Nuts
Page 78
Mentally cataloging my outfit, I cursed, thinking about the rice pudding that had splotched onto my capris earlier. Not to mention the smear of cranberry on my apron.
“Hi, Roxie!” Polly chirped. Smoothing her napkin over her denim shorts, she continued, “Grandmamma, this is Roxie. The girl I was telling you about. She makes the best pie! And we make a superfancy grown-up grilled cheese with fawnteeni cheese and apples and rye bread with these weird little sticks in it. It is soooooooo good!”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Roxie, is it?” she asked coolly.
No handshake. She probably couldn’t even lift her hand, due to the weight of the diamond as big as a skating rink.
“My Leo tells me that you have been helping out your mother here until you move back to . . . where is it?”
“C-C-California,” I spluttered, seeing my mother heading toward the counter with two empty coffeepots and a wide grin. Oh boy. My mother and his, in the same place and time, could be the stuff of legend. It could also be the stuff of epic train wreck.
“Hey there, Polly, you’re home from camp early, aren’t you?” my mother called out, scooting around the counter in a swoop of sandalwood and leather fringe to stand in front of Leo’s daughter, reaching out and tweaking her nose. Polly giggled, and answered my mom’s high-five offer with a resounding smack of her own.
“Hi, Ms. Callahan! Camp was just okay, and Daddy missed me so much we decided I should come home early.”
“We’re glad to have you home. And, Leo, you just get better looking every time I see you!” My mother moved down the counter. “How’ve you been this summer? It sounds like you and Roxie have had a grand old time! Goodness, look at you, turning as pink as a pig’s butt.”
If you say the word butt in front of a seven-year-old, no matter how brainy they are, they will laugh until their head pops off. Hearing her father referred to as a pig’s butt sent Polly off into a gale of giggles that rolled on and on and on, no matter how Leo’s mother tried to kindly quiet her down. She giggled so hard she likely missed the comment about me spending the summer with her daddy, but his mother sure didn’t.
“And this must be your mother, Mrs. Maxwell. You know, I think you’ve been coming here all these years and never once made it into my diner. Now, how is that possible?” My mother moved across from Leo’s mother.
“You know how summers can be, so busy with guests and parties. I always mean to get into town when I visit, but Leo keeps me so busy back at the house,” she replied in that nasal, Northeast monied voice. A little bit Boston, little bit Hamptons, a lotta bit Upper East Side. “And I don’t think I quite caught your name, Mrs . . . ?”
“Just call me Trudy.”
Mrs. Maxwell smiled evenly, likely wondering how she’d suddenly become on a first-name basis with some hippie. She extended her hand across the Formica, a gesture that my mother ran away with.
“Say, look at that lifeline!” she exclaimed, turning Mrs. Maxwell’s hand over and examining her palm. “Unbroken, but this curious line here . . . hmmm . . . were you in an accident when you were a child?”
“Mom, lay off, huh?” I urged, placing my foot on top of hers behind the counter and pressing down. “Mrs. Maxwell, what can I get you? Cup of coffee? Cup of chili?” I’d just asked the equivalent of a modern-day Mrs. Rockefeller if she’d like a cup of chili?
Before she could answer, my mother stepped in. “Roxie, go brew Mrs. Maxwell a cup of my special black tea. I’m going to read your tea leaves!” My mother moved around the counter and tucked her arm through Mrs. Maxwell’s. “Come take a look at our jukebox; I bet you’ll know all the old classics from your teenage years—which were hopefully misspent.”
As Leo and I watched, our mouths ajar, my mother led his mother off to the old Wurlitzer. And Mrs. Maxwell, with years of good breeding, went politely along, smiling and nodding and likely thinking she’d indulge the townie for a little while before beating a retreat.
And as they were going one way, Chad and Logan came the other way, heading straight for the counter.
“What is happening?” I asked as Polly played unconcernedly with the buttons on Leo’s sleeve. As I looked closer, I noticed he was wearing very un-Leo clothing. White polo shirt, long sleeves rolled up. Khaki shorts. I peered over the counter to get a look at his feet. Sperrys. “What’s up, preppy?”
He grimaced. But before he could answer, Chad and Logan arrived.
“We need ice cream sodas, stat,” Chad announced, sinking onto the stool next to Polly and offering her his fist. “Hey there, Pollster, what’s going on?”
Polly bumped his fist. “Just hanging out with Roxie. Daddy, I also need an ice cream soda, splat.”
“Can you make mine chocolate?” Logan asked. “You have no idea the day we’ve had!” He leaned across Chad to offer Polly his own fist bump. “What’s up, little miss?”
“You have no idea the day I’ve had!” Polly echoed. “First, I almost flushed my Barbie down the toilet. Then, Grandmother and Daddy almost got in a fight about whether I should be allowed to try on her lipstick. And even though it’s probably not my color, it should be still my choice whether I get to try it on, right?”
“I totally agree,” Chad said.
“And then,” Polly said, knowing she had all eyes on her, “we get here, and Daddy says I can’t have a soda! And now the boys are getting ice cream sodas—how is that fair?”
“Hi, Roxie!” Polly chirped. Smoothing her napkin over her denim shorts, she continued, “Grandmamma, this is Roxie. The girl I was telling you about. She makes the best pie! And we make a superfancy grown-up grilled cheese with fawnteeni cheese and apples and rye bread with these weird little sticks in it. It is soooooooo good!”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Roxie, is it?” she asked coolly.
No handshake. She probably couldn’t even lift her hand, due to the weight of the diamond as big as a skating rink.
“My Leo tells me that you have been helping out your mother here until you move back to . . . where is it?”
“C-C-California,” I spluttered, seeing my mother heading toward the counter with two empty coffeepots and a wide grin. Oh boy. My mother and his, in the same place and time, could be the stuff of legend. It could also be the stuff of epic train wreck.
“Hey there, Polly, you’re home from camp early, aren’t you?” my mother called out, scooting around the counter in a swoop of sandalwood and leather fringe to stand in front of Leo’s daughter, reaching out and tweaking her nose. Polly giggled, and answered my mom’s high-five offer with a resounding smack of her own.
“Hi, Ms. Callahan! Camp was just okay, and Daddy missed me so much we decided I should come home early.”
“We’re glad to have you home. And, Leo, you just get better looking every time I see you!” My mother moved down the counter. “How’ve you been this summer? It sounds like you and Roxie have had a grand old time! Goodness, look at you, turning as pink as a pig’s butt.”
If you say the word butt in front of a seven-year-old, no matter how brainy they are, they will laugh until their head pops off. Hearing her father referred to as a pig’s butt sent Polly off into a gale of giggles that rolled on and on and on, no matter how Leo’s mother tried to kindly quiet her down. She giggled so hard she likely missed the comment about me spending the summer with her daddy, but his mother sure didn’t.
“And this must be your mother, Mrs. Maxwell. You know, I think you’ve been coming here all these years and never once made it into my diner. Now, how is that possible?” My mother moved across from Leo’s mother.
“You know how summers can be, so busy with guests and parties. I always mean to get into town when I visit, but Leo keeps me so busy back at the house,” she replied in that nasal, Northeast monied voice. A little bit Boston, little bit Hamptons, a lotta bit Upper East Side. “And I don’t think I quite caught your name, Mrs . . . ?”
“Just call me Trudy.”
Mrs. Maxwell smiled evenly, likely wondering how she’d suddenly become on a first-name basis with some hippie. She extended her hand across the Formica, a gesture that my mother ran away with.
“Say, look at that lifeline!” she exclaimed, turning Mrs. Maxwell’s hand over and examining her palm. “Unbroken, but this curious line here . . . hmmm . . . were you in an accident when you were a child?”
“Mom, lay off, huh?” I urged, placing my foot on top of hers behind the counter and pressing down. “Mrs. Maxwell, what can I get you? Cup of coffee? Cup of chili?” I’d just asked the equivalent of a modern-day Mrs. Rockefeller if she’d like a cup of chili?
Before she could answer, my mother stepped in. “Roxie, go brew Mrs. Maxwell a cup of my special black tea. I’m going to read your tea leaves!” My mother moved around the counter and tucked her arm through Mrs. Maxwell’s. “Come take a look at our jukebox; I bet you’ll know all the old classics from your teenage years—which were hopefully misspent.”
As Leo and I watched, our mouths ajar, my mother led his mother off to the old Wurlitzer. And Mrs. Maxwell, with years of good breeding, went politely along, smiling and nodding and likely thinking she’d indulge the townie for a little while before beating a retreat.
And as they were going one way, Chad and Logan came the other way, heading straight for the counter.
“What is happening?” I asked as Polly played unconcernedly with the buttons on Leo’s sleeve. As I looked closer, I noticed he was wearing very un-Leo clothing. White polo shirt, long sleeves rolled up. Khaki shorts. I peered over the counter to get a look at his feet. Sperrys. “What’s up, preppy?”
He grimaced. But before he could answer, Chad and Logan arrived.
“We need ice cream sodas, stat,” Chad announced, sinking onto the stool next to Polly and offering her his fist. “Hey there, Pollster, what’s going on?”
Polly bumped his fist. “Just hanging out with Roxie. Daddy, I also need an ice cream soda, splat.”
“Can you make mine chocolate?” Logan asked. “You have no idea the day we’ve had!” He leaned across Chad to offer Polly his own fist bump. “What’s up, little miss?”
“You have no idea the day I’ve had!” Polly echoed. “First, I almost flushed my Barbie down the toilet. Then, Grandmother and Daddy almost got in a fight about whether I should be allowed to try on her lipstick. And even though it’s probably not my color, it should be still my choice whether I get to try it on, right?”
“I totally agree,” Chad said.
“And then,” Polly said, knowing she had all eyes on her, “we get here, and Daddy says I can’t have a soda! And now the boys are getting ice cream sodas—how is that fair?”
