She stood in the center of the Fantasia-like storm, her dirty apron tied back expertly, her frizzy, gray-streaked hair whisked back into a bun, wearing a broad smile as she expedited orders, ran food, and shouted special requests left and right: “For Table 16 I need two dots and a dash, two eggs wrecked, a club high and dry, and a cowboy with spurs.”
She caught my eye over the chaos, and a second later I was wrapped in a bear hug that would take out a quarterback. I hugged back, unable to stop the laugh that popped out. Mostly because all of my air was forced out at once. Mostly.
“Roxie, you’re early! I thought you’d be here this afternoon, or even tonight. When did you get in?”
“Just now—I was so close last night that I just decided to keep going.”
“I’m so glad you got my note.”
“What note?” I asked as she pulled back to look me over, eyes assessing.
“On the front door, that I was working the early shift. How else did you know I was here?”
“I guessed. And there wasn’t a note, Mom.” I shook my head.
“Sure there was. I taped it to the front door on my way out this morning, when I . . . Oh shoot, here it is,” she said, shaking her own head at the piece of paper she pulled out of her apron.
Roxie—I’m working the early shift, come on down. So glad you’re here!
“Oh well, you’re here! That’s all that matters! And not a moment too soon; we are in the weeds. Carla called in sick at 4 a.m. so I had to come down to open up this morning, and one of our dishwashers quit last week and I haven’t had a chance to replace him. Did you bring your apron?”
“Bring my— Mom, I literally came straight here after driving all night and—”
“No trouble, just grab one off the wall. I need to get moving, those beans have been sitting in the window too long as it is, talk when the rush is over? Thanks, sweetie!” she called out, turning to yell to Maxine, one of the oldest waitresses. “Those whistle berries are getting cold, get those out to Table Seven on the double!”
“Stuff it, Trudy! Hiya, Roxie! Great to have you home again!” came the response, and the chaos resumed.
I stood in the center, wondering what had just happened.
“You remember how to peel potatoes? We’re getting low on fries and I’d love to get ahead before the lunch rush,” my mom chirped as she sped by me, turning me toward a mountain of potato sacks.
“I know how to peel potatoes, for goodness’ sake,” I mumbled testily, realizing there wasn’t any way I was getting out of this. My mother was already heading back to the front counter, shouting over her shoulder to “Burn one, run it through the garden, and pin a rose on it.”
“It’s faster just to say burger with lettuce and tomato,” I told the potatoes, which looked back at me blandly. Because they had eyes, you see.
I grabbed a clean apron off the wall, grabbed the least dull and least likely to cut me knife from the block, and started filling a hotel pan with water to soak the cut potatoes. We served steak fries at the diner, thick cut and big enough to fill a hot dog bun, should someone choose. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t be perfect steak fries. So I settled in with my paring knife, peeling and slicing and lining them up with perfect uniformity. I dug out eyes, trimmed away green, and lost myself in the details.
As shouts of black cows, Eve with a lid on, and burn it echoed around me, I concentrated on the slippery right angles, making sure they were perfectly edged before going into the water bath.
My mother buzzed over to grab the first pan of ready-to-go spuds, and she looked on curiously as I concentrated on removing a stubborn peel. “They’re gonna get covered in gravy or dipped in ketchup—they don’t need to be a work of art, Rox.”
“You told me to peel potatoes. This is how I peel potatoes,” I replied, tossing it into the pan as she turned to go.
“Light a fire, or we’ll never get ahead of this,” she instructed, and I rolled my eyes. “I saw that!” she called out.
“I meant you to!” I pulled another pan down and filled it full of water. “Light a fire,” I mumbled.
Now I had a quest: to make a perfect steak fry, fast. I shut out the noise and the clatter and bent my head to the task. Hands flew, pruney fingers danced, and the pan filled with starchy, pointy art. Time flew by as I filled pan after pan, the sacks dwindling.
When one of the other waitresses patted my shoulder in greeting it startled me, and my knife slipped from my hand, landing in the back of the water pan. Leaning across the pan to retrieve it, I overbalanced and managed to submerge my front in cold potato water. “Bleagh,” I said, feeling the cold water running down the inside of my shirt and across my belly. Paused from my fry frenzy, I looked around. There were pans of fries on every work surface in my corner. Huh. Might have gone a little overboard.
“Land’s sake, Roxie, how many fries did you think we need?” my mother asked as she came around the corner.
“They’ll keep until tomorrow—the next day, even,” I replied, a little sheepish.
“It’s fine, I’ll make some room in the walk-in. How about cleaning some sugar snap peas?” she asked, thunking down a big pan of pea pods. “Cut off the end, strip out the stringy part.”
“I know how to clean a sugar snap,” I grumbled. “Cut off the end . . .” I filled the pan with water, huffing, “Strip out the stringy part. No shit, strip out the stringy part.”
“You start talking to yourself out there in Hollywood?” my mother teased, sticking her head around the corner and very nearly getting hit in the face with the snap pea I threw at her. She laughed and disappeared back into the kitchen.
I sighed, stretched, and went to work again. After this, I was taking a nap.
After a while I became aware of a tingling on the back of my neck, and I looked over my shoulder to find the source. Then several things happened within mere seconds, though I saw them in super slo-mo:
1. A man was standing right behind me.
2. He was holding a basket.
3. The basket contained some lovely walnuts.
4. I shrieked, because he was standing right behind me.
5. I dropped my pan.
6. Snap peas shot out in all directions.
7. Some of the peas landed on his work boots.
8. I looked above the boots. Jeans.
9. I looked above the jeans. Vintage Fugazi concert tee. Green flannel shirt.
10. I looked above the flannel. Two weeks’ worth of shaggy blond beard. Mmm. Country hipster.
11. I looked above the beard. Lips.
12. I looked at the lips.
13. I looked at the lips.
14. I looked at the lips.
15. COME ON.
16. I looked above the lips.
17. I was glad I looked above the lips.
18. The eyes and the hair were a package deal, the hair was falling across his eyes in a careless way that said “Hey, girl. I’ve got peas on my shoes, but who cares, because I’ve got these eyes and this hair, and it’s pretty fucking great.”
19. The hair was the color of tabbouleh.
20. His eyes were the color of . . .
21. Pickles?
22. Green beans?
23. No. Broccoli that had been steamed for exactly sixty seconds. Vibrant. Piercing.
24. I stood—and slipped on the snap peas.
25. At his feet, I stared up at him.
26. One corner of his mouth lifted for the tiniest moment.
27. He looked at my nearly transparent wet T-shirt for the tiniest moment before decency dictated that he not do that.
28. He set down his basket of nuts and extended a hand to me. Callused. Rough. Both corners of his mouth now lifted.
29. I took his hand to stand. Slipped again on a snap. Worlds collided when my skin met his. Heads collided when my forehead conked his.
30. One of my pea pods wedged under his boot
31. He fell down too.
32. His nuts w
ent everywhere.
33. Our legs tangled.
34. His head fell into my . . . lap.
35. Sugar snap peas were my new favorite vegetable.
The guy with the nuts was named Leo. I know this because when my mom came around the corner and caught him facedown in her daughter, she cried out, “Leo!” and rushed to help him up. Him. She never could resist a good-looking man. And once the man was extricated from between my legs . . . mercy . . . he reached down once more to try to help me up.
“For goodness’ sake, Roxie, what’re you doing on the floor?” my mother interrupted, lifting me up underneath both arms and plopping me back on my feet like a flour sack.
“I . . . uh . . . well . . .”
“I think I surprised her, Ms. Callahan,” this Leo said, his voice smooth and rough at the same time. How is that possible? “You okay?”
“I . . . uh . . . well . . .” Where was this coming from? I don’t stammer.
He grinned, a look of curious amusement spreading across his entire face.
“She’s totally fine, aren’t you— Oh dear, it looks like the turkey’s done; you might want to cover up,” my mother said, looking at a very specific part of my chest.
I looked down, remembered that I was on full transparent display here, and quickly crossed my arms over my wet chest. Where my nipples had popped like Butterball turkey timers. My mother, ladies and gentlemen.
“Roxie, go get a fresh apron, and then come sit with Leo here and have a cup of coffee. You’ve got time for coffee, don’t you, Leo? It’s the least we can offer you after you ended up on our floor!”
Coffee suddenly sounded like the best idea in the history of best ideas. Coffee? Yes. Lay on top of me again? If you must.
“Sorry Mrs. C, can’t stay for coffee today. I’ve got a truck full of deliveries to make before five. Rain check?” he asked, unleashing the grin of the ages on my mother, and then turned his grin on me. “You sure you’re okay?”
Absolutely okay. I didn’t get weak in the knees anymore just because a cute guy looked at me, even if my turkeys were done.
I looked up at him through lowered lashes, cocked my head to the side, and let loose my own grin. “Sorry about your nuts.” Then I slowly walked toward the walk-in fridge, putting a tiny extra sway in my hips.
Inside the walk-in I allowed myself ten seconds of teenage cute-boy-freak-out, getting caught in a fist pump when my mother poked her head inside to see if I was okay.
“If you’re done in here, there’s a bunch of snap peas on the floor that aren’t going to clean themselves up,” she said with a knowing grin.
Face flaming, I left the walk-in.
But spending the summer back home just got a little more interesting.
Chapter 4
After the lunch rush was over, I sat in the corner booth to take a break. Leo. Who was named Leo these days? And why was he carrying all those nuts?
“He brings me nuts every week, dear. I’m on his route.”
“Pardon me?” I asked, swiveling in my seat.
“You asked why he was carrying all those nuts. I assume you mean Leo, the young man you wrestled to the floor this morning.”
“I said that out loud?”
“You did. It’s either sleep deprivation from the drive, or your trip to the floor knocked something loose, but you’re out here talking to the vinyl seats.”
She came to sit with me, now that the doors were locked and the staff sent home. Monday through Thursday the diner closed after lunch; it was only open for dinner Friday through Sunday. Afternoons at the diner were one of my favorite memories from childhood. It was quiet and peaceful, I could build towns out of the napkin dispensers while my mom worked on her orders and invoices, and I’d get to eat as much pie as I could sneak.
We had this quiet time together almost every day when I was young—my elementary school was just a few blocks up the road and it was a quick walk after the bell. Me and my homework, her and her workwork, and an afternoon in the late-day sunshine. Somewhere between 4:30 and 5:30 we’d pack up and head for home, since whichever “uncle” my mother was currently dating would be arriving home soon, hungry for dinner. So in the evenings, I’d lose her a bit. In the same way any child has to share her mother with a dad or other kids or PTA or whatever else take up her time.
She dated nice guys, cool guys, so there’s no need for the Afterschool Special music. But they never stuck around for very long. She’d loved my father, I knew. His picture was on the mantle as long as I could remember, no matter what uncle happened to be circling at the time. He died when I wasn’t even a year old, and she was forever chasing that heartbreak with another one.
Anyways, though, afternoons in the diner had always been nice.
Apparently now they involved me talking out loud to myself. Not even back in town one day, and I was losing my mind.
“You’re not losing your mind, dear,” my mother offered, and I looked at her with wide eyes.
“Did I say that out loud too?” I asked, shrinking down into my seat. “What the hell did you put in this coffee?”
“You didn’t, but I know my daughter. You’re thinking this small town is already making you crazy, right?”
“Possibly,” I allowed. After a moment of inspecting the flecked linoleum top of the table, I nonchalantly asked, “So, what route?”
“Hmm?”
“You said route.”
“When did I say route?”
“A minute ago.”
“I don’t think I did.”
“Mother.”
“Oh, you mean Leo’s route?”
“That’d be the one you mentioned,” I said, nodding. Her memory was fine, by the way. Her sense of humor, however, was twisted. “So, the guy with the route . . .”
“Yes, dear?” she asked innocently.
“That’s it, I’m going home.” I started to pull myself out of the booth.
“Oh, relax. Stay and drink your coffee; I’m just teasing,” she said, waving me back down. “So, what do you want to know about the guy with the route? Although I like to think of him as the guy with the eyes—did you see his eyes?”
“His eyes are an interesting shade of green, I’ll give you that,” I admitted, knowing that until I did, I’d get nowhere. “Who is he?”
“He’s from the Maxwell Farm; he sells produce to all the local restaurants. Every week, he brings something special by. This week it was walnuts.”
“The Maxwell Farm?”
“The very one.”
“Someone is actually farming that land now?”
“Oh yeah, they’ve turned that entire place around! He’s got the orchards back on line, the greenhouses, the fields are producing again—oh, it’s just wonderful.”
“When did all this happen?”
“You haven’t been here in how many years, Roxie? Things haven’t exactly stood still just because you weren’t here.” Her face was neutral, but her voice was a little sharper than normal.
“I realize that,” I said, twirling my coffee cup in its saucer. I felt a small tug. I had been gone a long time. But I tamped it down, keeping my attention on the farmer.
The Maxwell Farm was legend in this part of the country. Hell, the Maxwells were legend, in all parts of the country. Old New York. Old money. Old banking family. Have a mortgage? It was probably held by a Maxwell bank at some point. Lease a car? Probably guaranteed by a Maxwell bank at some point. Invested in mutual funds? If it has to do with the stock market, the Maxwell Banking Family of Greater New York is likely involved.
And like all old wealthy families, they occasionally like to leave their Manhattan apartment, or their Hamptons seaside “cottage,” or their Palm Beach winter house, and head up for some good old-fashioned rustic country life on their “farm.”
Farm in the loosest sense of the word imaginable. What do you think of when you hear the word farm? Ten or twenty acres around an old family farmhouse and a weathered red barn, somewhere in
one of those states you fly over? Perhaps a lazy barn cat. Perhaps a chicken or two. Perhaps if you’re very lucky, and also adorable, you might even envision a moo cow.
If you’re slightly less romantic and slightly more aware, you might imagine a different vision entirely. Hundreds and hundreds of acres farming one crop, probably feed corn or soybeans, with no old farmhouse or barn. There’d probably been several on this giant property at one point, but they all sold their land in one huge land consolidation, and the structures have been torn down or left to the elements. There’s maybe one large equipment “barn,” and definitely no moo cow.
But Maxwell Farm? It’s an idyllic, look-how-salt-of-the-earth-and-how-cute-are-we-in-these-overalls “farm.” In the late 1800s, when the Maxwells were already firmly entrenched into New York’s social elite, they purchased a large plot of land in the Hudson Valley. This was not uncommon back then: the Vanderbilts, the Rockefellers, the Carnegies all owned farms. Enormous acreages, beautiful and elaborate stone “farmhouses” complete with equally beautiful stone barns, riding paths, teahouses, fountains, and gazebos. And occasionally, these farms might actually plant a crop or two.
It started out as a place to get away from the daily grind of being wealthy—as one does. The main house and the barns were situated high on a bluff overlooking the Hudson River. The enormous stone barns were mostly used to house cattle, as it was once a working dairy farm. The land was used for some farming—mostly vegetables and fruit orchards—but most of the acreage was set aside as a nature preserve. Some fields were cleared for hunting, as the Maxwells hosted large parties for their city friends, the men scaring up quail and pheasant, while the ladies visited the gardens and the orchards and the orangerie.