Nuts
Page 77
Wayne was a cameraman for the production company that owned The Amazing Race, and his unit had been assigned to my mother and Aunt Cheryl. Late one night on the island of Tahiti, after a limbo contest that my mother won, the two of them sneaked away from the rest of the crew and shared a frozen pineapple daiquiri. Was it the pineapple? Was it the limbo? Was it the bendy? (Pretty sure it was the bendy.) Who knows, but she was quite taken with Wayne.
Now, typically when a reality show contestant gets involved with a member of the crew (they frown on that), one of two things happens. The contestant is removed, or the crew member hits the bricks. Wayne and my mother were able to hide their budding romance from everyone until the final location in Rome, where they were caught playing a spirited game of hide the salami. He was fired, and a few weeks later, my mother and Aunt Cheryl had been eliminated.
For the record, this was how hard it was for my mother to keep a secret. Did she ever tell me, “Hey, I didn’t win the Amazing Race”? No, but she circumvented the rules, quite handily in her mind, by using words like eliminated. No one, and I mean no one, who knew Trudy Callahan longer than an hour told her a secret.
But as she recounted story after story of her adventures, I was caught up in the excitement, the silliness, her carefree come-what-may attitude. I was enjoying her company, I laughed at her tales, and I sympathetically patted her shoulder when she told me of the perils of getting sunburned down there after a stint at a nude beach.
And so we sat, watching the fireflies dance lazily through the backyard, chatting about this and that and everything. I was convinced she’d forgotten about the text when she suddenly said, “Leo Maxwell is exactly the kind of man I can see you with. See this through, Roxie.”
I was so taken aback that I remained on the porch, sitting stone straight, thinking about what she’d said long after she went inside.
Chapter 22
The next morning, my mom told me that Wayne Tuesday was arriving today; he was driving up from DC to spend the week with her. Aunt Cheryl had left for home early the next morning, telling my mother to never, ever call her again for any kind of reality show. Or any traveling of any kind.
My mother was pleased as punch that I’d be staying around for a bit, but it was going to make for close quarters around the house. I was used to my her having her boyfriends over, but it’d been years since I’d actually had to see it. I shuddered as I pressed down on a burger patty, thinking about what I might have to endure once Wayne arrived.
Mom and I had driven into work together today. She was eager to see the books and see how things had run while she’d been away. I was anxious, now that she was back and settled in, to see how what I’d done would be received.
Though it shouldn’t have mattered. I was leaving . . . right?
Perhaps? Perhaps not? If Chad Bowman were in my head right now, he’d have done a cartwheel. I was entertaining the idea of . . . staying? It seemed so.
I pondered this as I cooked up some cheesesteaks and got ready to throw a new kielbasa on the griddle. The butcher shop I’d gotten the pastrami from had a new line of German sausages, and I’d been steadily working my way through them. The kielbasa was fantastic, perfectly spiced and a little squeaky with good fat here and there. I was mentally working on a recipe with grilled onions and a splash of apple cider vinegar when I heard Maxine call out that I had a visitor.
Looking at the ancient clock over the hood, I saw it was just about lunchtime, which could only mean one very specific visitor. I grinned, setting the cover down on the cheesesteaks to let the cheese get nice and gooey, wiped my hands on my apron, and pushed through the swinging doors.
I immediately spied Polly sitting at the counter, her menu in front of her, looking very grown up.
“Drinking soda isn’t illegal. That’s just silly, Daddy,” she argued, giving Leo one helluva a sideways glance.
I leaned against the doorframe and smiled as Leo calmly took the menu and closed it, setting it down between them.
Behind them I saw my mother with the coffeepot, bopping from table to table, chatting it up, making sure everyone had what they needed.
And a flash forward suddenly struck me—or maybe just a daydream. Clear as day, I had the sharpest vision of a slightly older Polly helping me at the diner. She snapped gum and took an order from a boy who wasn’t much older than she was.
I gazed out at the scene before me: happy people, in a happy town. All the hap-hap-happy—could it be real? Could this be real for me?
Just then Leo noticed me, and as always, his eyes traveled over my entire body, heat flaring in his eyes before he gave me a wink.
I grinned instantly. Maybe this could be real. I waded into the argument with that same grin.
“Pork Chop, you can’t have soda. White milk or apple juice are your choices. Take it or leave it,” Leo said, in a firm voice.
“Grandmother, please,” she whined.
Grandwhat? I stopped so fast I left skid marks.
Sure enough, there sat Mrs. Maxwell. And she looked so profoundly out of place I had no idea how I hadn’t seen her.
Maybe I was distracted by the little family fantasy of me and my very own Almanzo raising Polly on the farm.
Her severely chopped bob was so silvery it would glow in the moonlight. And she had green eyes like Leo and Polly, though hers were the color of money and power.
She was dressed sharply in cream colored trousers that were tailored within an inch of their life, and I silently applauded her for having the balls to wear them into a place that served chili seven days a week. The crisply pressed navy blouse was capped off with pearls that probably cost what I’d paid for culinary school. Or more.
Now, typically when a reality show contestant gets involved with a member of the crew (they frown on that), one of two things happens. The contestant is removed, or the crew member hits the bricks. Wayne and my mother were able to hide their budding romance from everyone until the final location in Rome, where they were caught playing a spirited game of hide the salami. He was fired, and a few weeks later, my mother and Aunt Cheryl had been eliminated.
For the record, this was how hard it was for my mother to keep a secret. Did she ever tell me, “Hey, I didn’t win the Amazing Race”? No, but she circumvented the rules, quite handily in her mind, by using words like eliminated. No one, and I mean no one, who knew Trudy Callahan longer than an hour told her a secret.
But as she recounted story after story of her adventures, I was caught up in the excitement, the silliness, her carefree come-what-may attitude. I was enjoying her company, I laughed at her tales, and I sympathetically patted her shoulder when she told me of the perils of getting sunburned down there after a stint at a nude beach.
And so we sat, watching the fireflies dance lazily through the backyard, chatting about this and that and everything. I was convinced she’d forgotten about the text when she suddenly said, “Leo Maxwell is exactly the kind of man I can see you with. See this through, Roxie.”
I was so taken aback that I remained on the porch, sitting stone straight, thinking about what she’d said long after she went inside.
Chapter 22
The next morning, my mom told me that Wayne Tuesday was arriving today; he was driving up from DC to spend the week with her. Aunt Cheryl had left for home early the next morning, telling my mother to never, ever call her again for any kind of reality show. Or any traveling of any kind.
My mother was pleased as punch that I’d be staying around for a bit, but it was going to make for close quarters around the house. I was used to my her having her boyfriends over, but it’d been years since I’d actually had to see it. I shuddered as I pressed down on a burger patty, thinking about what I might have to endure once Wayne arrived.
Mom and I had driven into work together today. She was eager to see the books and see how things had run while she’d been away. I was anxious, now that she was back and settled in, to see how what I’d done would be received.
Though it shouldn’t have mattered. I was leaving . . . right?
Perhaps? Perhaps not? If Chad Bowman were in my head right now, he’d have done a cartwheel. I was entertaining the idea of . . . staying? It seemed so.
I pondered this as I cooked up some cheesesteaks and got ready to throw a new kielbasa on the griddle. The butcher shop I’d gotten the pastrami from had a new line of German sausages, and I’d been steadily working my way through them. The kielbasa was fantastic, perfectly spiced and a little squeaky with good fat here and there. I was mentally working on a recipe with grilled onions and a splash of apple cider vinegar when I heard Maxine call out that I had a visitor.
Looking at the ancient clock over the hood, I saw it was just about lunchtime, which could only mean one very specific visitor. I grinned, setting the cover down on the cheesesteaks to let the cheese get nice and gooey, wiped my hands on my apron, and pushed through the swinging doors.
I immediately spied Polly sitting at the counter, her menu in front of her, looking very grown up.
“Drinking soda isn’t illegal. That’s just silly, Daddy,” she argued, giving Leo one helluva a sideways glance.
I leaned against the doorframe and smiled as Leo calmly took the menu and closed it, setting it down between them.
Behind them I saw my mother with the coffeepot, bopping from table to table, chatting it up, making sure everyone had what they needed.
And a flash forward suddenly struck me—or maybe just a daydream. Clear as day, I had the sharpest vision of a slightly older Polly helping me at the diner. She snapped gum and took an order from a boy who wasn’t much older than she was.
I gazed out at the scene before me: happy people, in a happy town. All the hap-hap-happy—could it be real? Could this be real for me?
Just then Leo noticed me, and as always, his eyes traveled over my entire body, heat flaring in his eyes before he gave me a wink.
I grinned instantly. Maybe this could be real. I waded into the argument with that same grin.
“Pork Chop, you can’t have soda. White milk or apple juice are your choices. Take it or leave it,” Leo said, in a firm voice.
“Grandmother, please,” she whined.
Grandwhat? I stopped so fast I left skid marks.
Sure enough, there sat Mrs. Maxwell. And she looked so profoundly out of place I had no idea how I hadn’t seen her.
Maybe I was distracted by the little family fantasy of me and my very own Almanzo raising Polly on the farm.
Her severely chopped bob was so silvery it would glow in the moonlight. And she had green eyes like Leo and Polly, though hers were the color of money and power.
She was dressed sharply in cream colored trousers that were tailored within an inch of their life, and I silently applauded her for having the balls to wear them into a place that served chili seven days a week. The crisply pressed navy blouse was capped off with pearls that probably cost what I’d paid for culinary school. Or more.
