Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2)

by Charlotte Roth

  Obviously, I couldn’t tell them about the letters. So, I had to lie. Again. “Well, it’s just a feeling, um, I have. You know, when you just feel like you know someone even though you don’t,” I said, not sure exactly where this was going.

  They all looked at me and nodded, waiting for me to go on. I took a long sip of my tea, hoping we could move on to the next subject (I was running out of lies), and that’s when he stepped in. Saved by the other Frank, the right Frank.

  “Hi guys,” he said with a donut in his mouth, looking around the table. He grabbed an empty chair from the table next to us and sat down beside me, our knees and shoulders almost touching. “Hi,” he said, looking straight at me with a pair of clear-blue eyes. “I’m Hans.”

  He had a funny accent—somewhere between Arnold Schwarzenegger and a really bad American actor trying to sound German.

  “I’m, um, Ella. Eleanor, Ella.” Why did I just say that three times? Those darn Susans!

  “I’m from Germany,” he said and gave me a smile that I felt all the way down to my feet.

  “Hans.” Susan One said his name like she knew him really well. “Ella was just telling us about how they lost everything they owned moving here from Connecticut. Wicked.” She looked at him with a set of seductive brown eyes. Did she like him? As in really like him?

  “Really?” he asked with his cute accent, looking at me.

  “Yep, it’s true,” I said in a shaky voice, looking at Susan One.

  “Come on, Ella, tell him,” Susan One said, eyes still locked on Hans.

  I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. I was even more nervous now with Hans sitting right next to me.

  Hans leaned over and whispered, “It’s okay. If you don’t want to start all over, I can wait.”

  “It’s okay,” I lied with a pounding heart. “It is quite, um, wicked,” I said, looking at both Susans.

  And so, I started all over again, blushing even more now. I relayed everything that had happened thus far, including meeting my new neighbor slash friend Miss T. Within five minutes I had pretty much told them everything about my life during the last two months (minus the mailbox).

  “Wicked, huh?” Susan One said when I was done, still looking intensely at Hans.

  “Yes,” he said, looking at me, as in not at her. I averted my eyes toward the floor to hide my excitement. I glanced back up and turned toward Frank—answering machine Frank, the slurping Frank, the wrong Frank.

  “Enough about me,” I said, leaning back, smiling. “Your turn,” I added, happy to finally be off the hook.

  Frank, still slurping his coffee, took over and started explaining something about some project at work, but I wasn’t listening. I was too busy pretending not to look at Hans in all of his perfection, from behind his back.

  He was wearing a striped blue and white Abercrombie & Fitch shirt, a pair of loose Diesel jeans and flip flops, revealing a pair of tanned feet and a little green turtle tattoo on his left ankle. He looked strong and lean and had the cutest blonde curls on the back of his neck. Suddenly, he turned around and looked straight at me and smiled, and for the second time that night, our knees met, and my hands tingled.

  I smiled and looked away, already trying to memorize his face for later. It was square, and he had a strong jaw line and facial features that made him look somewhat familiar—the type of face that would stand out in a big crowd. He turned his head again and leaned back, his little perfect curls almost touching my face. Without making a sound, I leaned slightly forward and took in his scent. Everything around me faded, blurring into the background. All I could see was Hans and his perfect little nice-smelling curls – crystal clear.

  “Ella?” someone said, pulling me from my thoughts. I looked up. Susan One was looking at me with her arms crossed. “Frank is getting another round. You want some?” She looked irritated.

  “No, thanks,” I said, slowly adjusting my eyes to everything that wasn’t Hans.

  “Are you going?” Hans turned and looked at me. He had a little bit of powdered sugar on his nose. I had to restrain myself from touching his face and wiping it off. Who am I kidding? Licking it off.

  “Where?” I asked, still looking at his nose.

  Susan One leaned over and wiped his nose. “Sugar,” she said with a giggle, a little too loud. He smiled at her and then turned back to me.

  “The million meals, in a few weeks,” he said like it was common knowledge.

  “Maybe,” I said, absolutely clueless as to what they were talking about. I looked at him briefly. Then I looked down at my phone on the table next to me. It was almost eleven o’clock.

  “You got a curfew?” he asked, almost making curfew sound like a naughty German word.

  “No, but, um, I—”

  “—Anyone need a ride downtown?” Susan One all of a sudden yelled a little too loud. Again. She was starting to get on my nerves.

  Hans turned to her. “That would be great. Do you have room for my bike?”

  She nodded and smiled. “Anything for you, sweetie,” she said, showing all of her teeth. Okay, she was super annoying now.

  “I don’t have a car,” Hans said, looking at me. “It sucks in the rain, but at least I don’t have to go to the gym. And it’s good for the planet.” He did the peace sign over his head and took a big bite of his donut, leaving yet another patch of powdered sugar on his face.

  I looked at him and smiled. So the right Frank.

  He got up from his seat and grabbed his jacket. “Maybe I will see you there?” He smiled and seemed a little nervous.

  “Come on, cowboy.” Susan One stood next to him, pulling his shirt. “Your ride is leaving. Bye, Ella,” she said, not exactly smiling.

  “Bye,” I said, feeling genuinely sad. Why did he have to go so soon? Didn’t he just get here?

  “Bye,” he said, as they started walking. At the door he turned around and looked at me once more. He just stood there staring, not saying a word. He was even more handsome than two seconds ago. Before I cold blink, he was gone. Hans had left the building. I took a deep breath. If this was how it felt to “live a little, love a little,” then I wanted more. No, I wanted it all.

  With a goofy smile I quickly grabbed my cardigan and said goodbye to the wrong Frank, Luke, Kirsten, and Susan Two and left.

  When I got in the car, I immediately checked my face in the rearview mirror. I was right—Pinkalicious! Thank God, they had dimmed the lights by then. Maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe, within the next couple of weeks I could practice facial-color control and work on my lying.

  ON MY WAY HOME, I GOT lost at least five times. Mom was still up when I got back and by the look on her face I could tell she had been waiting for me.

  “You could have called, you know. I was worried.”

  I nodded. “I know, Mom, sorry, but I think I made a wrong turn on 202 and somehow I ended up, hell, I don’t know where, but I just kept going south. It’s like a maze up here.”

  “I figured something like that,” she said, smiling, “but still, you could have called,” she added with her Mommy voice.

  Mom has the same missing link when it comes to reading a map or following directions. It was at its worst when she was pregnant with me. That’s when Dad invented “the Jensen left” and “the Jensen right.” Whenever Dad is co-piloting, and we have to make a left, but Mom is making a move to go right, he will say in a very gentle voice, “No honey, the Jensen left.” He’s actually really cool about Mom’s ability to get lost in our own backyard. I can think of quite a few other husbands who would yell and go all nuts at their stupid-ass wife making yet another wrong turn. But no, not Dad. Not the rock. Maybe the Jensen girls’ lack of direction makes Dad feel like a man, the protector, getting his women home safe and sound.

  The day I got my driver’s license, Dad had made this arts and crafts congratulations-on-your-driver’s-license-certificate road map, explaining the ambiguity of left and right in the female population of the Jensen fam
ily. It was quite impressive, but also more confusing than clarifying. I actually believe that my right and left problems started right there, with Dad’s homemade road map.

  “I almost ended up in Duvall, I think.” I smiled.

  “In Duvall, for heaven’s sake. How on earth did you manage to end up all the way up there?”

  “I guess I must have made a few wrong Jensen lefts.” I sat down and took off my shoes.

  She smiled and poured me a cup of tea. “The apple pants sure don’t fall far from the tree.”

  “I guess not,” I said, smiling by the mentioning of apple pants. It had been a while since I’d heard it. Mom and Dad used to call me Miss Apple Pants all the time when I was a little girl. I couldn’t really remember why.

  “Now tell me everything about this Frank.”

  “Hans,” I corrected.

  “Hmmm, Hans,” she said, like she was tasting his name.

  “One word, well, technically two.”

  “Hot stuff?” She smiled.

  “Pinkalicious face.”

  “Pinkalicious face?”

  I pointed at my face. “Me.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said, laughing.

  “Mom!”

  “Sorry, hon, it’s just ... that always happened to me, too. We Jensen women can’t help it. Consider it a part of your charm.”

  “But when did it stop?”

  “Um, never? I mean, I still blush. I just don’t let it get to me. Maybe it has improved a bit. Yeah, I would say it has improved.” She nodded.

  “When did it improve?”

  “Well, I would say around thirty-five.”

  “Great. So, I’ll finally stop blushing when I’m really old.”

  “Geez, thanks,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

  “You’re welcome,” I said, smiling, and continued my story.

  The voice of an Angel

  The next couple of weeks dragged by at a snail’s pace. Besides torturing myself (and Dad) with my online algebra, it seemed like I wasn’t doing anything but waiting—waiting for my math genes to kick in, waiting to hear about Martha and Frederick, waiting (and hoping) to see Hans again, waiting to grow old (as in thirty-five so I could stop blushing), and waiting for the sun to come out. Even though it was only the end of August, it was like fall was already here, full on.

  Apparently, fall is a tricky one in Seattle, and when it arrives, it’s all everyone ever talks about (especially the now tanned-and-beautiful people on King 5 News). And even though the first Seattle storm had overwhelmed me with its fearless power, I was somewhat prepared to deal with the fall-state-of-mind as Martha had described so well in all of her fall letters to Frederick.

  Tonight’s letter was dated back to the beginning of November, a true fall letter, and it began with a local weather report.

  “I think it’s your turn, Miss T.” Mom leaned over and grabbed a handful of cookies as she smiled at me.

  Since Miss T had joined the unofficial book-night club, we had pretty much persuaded her to read most of the letters: We just loved to hear her read out loud, with her articulate English and an obvious talent for intonations. It was like the letters became music to our ears.

  “Again? Oh my,” she said, looking at me with pride in her eyes; she was perfectly aware of the taking turns rule. She nodded and pulled her short arms out of her red, green, and blue poncho.

  Ever since the Earl Grey night, Miss T knocked on my window after the lights went off in Mom and Dad’s bedroom upstairs. And a few days ago, she had even dragged along a big box of Costco cookies and an oversized Peruvian poncho, instead of a matching sleeping bag, I guess. “For coziness effect,” she’d whispered as we stared at the big pile of yarn wrapped around her entire body. She was wearing it now, or more correctly, it was wearing her, but it looked like the coziness effect was working. She cleared her throat, and then the big pile of yarn, with Miss T on top of it, started reading in an almost-melodic voice.

  Dear husband,

  Leaves are falling from the trees like snow from the skies. It’s both beautiful and scary at the same time. Fall is so impressive and powerful in Washington. Last night, the family down the hill (you know, the couple who drives the blue van) woke up in the middle of the night when a big pine tree landed on top of their house. I drove by today. Whoa! They say it was pure luck no one got injured or even killed. Their three-month-old baby boy had been fussy all evening, so Karen had taken the baby to their bed.

  Thank God, she did. The tree landed right on top of the nursery, and the crib was smashed. Karen was still in shock and just stood there staring at the guys removing the rest of the tree from their lawn – clutching the baby in her arms, shaking. I told her to give me a call any time if she needed anything. She thanked me and kissed the baby a thousand times. I cried all the way home, so disturbed by the image of a tree smashing a baby crib in tiny pieces. Can you imagine? I mean, not being able to have a child (yet) has been a tough journey, but could you imagine having a child and then have it die almost in your arms? I’ve been sad the entire afternoon.

  Now, after a cup of tea and writing to you, thinking of you, I’m feeling a lot better. You know I would love to meet the queen and of course be with you, but with school starting and Dad’s condition, I don’t feel I like can leave Mom alone with him right now. He is getting weaker and weaker by the minute, and sometimes he does not even have the strength to walk to the other side of the room. God, it is such a sorrow to watch my Dad like this. Sometimes I close my eyes and try to remember him as he used to be, in the yard, running around playing football with me, Sarah, and the boys.

  I know Dad would prefer that she didn’t bring the boys, not that he doesn’t want to see them—you know how he adores those kids—but he doesn’t want them to see their granddad like this (on top of everything else, he is now wearing diapers, for God’s sake). I understand. Sarah doesn’t, and thinks Dad is a selfish asshole (those were her words). I tried to explain to her how lucky she is; that it is out of pure unselfish love that he doesn’t want the boys to be around that much. She should start complaining less and appreciating more. I guess she doesn’t know how lucky she is.

  Oh, Frederick, right now I feel so alone. The nights are the worst, all cold and dark, and no one to keep me warm. Well, enough of my lonely misery.

  Today the whole class went to the playground across the street, and Thomas wanted to go on the swings. He looked at me with those beyond-blue eyes and asked if I would go on the swing with him, and then we just sat there for what felt like hours singing and laughing. He is quite the singer too. He sang “Jingle bells” over and over again, a song he remembers his biological granddad singing one Christmas, when he visited his birth family with his foster family at the time. He says that’s pretty much all he remembers about his family.

  I still can’t believe how someone could abandon a child. Sometimes I wonder how I can feel this much love for a boy who is not even my own, and then I wonder how it would be to love my own little boy, flesh and blood. It must somehow be unbearably wonderful.

  Oh, Frederick, sometimes I think that it will never happen. Do forgive me for all the sad thoughts. It’s just one of those days. I got my period this morning and it always reminds me of not being pregnant (trying or not). I promise to “behave” when I hear your voice again, later.

  Miss your sexy voice. Smiles with tears from your love in Seattle.

  M.

  Without even consulting the other book club members, Miss T just grabbed another letter and started reading. Mom and I, so mesmerized by both Martha’s writing and Miss T’s reading, just lay side by side on the bed, approving with our silence. This was Miss T’s first rule-breaking attempt. She looked at me and Mom and smiled with a pair of crimson cheeks.

  My Love... Miss T paused and looked at the letter like she was admiring it. “Isn’t it just marvelous to start a letter with those exact two words? It is so Nora Roberts.”

  I got up on one elbow. “N
ora who?”

  “She’s a highly esteemed romance writer. Read all of her books. Wonderful, if you ask me.”

  “We didn’t,” I teased.

  “Ella,” Mom snapped at me, “that was a bit rude, don’t you think?”

  Miss T smiled. “No, that was not rude. That, my dear, was humor.”

  “Go on,” I instructed Miss T. Mom pinched me on my left arm.

  “Ouch.”

  “Okay.” Miss Articulate cleared her throat and continued.

  I’m sorry to hear about your father. You know how much I love your dad. He has always been so good to me and always larger than life (like you). I can’t say anything to make the pain go away, but I know that you’re doing the best you can, and just being you is more than enough. He knows you love him, and you know he loves you, and no one can wish for more than that. I’m also sorry to hear that you’re feeling sad and lonely, but at least you’ve got all the little ones to put a smile on your pretty face every day (Should I be a little jealous about this Thomas person?) I can just imagine the two of you sitting on the swings, singing “Jingle Bells” off season.

  Now on to some big news: I finally saw the queen, rather unexpectedly, I would say. After lunch, Soeren and I decided to go for a walk along the harbor—not far from Amalienborg, the Queen’s castle—and all of a sudden Soeren moves closer to me and whispers in my ear, “That’s her. That’s the freaking Queen.” And I looked straight ahead and there was this rather tall woman in a pair of white pants and a red-and-white-striped cardigan, lighting up a cigarette. Can you believe that? The Queen of Denmark just standing there, like any other woman, smoking a cigarette. No bodyguards, no men with guns (as far as I could see); just the Queen and a friend of hers, having a fag.

  And the weirdest part? No one really seemed to care, or at least fuss about it. Several people went by and, though they did take an extra look, no one stopped or even made a comment about it. But that’s very normal, Soeren explained to me. Danish people don’t really have the same thing with famous people that Americans do. She looks quite average, but I guess most queens do. It’s not like they dress up in tiaras and big dresses on their days off.