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

by Charlotte Roth

  After a slight hesitation, I picked up my own spoon and looked down at the funny cake.

  “It’ll make you relax,” she offered, clearly referring to how anxious I had been in the hallway, pacing the floor thinking about everything coming up in the next few days.

  “And it’s gluten free.” She held the spoon up for me to see.

  “Heck, just for that reason, I should eat it,” I blurted out, thinking of all the times I had to say no, or was told no by yet another impatient waitress or chef.

  “You should. The lady said it’s not that strong. She said, being so close to Anne Frank’s house, they get too many tourists in here, too many first-timers, like you and me. You’re a first-timer, right?”

  “Yes, what do you think I am?”

  “God, you almost sound like Richard now.” She smiled. “Well, I’m here to let my hair, or curlers loose, so to speak.” She dropped the big piece of cake on her tongue, chewed carefully on it a few times, then smiled, revealing a chocolate-covered set of teeth. “Your turn,” I think she said around the cake, pointing her spoon at my plate.

  Carefully, I scooped up a piece and nibbled on it.

  “It’s not that strong, Ella,” she reminded me as she stuffed her mouth again. “We’re tourists, right?”

  She sure was right about that: we were tourists—stupid, stupid tourists—eating pot-cake for the first time in the city of Pot. It might not have been strong for the born and bred Amsterdam woman with the purple scarf, probably eating pot porridge for breakfast, but for us—the first-timer loud tourists, it was S.T.R.O.N.G.

  We didn’t feel it at first but, into big bite number three, Mrs. Rockefeller let her curlers loose and started giggling like a teenage girl, and without knowing why, I followed suit.

  “Oh boy, if only Mr. Rock could see me now,” she said through chuckles, tears rolling down her rouge-pink cheeks. “To think I would get my first high, buzz, or whatever you young people call it, at my age… It’s almost as insane as going on this trip with someone else’s fa-fa-fa…” She was laughing so hard, she couldn’t even finish her sentence.

  “Family,” I helped with a voice that sounded nothing like mine. “Who said that?” I continued, still not sure who was doing the talking.

  “You-you-you…” Mrs. Rockefeller pointed her spoon at me. “You are talking now, wait, now I’m talking.” She pressed a hand against her bosom and laughed even harder. “It is rather confusing all this-this talking. Too many people.”

  I think I nodded. I definitely took off from the plush chair because the next thing I knew, I was looking down, or more correctly, I watched myself looking down at me and Mrs. Rockefeller, like I was a bystander, a third party.

  “Maybe she’s doing the talking.” I pointed down at myself. I knew I was making no sense at all; nonetheless, we both nodded in agreement.

  “Or her.” Mrs. Rockefeller pointed up above her head and the twenty-something curlers, and I nodded.

  “It could be,” I agreed before we both burst into another laughing fit.

  “I see you’re enjoying the cake?” another woman’s voice said above me. I looked up, or down—not exactly sure—and found the woman with the purple scarf standing right behind the table, a big plastic pitcher in her hand. “You’ll need water. Soon.” It was not a question, but a matter of fact, and as if on cue, I suddenly felt my mouth dry up like sand in the Mohave desert.

  “Yes, please. I think I just swallowed a cup of sand.” I looked over slash down at Mrs. Rockefeller, who was clearly trying hard not to laugh.

  “Me too. A small, very furry sheep just took up residence in here, on my tongue.” She stuck out her tongue and started giggling.

  “I might’ve given you the wrong patch,” I think the woman with the purple scarf said as she started to refill Mrs. Rockefeller’s water glass. “You two look like you got the regular patch—the one for the habitue.”

  “Habitat?” Mrs. Rockefeller squinted at the woman.

  “Habitué—the regulars. It’s a little stronger than, how shall I put it… It’s for people with more experience, not for tourists.”

  With the mention of the word tourists, Mrs. Rockefeller and I totally lost it again, not exactly sure why.

  “That’s sure us,” Mrs. Rockefeller said through more giggles. “And she has the slipper to prove it. Show it to her, to, to …”

  “Alexandria.” The waitress smiled.

  “Yes, show it to Mrs. Alexandria.”

  I lifted one foot up for Alexandria to see and she smiled at the sight of my fuzzy slippers with the hotel monogram on it.

  “Nice. Anyway, drink some water. You’ll need it.” She grabbed my empty glass from the table and started refilling it.

  “Did I drink that?” I pointed at the glass.

  “You did.” She handed me the glass and nodded at it like she was telling me to drink up and so I did.

  “Ah. I don’t think water has ever tasted this good.”

  “And its gluten free.” Mrs. Rockefeller held up her own glass and started gulping it down.

  “Yup, gluten free. Thank God for that.” I held out my glass for Alexandria to fill it again.

  “You’re the one who’s um, coeliakie?” she asked without taking her eyes away from the pitcher.

  “Coeli-what?”

  “Um…” she looked at the ceiling for help, “um, celiac.”

  “Oh, yes, that would be me. Almost three years now.” I looked over at Mrs. Rockefeller, gently dabbing at her face with a small tissue.

  “She’s a champ, that one.” She pointed the tissue across the table.

  “I am?”

  “Yes, you are. I—silly old fool—serve you strawberry shortcake and non-paleo cookies and you’re so very brave about it.” She looked up at Alexandria and nodded. “She was really brave.”

  I took another sip of water and smiled at her. “I’m not five,” I reminded her, “and I’ve gotten used to it.”

  “Well, I think you’re brave.”

  “Me too,” Alexandria agreed as she started to clear the table. “We live very close to a bakkerij, and I swear, the smell of new bread wakes me up every morning. It’s marteling, um, torture, even after ten years not eating gluten. Coeliakie is a disease no one can really see, which makes is so much harder. I know the eyerolls, too.” She looked down at me and rolled her eyes at me and smiled. “People just think we’re being overly hysterisch, right? That’s why I love to see the look on people’s faces when they realize they can have everything in here. It won’t make them sick but might make them laugh.” She smiled at Mrs. Rockefeller.

  “You love your job. That’s very admirable.” Mrs. Rockefeller clapped her small hands together.

  Alexandria grabbed a small towel from her apron and started to wipe the crumbs off the table. “Who doesn’t like to hear people laugh? Who doesn’t like to giggle?”

  “That’s what I said, um, speaking of … this whole giggling, is that over now?” She leaned back in her chair and shrugged.

  “No,” Alexandria looked back and forth between me and Mrs. Rockefeller, a smile playing on her lips. “It can come in waves. Just when you think you’re done, you’ll find yourself bent over in stomach cramps, in line at the grocery store. It’s what makes it so much fun. Anyway…” She attached the small towel to her apron and picked up the cups and plates. “I’d better go. New customers want to have a good laugh. Thanks for stopping by.” She looked down at me. “And remember, you are brave.”

  “Thanks,” I said as we watched her head for the counter, gracefully zigzagging between the small tables.

  “You know, I think she might be right.” Mrs. Rockefeller said behind my back.

  “You already told me, yada yada yada, I’m brave. Got it.”

  “No, I mean about the ‘in waves’ part. A tsunami might be making its way right about now.”

  “A tsunami?” I turned around and faced her.

  She was nodding so hard that one of the yello
w curlers loosened from under the pink scarf and a tiny gray curl escaped. “If only people could see us now.” She picked up the stray yellow curler and pointed it at me with a circular motion, then giggled even harder.

  “But they can,” I squealed, clearly feeling my very own hurricane of giggles taking over my entire body. “I mean, they are, kinda. Remember the Facebook group?” I retrieved my phone from my hoodie and held it up for her to see. “People have been commenting on my posts and our pictures ever since we left. So, in a way, they are with us. I know it’s mostly Martha, Thomas, and Maddie but still …” I swiped my phone and opened the Facebook app. “And let’s see who we have here today.” I pushed my chair closer to Mrs. Rockefeller’s, so she could look over my shoulder. “And now we just tap on ‘The Jensen and Rock Family European adventure group’ like this, and we’re instantly connected.”

  She moved closer and squinted at the screen. “It’s rather small, huh? And they call it Big Brother is watching you.” She threw her head back and laughed out loud.

  “Goo-good one,” I said through a chuckle as I scrolled down to the very first post I had made in the group, the welcome post. “See, they’re all here—Martha, Maddie, Eleanor, an-an-and Thomas.” As I heard myself say out his name, I couldn’t help but laugh even harder. “See, it’s Thomas right there.” I wiped my thumb over his tiny profile picture.

  “Why is that so funny?” She laughed.

  “I don’t know, maybe because he’s just so funny? Even when someone is having a shitty day, he’ll always make you feel better.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me and nodded. “I get it now; he’s the guy who takes your shi-shi-tty days away,” she laughed. “Those are the special ones.” She sat up straight and cupped her hair and pink scarf. “Like Mr. Rock. He sure was a stubborn old asshole, and I sure had to take a lot of shit, but he also knew how to turn a shitty day into a shiny day.” A soft expression travelled across her face and, for a moment, we both stopped laughing and just stared at each other. “Nothing better than a man who makes you laugh.” She smoothed the front of her shirt and continued, “Now, are we going to connect with the digital world or what? It looks rather turned off.” Mrs. Rockefeller pointed her gnarled finger at the screen and smiled.

  “Oh yeah, let’s see.” I swiped my phone again and scrolled up to the latest posts. “‘Martha and 4 others reacted to your comment: ‘P.S. The view is amazing from up here,’” I read out loud. I clicked on the post and continued, “Martha says ‘love’; Maddie is, as always, giving me the VFF; and Thom—”

  “—The what?” She inched closer and pointed at the little fuck-you emoji—Maddie’s signature comment to pretty much everything.

  “Flipping the bird,” I explained.

  “Oh,” she said, giggling. “But VFF?”

  “Virtual fuck finger.”

  “That’s too funn—” She stopped midsentence, her eyes narrowing in on the screen. “Is that…?” She inched even closer to the screen, her forehead almost touching the table, and that’s when I realized what she was looking at. Why hadn’t I seen that the first time around? “Why does it say, ‘liked by Aaron T. Rock’?” She looked up at me, the softness in her face replaced by the hard surface I had seen when I first met her. “What did you do, Eleanor?” It was both a question and an accusation. “Why or what is he doing here, or there?” She tapped her nails on the screen.

  “Um, apparently, he likes the picture.”

  “What picture?” She tried to sound firm but was not able hide the sudden insecurity in her voice.

  “The one on the screen—the one from dinner last night or, I mean, tonight, from the restaurant. It looks like he viewed it just a few minutes ago.”

  She looked down at the screen again, her face flushed. “A few minutes ago?”

  “Yes, see it says, ‘Aaron T. Rock reacted to your comment,’ and then it says, ‘fourteen minutes ago,’ just underneath. See?”

  She squinted at the screen. “So, he saw the picture. He knows I’m here—in Amsterdam, with you?”

  I nodded. “He knows we’re here since I checked in at the hotel, but he doesn’t know we’re here—eating pot pies in the middle of the night.” I smiled.

  “You do know that I know what you’re trying to do, right? You’re trying to joke about it, to make me laugh about it when, in fact, what I really want is to be mad at you.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Since when did I tell you it was okay to ask my son to be a part of this this this—”

  “—Facebook group? Well, you kinda said, ‘You do what it is you need to do’ when we first talked about it, remember? The pink-drink night, my not-so-surprise party?”

  She looked up at the ceiling and took in a deep breath. “I might have but I was tipsy, and probably blinded by an abundance of love in your family, your tree-hugging family, and I guess I just …” Her voice trailed off and she sat up straight in her chair. “Well, I guess the cat is out of the bag now, so I’d better deal with it. Did he, um, say anything else?” She looked down at her nails.

  “No, he just liked it. I guess it’s a step in the right direction.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know. To become friends again, maybe.”

  “Friends,” she scoffed. “We were never friends. Parents are not supposed to be friends. They are supposed to be parents. My mom always used to say that if her teenage kids didn’t end up hating her, she had done a lousy job. I guess I did a fantastic job.” She scoffed again, her eyes darting to the phone on the table.

  “I’m friends with my mom, and I’m sure Aaron doesn’t hate you.”

  “Well, you and your mom are very special,” she muttered, waving her hand dismissively at me. “And yes, he does. I’m sure he hates me. I’m the devil herself. He even told me so once.” She offered me a fake laugh.

  “Then, why would he name his daughter after you?”

  “He-he did?” I watched a handful of emotions pass over her face before she continued. “But but but her name is, um, Luka.”

  “Her name is Luka Beatrice. You have the same middle name. Your granddaughter has the same middle name as you.”

  “Oh.” A silent tear escaped her gray eyes at the same time as she started laughing again. “I have no clue why I’m la-la-laughing,” she sputtered. “It’s certainly not what I intended to do, but I just feel so overwhelmed right now. I swear, someone’s testing me these days.” She leaned over and whispered, “We’re being tested. And it’s not for dru-dru-drugs.”

  “Tested sure is the right word,” I agreed, giggling as hard as Mrs. Rockefeller. “I’m going off to Berlin tomorrow to find my baby’s daddy, a young man who has no clue what he started that late summer night in Seattle, and here we are—just laughing about it.”

  “Yes, it’s wo-wo-wonderful. I wonder for how long we can keep at it, tourist batch or not.” She flattened her hands on the table and placed her head on top of the water glass. “An hour?”

  She was right, give or take. We laughed, on and off, for nearly an hour, or at least until three more yellow curlers had loosened from Mrs. Rockefeller’s hair.

  CHAPTER 12

  Sandwiches and sentences

  In contrast to alcoholic pink drinks, funny chocolate cake doesn’t give you the same kind of hangover. Yes, I was tired and totally jetlagged (which kinda resembles a hangover), but my head wasn’t pounding as badly as the day I had said goodbye to Maddie at the airport. I couldn’t wait to tell Maddie what Mrs. Rockefeller and I had been up to but, then again, if she had seen the Facebook post of me and a giggling Mrs. Rockefeller—and a few missing yellow curlers—sitting next to a totally Rastafari Bob Marley look-alike in front on the web cafe, she had probably already put two and two together. Or maybe that particular math equation would be too hard to solve; Eleanor Jensen and pot cake didn’t even belong in the same sentence.

  I don’t know if it was the pot and a night of giggling, or “letting loose,” as Mrs
. Rockefeller had called it—or the mentioning of her granddaughter’s middle name, but Mrs. Rockefeller was as smooth as silk when she had stepped out of the elevator the next morning.

  “Good morning, people,” she chirped loud and clear, making everyone within thirty feet turn their heads. “You ready?” She looked at our backpacks, stacked up against Alfred’s and Ava’s stroller, and smiled. “Hey, Ava,” she whispered, her eyes darting to Alfred, who had already succumbed to his mid-morning nap. “And yes, I see you are ready. I’m just waiting for Pete.”

  “Pete?” Mom looked at me for help but before I had time to even take a guess, Mrs. Rockefeller clarified: “The tall bell boy.” She motioned toward one of the elevators and, as if on cue, the left elevator dinged and Dad and a clearly upset bell boy almost stumbled out, dragging Mrs. Rockefeller’s humongous suitcases behind him.

  “It broke. The hinge broke on one of the Stonehenge suitcases, and Pete here, poor dude, fell on top of it. I think he’ll be pretty bruised.” Dad wrapped his arm around Pete and patted him on the shoulder, which made poor Pete wince.

  “Voor de hel,” he cried out, which probably was some Dutch kind of profanity. “I meant to say, that was the shoulder.”

  “Oh.” Quickly Dad removed his hand from the poor man’s shoulder and looked down at his feet. “Sorry, dude. You okay?”