Chapter 6
As the plane took off, I had the feeling of breaking free. And as though being airborne weren’t enough to lift my spirits, no one was in the adjacent seat. Score! I was riding high, until a baby began to wail directly behind me. I turned, expecting to see his mother trying in some way to quiet him, but she was napping. I was a mere three hours and five minutes of flight time away from hugging Lisa and my grandchild. The breathtaking drive from the Bradley Airport near Springfield to Lisa’s home was about an hour. Florida. Massachusetts. Two different planets.
At the hectic Hertz counter, I requested an economy car. To my delight, I was granted a complimentary upgrade to a screaming-red SUV. I reflected on this—a positive sign. My visit to Historic Woodfield, founded 1729, would be ideal in every way. Stars had aligned.
The day was as chilly as I had longed for it to be. The sky was cloudless, blue, and bright. Perfect weather for someone trying to beat the heat in her hometown. I hit the road to the Massachusetts Turnpike, exiting in the town of Lee, bypassing the outlet mall calling my name.
On a winding state road speckled with farms, I stopped at a cider mill for apples, pears, and, of course, cider to bring to Lisa. In the car, I munched on a ripe Honeycrisp the size of a grapefruit. Once in Woodfield, I cracked open the window, inhaling the scent of pine trees lining both sides of the two-lane road. I passed the flea market, flat acres with dozens of long tables. It was the site of the annual town fair. I recalled taking Macallan to the flea market a year or two before, hunting for trinkets and treasure. I’d pointed to a booth stocked with record albums that dated back to Lawrence Welk and the Lennon Sisters in taffeta. Macallan had never seen vinyl. I explained the concept of a record player—how you had to stand up and flip it over when one side ended—and then I emitted awful, scrapy noises to demonstrate how music sounded if the record became scratched. Callie said, “You had to do all that to hear music?” She seemed interested in history, so I detailed how long it took to bake a sweet potato before the invention of the microwave.
As I steered, I lost myself reminiscing about enjoying the flea market with Callie, when suddenly, out of nowhere, boom , staring down at me was Lisa’s mother-in-law, Diandra. Her face was plastered on a looming billboard, the size of an exit sign on the turnpike, unanticipated on the pastoral road, where there were no other advertisements. The billboard was a showstopper.
I pulled over, drank Diandra in. There she was—my daughter’s mother-in-law, her heart-shaped face and baby blues glowering from up yonder. Flawless blonde hair held back by a stop-sign red headband—two-inches wide—not a strand out of place. On the billboard, she appeared younger, thinner, more glamorous than when I had seen her last, years before, at Macallan’s first birthday party, held beside the white bandstand gazebo on the Woodfield town green. My sons, Michael and Alex, had flown in for the celebration. The Pilgrim hadn’t yet joined the family.
Of course, Lisa had orchestrated a marvelous luncheon. She’d lined up long cloth-covered tables and set up white chairs with ivy bows for twenty-five people. She’d served finger sandwiches, salads, bottles of wine, and decadent desserts. I met Brian’s brother for the first time, as he hadn’t been at Brian and Lisa’s wedding. Lucky was small, disheveled, unkempt. He arrived late, spoke to no one, and escaped before we sang “Happy Birthday.” He seemed upset by the festivities. Jake and I agreed he was strange. Lisa had told us to stay clear of him.
On the billboard, to the left of Di’s photoshopped Miss America face, were these words: D IANDRA S UMMER L AKE —F IRST N AME IN S ECOND H OMES . First name in second homes, I thought. Clever. What was more, Di had a shrewd smile. I’d swear I could see a sly wink in her eye, giving the impression she was queen of real estate in Massachusetts, and you’d be a New York loser to look for a home without her assistance.
Of course, Diandra Summer Lake was a made-up moniker, a business tool. Her surname was Plumley. Her starter husband was Dr. Milton Robertson, now Lisa’s father-in-law.
In any case, Di’s message was simple. If you can afford only one house—no matter the size—don’t bother calling Diandra Summer Lake. I marveled at the fact she thought so highly of her appearance that she’d display herself on a giant billboard her neighbors passed by day after day. I’d think twice about my face gracing a postage stamp. Limited edition. I wondered if Diandra’s business had really become so impressive. She was a kick in the pants. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she really was the “first name in second homes.”
I kept driving, Di on my mind. The billboard in my head. Lisa had mentioned in a text that Di would be visiting her ill sister in Cranston, Rhode Island, most of the week. I was pleased Di was out of town, unable to interrupt my time with Macallan or try to befriend me. I mean, a cup of coffee would’ve been fine, but that was the outer limit.
Ahead, I spied Lisa’s restaurant—the Farmer’s Daughter. I kibitzed to myself: the Farmer’s Daughter. Lisa grew up in Manhattan. Since purchasing the property, a one-story clapboard on five wooded acres, Lisa had enlarged the kitchen and added another dining room. Her restaurant was perched beside a covered bridge, enhancing its New England mystique, making it popular with tourists. The timber bridge had been built in the 1800s over what was then a stream but was now no more than a wet spot.
I decided I’d drop in to see if Lisa was there. I swung behind the building, where I discovered Lisa’s gray Subaru Outback parked in the gravel. Next to her car was a small van from a local television station.
Was Lisa being interviewed? Should I continue directly to the house so as not to disturb her? But if she was being interviewed, I wanted to watch—it would give me yet another reason to kvell , crow while joyful that my offspring had accomplished something to be proud of.
I headed for the pine green door, guessing Lisa would be glad to see me, but with grown kids, who knew? That notion launched a rush of self-talk in my head: Don’t be silly. Lisa’s not a kid. You’re not the backstage mom who shows up every day for the play rehearsal. You’ll say hello, see what’s happening, make it quick. After all, you’re eager to see Macallan.
I walked through the vestibule past the hostess station to the first dining room, which had blue carpet, exposed walnut beams, honey pine tables, Windsor chairs, checkered tablecloths. A row of swiveling barstools had been moved to the center of the room. I followed the sound of Lisa’s voice to the spotless, shining kitchen and lit up when I found her.
Lisa was dressed in maroon clogs (a great choice for anyone who stands at work), a chef’s coat with black buttons and French cuffs. She was conversing with a woman in soaring heels. The bottle blonde had giant lips. I imagined her saying to her plastic surgeon: Don’t stop until my upper lip abuts my nostril. Also on “set” was a cameraman. Before I said a word, Lisa noticed me.
“Mom,” she said breezily.
I waved.
“Excuse me,” she said to Super Lip. “My mom is here.”
I liked that. Stop everything, people, my mom is here. So much better than Oh, no, my mother is here. Duck.
Lisa seemed taller than the last time I had seen her. Maybe it was because I’d been shrinking, and soon my own daughter, who was my original adult height of five feet, seven inches, would have to bend down—as good as bow—to greet me.
“Let me take a look at you,” I said, backing up a few steps.
Lisa’s chef’s coat and trousers looked new, maybe ordered specifically for the interview. She wore her hair (same brown color, fine texture as mine) swept off her face, gathered loosely in a tortoiseshell clip. Her thick eyebrows seemed darker than usual. She wore false eyelashes. Or maybe they were called extensions? Whatever.
Lisa took my hand, pulled me over to the TV folks huddling in a corner. “I’d like you to meet my favorite mother, Dr. Jodi Wexler. Mom, this is Nicki Nussbaum of The Nicki Nussbaum Hour . Here with her favorite cameraman.”
“Hi, Lisa’s Mom,” the cameraman said, returning to his equipment.
“Mom is my hero,” Lisa told Nicki. “She’s here to watch my daughter while I take care of some business in Boston.”
“I live in Florida. Boca Raton,” I explained.
“No kidding. Which community?”
“Flamingo Estates.”
“My mother considered buying there. But she thought the swimming pool was too small.”
I wondered if her mother was a big woman.
“Let me guess. You’re retired,” Nicki said.
“Nope. I’m a podiatrist.”
“A foot doctor,” Nicki said, like I needed an interpreter.
“For feet,” Lisa said.
“My mom wouldn’t have watched my daughter for a minute. That woman was a total narcissist. When she died, I sold her condo posthaste.”
Great eulogy, I thought. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“In point of fact, considering the location and condition, I unloaded it for an excellent price.”
Lisa and I glanced at each other. Mother-daughter telepathy.
“I’d love to interview you,” Nicki said to me.
I regarded Lisa, unsure what she would think about that. I might utter the wrong thing, such as, Nicki Nussbaum, I don’t like you.
“No one knows more about me than my mother,” Lisa said assuredly, pouring it on with a pitcher, following up with a hose. It wasn’t true, but it was sweet of her to say. In high school, in New York, she was constantly out of the house with her boyfriend. He was voted most likely to sleep with the fishes. She started at Cornell, dropped out, traveled to Europe without mentioning it to us, attended culinary school, wound up in Massachusetts, met and married Brian. I loved her. She loved me. Those things I knew. But there were far more things about her that I didn’t know. Did we ever really know anyone?
“Are you sure?” I asked Lisa. I’d never been interviewed for television, but there were articles about me in Podiatrist Today —back when I was in New York. One time, I was even on the cover.
“Mom, come on. Do it for me,” Lisa said.
“Okay, then.” I wondered if I looked all right. I’d started the day well put together. But I’d been traveling. I considered checking my face, fixing my hair in the women’s room, but I didn’t want to be seen as a narcissist like Nicki’s mother. The interview wasn’t about me. It was about Lisa.
Nicki patted one of the stools in front of the backdrop. She pinned a microphone to my top. I crossed my legs, placed my manicured hands in my lap. Nicki sat atop the other stool with her legs crossed too. I’d seen hundreds of shoes in my career, but if I ever wanted to kill a man, I’d borrow the ones Nicki wore. She adjusted her dress, repeated her own name for the nth time, talked about Lisa—her guest—then introduced me: Lisa’s mother. I said it was a thrill to be with Nicki at the Farmer’s Daughter. I was impressed with how I dropped the name of the restaurant as soon as the interview started.
“How was your trip here?” Nicki asked. Then, before I could answer, she said, “You’re a podiatrist, am I right? Let’s get you on your toes, Dr. Wexler. Tell me, when did you realize that Lisa had an interest in the culinary arts?”
“The first thing I remember is Lisa helping my mother dunk matzo balls for the Jewish holidays. She stood on a metal folding chair, and when my mother said ‘Torpedo,’ Lisa plunked medium-size balls into chicken soup in a pot on the stove.”
“Torpedo?” she said, puzzled.
“You know, like attack !”
“Of course. Attack! What fun. Delightful. I can imagine that. Do you do much cooking yourself?” Nicki asked.
“I dial,” I said. “Once, my granddaughter asked why all the food in my kitchen was in a package.”
“So, were you surprised when Lisa opted for culinary school?”
“Only when I received the bill,” I said.
“You are enchanting. What is your favorite dish from your daughter’s restaurant?”
“Sky-High Dutch Apple Pie, for sure. I can’t begin to explain the crust. And good news—Lisa will send it anywhere in the United States.”
There were dishes on the menu—including squash soup with coconut milk, crispy roast duck, and rack of lamb with herb crust—that I enjoyed even more than the pie, but I wanted to get in the plug for Lisa’s growing mail-order business.
“Hmm. Sky-High Dutch Apple Pie! Thank you so much, Dr. Wexler. Enjoy your time in the beautiful Berkshires. I’m Nicki Nussbaum. WbrK-TV.”
I smiled until my face froze.
“That was great, Mom,” Lisa said as I hopped off the stool, Nicki applauded, and the cameraman removed my microphone. “I’ll see you at the house. Macallan is waiting for you.”
“I’m so proud of you,” I whispered in her ear. It wasn’t lost on me how terrific it felt to be part of Lisa’s interesting life. To see my daughter in action. In person. Living her dream.
I congratulated myself on impulsively stopping by the restaurant. Lisa had so much happening, such a busy life, she wouldn’t have bothered to mention the television interview to me. We spoke on the phone twice a week—but if I hadn’t been in the area, we wouldn’t have had that moment together, something for us to later recollect facetiously: Mom, do you remember when Nicki Nussbaum told you how much she appreciated her mother?