you’ve described, I’m guessing they all look alike, the sisters and Hans, I mean. I’m thinking female versions of Justin Bieber—without all the tattoos and attitude.” He laughed and scribbled something down on the little black book. “However, we’re in Deutschland, so close to Scandinavia and I don’t want to sound racist, but most white people here look very Aryan. I know, it sounds very Neo Nazi. We really should find another word for it.” He dotted down a few more notes then looked up at me. “I come from a family of Jews. I understand,” he added, the look on his face reflecting the melancholy note in his voice, and for a moment we all sat in silence, not knowing what to say.

  “So, no names on the yodeling sisters,” Mrs. Rockefeller said finally. “Do we have anything else?” Franz looked at me as if encouraging me to go on—picking my brain from the limited hours I had spent with Hans.

  “Um, he had a grandmother who lives or lived in Liverpool. He seemed very fond of her. He told me that sh—”

  “—Yes, the grandmother who once touched Paul,” Mom interrupted, almost spitting out her elaborate latte ensemble.

  “Touched, um, Paul?” Franz gave Mom a sideways glance.

  “Let me rephrase that, Franz,” Mom said, giggling. “He—Hans, that is, told us, I mean he told Ella that he had or has a grandmother who used to go to preschool with Paul McCartney, of all people in the world. Can you imagine?” Mom’s cheeks were as flustered as when I had first told her about it. She looked excitedly at Franz, who just gave her a small shrug. I guess he wasn’t that big of a Beatles or Paul McCartney fan.

  “Anyway,” Mom cleared her throat and continued, not quite able to hide the disappointment in her voice—or on her red flushed face, “apparently, they used to go to Stockton Wood Road Primary school together … of course, we had to look that up. I didn’t know the name, and this is coming from a Beatles fan, who knows all the songs by heart, well except for a few from the Sgt. Pepper album, and when they were recorded and where.” Once again, she looked at Franz, who looked nor more or less excited than a few seconds ago, and I couldn’t resist kicking Mom under the table… Didn’t he know what big a deal this was? If there had been a show called “The Beatlemania Encyclopedia Game,” Mom would win it in a heartbeat. I was about to say this out loud when Mom gave me a look that said: leave it alone. Just as we had a thing about rich assholes in my little tree-hugging slash politically correct family, we didn’t like to be braggadocio as well, as Dad called it. They were, as Dad pointed out, often the very same thing.

  Mom grabbed one of the latte cups and brought it to her lips. “Anyway, he only told her, I guess, because he was showing her a picture of him, as a little kid, sitting on the famous bench, which is in Liverpool as well, not far from Stockton Wood Road Primary school, which, by the way, still exists, though it has been remodeled.”

  “Bench?”

  Mom started singing, “‘All the lonely people, where do they all come from?’” and Franz’s face suddenly lit up.

  “Ah. Eleanor Rigby, like in the song.” He looked at me, nodding.

  “Yes,” Mom exclaimed, relieved to finally have some kind of reaction from him.

  “So, did he have a British accent then?” Franz picked up the little note book, ready to jot something down.

  “What? Paul?” Mom’s eyes shot up to her hairline, and I could almost hear her internal swearing. Asking if Paul McCartney had a British accent was like asking if Queen Elisabeth had a Texas drawl.
It was close to blasphemy in Mom’s world.

  “Oh, I meant Hans,” Franz clarified when he saw the shock on Mom’s face.

  “Oh, I thought…” Mom let out a big sigh of relief and looked at me. “Not really…, right?”

  I shook my head. “No, why?”

  “Well, if his grandmother is from England, he would be one-fourth British, that is, if she was born there, which we have no way of knowing.” He returned the little black book to the table, reasoning, I guess, that there were no further details of significant importance to report.

  “He had a totally normal German accent, you know—a young Schwarzenegger accent, which kinda sounds like someone trying to speak English and pretending to be German at the same time, like in the movies.”

  Franz picked up his phone from the table and swiped it open. “It would have helped a great deal with even the smallest photo. I can’t believe that young people—with Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram, and dingsbums—didn’t take a picture together. I mean, you take pictures and selfies die ganze Ziet, um, always.”

  “That’s not me really. I’m probably too old school. When I finally joined Facebook, everyone my age had already moved on to the next. But I kinda like it. It’s good for storing memories and photos. Mom calls it her ‘memory bank’ and I like that idea.”

  “Well, I had to take a long break from Facebook. I was constantly on there, doing, um, pro-pro-pro—”

  “Procrastinating,” Mom helped him, and Franz nodded. “It takes one to know one,” she added, laughing. “Right, Mrs. Rockefeller?”

  Mrs. Rockefeller shook her head lightly. “I wouldn’t know. The only procrastination I’m guilty of from time to time is shopping. For things I don’t need anymore.” She smiled, then continued in her no-nonsense voice. “I guess we can’t get closer than that—even though you know God-knows-who in Berlin, I guess we’re not getting anywhere with Hans.” She looked straight at Franz, who was tapping on his little black book.

  “I’m afraid I can’t be of much help. I don’t have that much to go on … and without a picture…” He stopped midsentence and sucked on his teeth. “We have a very handsome symmetric young man, he’s an architect and has three older sisters. They all have a, quote, normal German accent, unquote, and he has a grandmother who, another quote, used to touch Paul McCartney, unquote.” He looked over at Mom, chortling.

  “We also have a Hans on a bench with Eleanor Rigby—the only actual picture I’ve ever seen of him, speaking of pictures. He told me he used to go every single summer with his family and the—”

  “—Hold on, ein moment… What did you just say?” Franz inquired with excitement.

  “He used to go every summer,” Franz and I said at the exact same time, in sync. Of course, why didn’t I think about that? I looked over at Mom, who was staring at me with bulging eyes.

  “So, what the hell are we waiting for? Hold on.” Franz picked up his phone and started tapping on it frantically. “Berlin is like ten times bigger than Liverpool.” He looked up from his phone and looked around the table with a theatrical expression. “And I’m guessing that Woodstock, or whatever that place was called where his grandmother lived and went to school, is an even smaller town and I’ll bet she still lives there.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his long arms over his chest.

  “But but, what if she died?” I stammered.

  “Well, bummer if she died. In more than one way, naturlich, um, of course,” he added, his eyes darting to Mrs. Rockefeller. “But if she is alive, I’ll bet she still lives there.”

  Mom put down her cup and cocked her head to the side. “And how can we know this?”

  “Well, when people get to a certain age, they don’t move around anymore. It’s a fact.” Automatically, we all looked over at Mrs. Rockefeller now.

  “Franz is right. I will never leave my house, my home, unless I’m in a horizontal position. Just saying.” Her painted lips turned into a smile. “Speaking of home. What time is it in New York right now?”

  Franz held up his phone and squinted at the screen. “Six-thirteen in the morning,” Franz answered before I had even time to think the words “time difference.”

  “Swell.” Mrs. Rockefeller reached for her little Gucci purse hanging from the chair next to her. “Just as old people don’t move around that much after they hit a certain age, they don’t sleep that much either,” she confirmed, rummaging through her little purse.

  “What now? We probably need to get the kids’ nap situation sorted out soon, Mom.” I nodded toward the end of the table—at Ava and Alfred and their tired little faces. It would only be a matter of minutes before they, or especially Alfred, would need another afternoon nap, still battling a bit of jetlag. Before Mom had time to answer, Mrs. Rockefeller was on her cell phone, speaking so loudly that everyone within at least six tables at Suicide Sue (or what used to be west Berlin for that matter), could hear every single word of her conversation.

  “Yes, we have had a change of plans, Colleen. Yes, another small detour. We’re going on the next plane to Liverpool. Yes!” she yelled even louder. “You heard me correctly. Liverpool. I don’t know—that famous bench, The Beatles, and an old grandma who may or may not be dead.” She threw her head back and laughed. “I’ll send you a few notes from the plane. But booking of the plane is priority number one. You know how long it takes, give or take? … Oh, a little over two hours. Perfect. We can almost have dinner there then … What do you mean ‘what plane?’? The one you’re booking for us right now. Goodbye. Hanging up the phone now, dear.” Mrs. Rockefeller hung up and looked around the table. “So,” she began, a small smirk on her face, “I’m pretty sure that by the time we’ve paid the check and Boris comes and picks us up, we’ll be on our way to the airport, to Liverpool.”

  “We-we-we are going to Liverpool? Now?”

  Mrs. Rockefeller nodded. “We’ve hit a wall, no pun intended. I say we go.”

  “OMG.” This time it was Mom’s turn to make every single guest turn their head. “Maybe I finally get to see his old house. They say you can actually walk through the entire house, see his room, the kitchen, breathe in the same air as him.”

  “Who?” Franz stood up and waved at one of the waitresses.

  “Paul McCartney!” we all yelled at the same time.

  CHAPTER 16

  All you need is love

  Ella. R. Jensen — feeling nervous.

  Change of plans. We’re sitting on a plane en route to Liverpool. The meticulous travel itinerary says Italy (Vienna and, if and time permitting, Rome) but, as Mom jokes, Rome wasn’t built in a day and it’ll still be here another time. Colleen, Mrs. Rockefeller’s travel agent, got us on a small private plane (yeah, I know - right now, I’m one of Dad’s rich assholes—claiming more right to the mutual sky as he would probably say ) Colleen really is a travel mastermind, as Mrs. Rockefeller claims. Anyway, we’re going to Liverpool, which is where our little adventure is taking us now… Frodo and his little helpers on a big European quest LOL

  I’m sorry, Eleanor, that we don’t get to experience this together. I know how often we talked about going there and sitting right next to Eleanor Rigby—all three Eleanor’s lined up together—and taking a picture for your wall. Maybe I can take one with just me and we can photoshop you right in there with me (or maybe you might be going too???) This was so not planned but a spur of the moment decision (of course, made possible by the incredible Colleen). We are, as Mom so poetically put it, following our hearts and guts on this one. I, on the other hand, would call it travelling with my heart on my sleeve LOL. Mom is just so excited that we’ll be in Liverpool soon. She finally gets to go see where they all grew up—Paul, John, Ringo, and George—where it all started. We might even be able to go see the house where Paul grew up. She says she’s been dreaming of this forever, or at least ever since she heard “Black Bird” for the first time on Grandma’s old record player. When Mrs. Rockefeller asked her why on earth she hadn’t said so when
we first planned the trip, she said that she thought it would be too big a detour, just so she could get her 5 minutes of Beatles rush. “It was not exactly on our way,” as she said. Mrs. Rockefeller just brushed her off and told her it was nonsense and that if she had known how much it meant to her, she would gladly have skipped Vienna, which we might be now. She might be a rock, but she really has a soft heart. Don’t ever judge a book by its cover or a woman because she’s a rich asshole, @ Frank Jensen LOL. Anyway, Liverpool is approaching soon… My nails are down to the roots.

  P.S. @ Thomas Jensen/ELEANOR. Will take a million pics. @ Thomas Jensen. Are you still in Bristol? It doesn’t look so far if you decide to take a trip somewhere, say like to Liverpool

  “Are you updating the Facebook page, sweetie?” Mom nodded down toward the laptop balancing on top of my thighs.

  “Yes, I’m writing about this crazy day and yet another plane ride. It’s been a crazy day, huh?”

  “Indeed, and it’s not over yet. We’re travelling against time, right?” She squinted at the little screen in the seat in front of her. “I can’t believe we’re on yet another airplane. You know, at Ava and Alfred’s age, I had never set foot on an airplane, and here we are like it’s what we do every day: ‘hey, let’s fly to Liverpool for the afternoon, kids.’” She laughed and we automatically both looked at Ava and Alfred, once again dozing off to the monotone sounds and motions of the small aircraft. “We’re probably right above the Eiffel Tower as we speak.” She squinted at the screen again, at the little moving simulated airplane. “You know, Josephine was a widower when Napoleon met her, right here in Paris.” She pointed down at the aisle floor. “They fell in love and married, then when Napoleon went off to war, they wrote each other letters to keep in touch, kinda like what Martha and Frank did with “our” letters. Oh, I do miss reading those letters. They were so uplifting, so inspiring.” She reached over and grabbed my hand.