Chapter 11
I made my bed in the guest palace, then went into Callie’s room. A window seat overlooked the tree house and black tire swing. I lingered on the view, appreciating fall in New England. The room had been painted Unicorn Blue. It was on the dark side but complemented the white trim. My granddaughter’s bed, Lisa’s old queen size, sat in the middle of the room.
Macallan’s tops, bottoms, socks, and underwear—clean and otherwise—were piled here and there, reminding me of haystacks. Her stuffed animals were strewed about. I decided Callie was the Noah of “stuffies,” as she referred to them. Dolls gathered in a circle, as though at a meeting. Picture books and early readers atop an antique pine schoolhouse desk and the long dresser. She was a collector, with displays of rocks, minerals, and shells from trips with Lisa and Brian to North Truro on the Cape. She liked looking at the world and had a globe on a stand.
I smiled to myself. Some other grannies would consider this a mess, start cleaning up, or chastise the grandchild with a pointed finger, but I had a thing about the chaos. This creative environment demonstrated who my granddaughter was, and she was an interesting person. From the get-go. Because I really thought we were born to be the way we turned out. What else could have explained my three children being so different from one another?
I returned to the guest room, unpacked my running shoes, set out for a jog, grateful to be in a cooler climate. I wished I had measured two miles in my car, but I hadn’t, so I decided to clock twenty minutes one way and then turn back. As I stood on Lisa’s porch, I realized that if someone asked me what I liked most about New England, I’d have to say it was the air. Woodfield air felt invigorating, refreshing. If I ran every day, I’d feel great when I left. It wasn’t that I enjoyed running. I detested it. But I spent a lot of time convincing myself I had to do it, forcing myself to take the first step. What was the hardest part of a run? The first step.
I ran as long as I could, stopped short when I found myself in front of the village country store. Arlo stood on the deck unlocking the type of door most often found on a barn. I stood still, although I could feel myself quiver. I caught my breath, astonished how much I was sweating when it was only about fifty degrees.
“Hi, Arlo,” I called out, expecting he’d remember meeting me the day before when I’d been there with Macallan. He took one look at me—bent over, wiping perspiration from my forehead with the sleeve of my gray sweatshirt—and said, “How you doing, Grandma? Tossed your cane, I see.”
“Still drinking the Ensure,” I kidded.
“Well, they don’t make grannies like they used to. You about to run back, or would you prefer to break for breakfast?”
I was surprised how friendly he was. “If I eat, I won’t be able to run back.”
“Coffee? It’s Berkshire’s Best.”
“Never had Berkshire’s Best.”
“Have you had Berkshire’s worst?” he said.
“Where would I get that?”
“Anywhere but here.” He reached for the newspapers—the New York Times , the Boston Globe , the Berkshire Eagle —all near the entrance. I carried in the free magazines, wrapped in twine, including local real estate rags I could bring back to Jake, just in case. All the listings were online, but he enjoyed hunting the old-fashioned way. We stepped into the store, bathed in morning light. The place was cold, perfect for me after my biggest energy output in a month.
“What would you like?” he asked, standing in front of the industrial-size coffee maker.
“Thank you for asking. I’ll wait until you get coffee going.”
Moving smoothly—there was nothing awkward about him—he went to the fridge, took out a bottle of spring water, and handed it to me. “In the meantime. You know, I can make you a cappuccino. This isn’t the backwater. This is the Berkshires.”
I didn’t want to bother him. “Coffee is fine.”
“How about a cinnamon roll?” He held one up. “I have bagels too.”
A man with wire-rim glasses and the scent of a woodsy cologne appeared at the door.
“He wants a New York Times ,” Arlo whispered to me. “I can tell by the Ralph Lauren polo shirt.”
“Got the paper?” the man asked.
“The local?” Arlo said for my benefit, which made me smile.
“ Times .”
After the customer left, Arlo explained he had a knack for knowing what people came in for. “It’s a fun game I play in my head. Nice to have an audience. Let’s just say I’m a grocery savant. Tell me, Grandma, where do you live when you’re not babysitting?”
“Florida. That’s where most grandmas live, right? But I don’t like warm weather.”
“Isn’t that what people move to Florida for? The sun and the in-state discount on Disney World?”
“I’ve never been.”
“You’ve never been to Disney World?” He poured a cup of black coffee for me. I said no to milk and the roll.
“Nope, never been. And the first time I go, I want to take Macallan. See it through her eyes. I moved to Florida for business reasons. Tell me, do you have any grandkids? Because every time you call me Grandma, I’d like to toss back a Grandpa.”
“One son. In Seattle. I retired after my wife died. I needed something to do, so I bought the store. And it’s been great because—crazy thing—I always wanted to be a retailer.”
“I always wanted to be a podiatrist.”
“You’re a foot doctor?”
“Something about toes.”
“Want to see mine?” he said. Was he flirting? Don’t be ridiculous, Jodi. He just called you Grandma about a thousand times.
“You would take your socks off right here and now?”
He pulled over a stool and sat on it. He untied his work boots, tugged off one heavy wool sock with bears on it, then the other. He wiggled his toes.
I looked from a distance. “Hmm.” I stalled for fun. “Wide, sturdy. Clearly connected to your legs. I’d keep those excellent feet. However, you have a corn on your little toe.”
He smiled as though he was about to say something funny. “I’m a corny guy.”
I nodded. “Let me think. How many times have I heard that pun from a patient?”
“How many?”
“Zero. You’re the first,” I said.
He laughed, and I felt as though I’d known him for many years. I knew if I lived in town, I’d be stopping by to chat. In no time, we would be friends. At my age, it felt good to connect with someone new. It was invigorating. I met new patients a lot, but new buddies were rare.
Wind chimes on the door jingled. I looked up, surprised to see Diandra, appearing every bit as perfect as she did looming over the road on her billboard. Diandra was classically pretty, the kind of pretty that would have made her a likely candidate for captain of the cheerleaders or chairwoman of the mean girls in an upper-crust school. Of course, I checked her footwear—penny loafers, no penny. She wore tweed pants and a white Oxford shirt. I could see her bra peeking out. I wondered whether she knew. Or had she purposely dressed that way? The bra was light blue and lacy. Mine was white. All of mine were. Once, I had bought a purple bra, but it made me feel like a stranger.
Di touched the headband holding back her hair, which hit below her shoulders, a bit of curl at the bottom. “Hello, Arlo. And look at you, Joanie,” she said, chock full of charm.
“Jodi,” I said.
She pressed my chest against hers, hugging me as though I had offered her my seat on the lifeboat fleeing the Titanic . I hadn’t seen Diandra Summer Lake since the can’t-miss-it billboard on the road—and before that, years ago at Callie’s first birthday party. The one where I met Brian’s brother, Lucky. She’d brought a handsome man that she hung on to as though her other choice was to fall off a cliff.
“It’s been a long time, Di. I’m glad to see you. What a treat,” I said. All right, so I went overboard. We were, after all, related by marriage.
“Oh, and a pleasure to see you!” she said with a pasted-on say-cheese smile.
“I passed your billboard on the way into town. First name in second homes! I love it.”
“I came up with that. I handle my own marketing. No one else could do the job I do. Believe me.”
“Of course,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster in two words. “I heard the big news. Lisa tells me Brian has been named chair of the geography department.”
“Yes, he put himself on the map.”
I enjoyed a good geography pun. Arlo laughed as well.
“I am proud of him,” she assured me.
“Of course. Of course you are.” The last time I said “course” that many times, I was registering for one.
Why was Di in town? She was supposed to be at her sister’s house in Rhode Island. This was my opportunity. I didn’t want interference, even if it was well meant.
I continued the conversation, snooping. “Lisa mentioned your sister was ill.”
“Breast cancer,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I was en route to Rhode Island yesterday. But she texted to say the surgery was off.”
“No surgery? Radiation?” Arlo asked. His curiosity made me wonder how well he knew Di’s sister. Then I recalled Lisa had once told me Di no longer spoke to anyone in her family. Lisa said that the only reason she was going to visit this sister was that the sister had no one else.
“On top of it all, she caught pneumonia,” Di said to Arlo.
“I hope she’ll be okay,” I offered.
“She’s quite the battle-ax,” Di said.
She’s a battle-ax, I thought. What does that make you? A battalion?
Then, she said to Arlo in a tease of a voice, “Come on now. Guess what I came in for.”
I found their familiarity awkward, uncomfortable. Di made me edgy—I felt as though I’d done something wrong by talking to Arlo. Was she seeing him? Callie had said on Zoom that Di was dating a plumber—or was it a principal? Di touched Arlo’s arm, working her fingers up to his shoulder.
I tossed my empty coffee cup into the trash. “Well, it was great, super, to see you, but I literally have to run.”
Once out the door, I found I’d lost my get-up-and-go. I stopped running, started walking. Then, Lisa’s neighbor Alison passed in a red Chevy pickup truck. She was in her thirties, a potter and mother of three who created the beautiful serving pieces Lisa used in the restaurant. Alison waved as she went by, then turned around and asked if I wanted a ride.
Grateful, I climbed in. “You are a lifesaver!” Although many would think she was more of a lifesaver had she passed me by and forced me to get my exercise.
“It’s a treat to see you, Dr. Wexler. I heard you were here to watch Macallan.”
“Claim to fame.”
“My Otis is in her class at school.”
“I didn’t know that. Lisa’s in Boston. For business.”
Alison raised an eyebrow. I had the feeling she knew more about Lisa’s life than I did. But she was kind enough to feign ignorance and changed the subject rather suddenly. “I’m originally from Vermont. Mom was a ski instructor, raised me on the slopes. As a kid, I was crazy for crayons, anything I considered an art. I worked two jobs while attending Rhode Island School of Design, and here I am.”
So different than Lisa, I thought. My daughter grew up enjoying Broadway musicals, visiting museums, taking the subway alone by the age of eleven. She told us she wanted to teach, but that changed. At Cornell, she catered parties for professors in need of food to wash down the liquor. She came home and cooked for a party we held. Not my mother’s brisket by a long shot. I had no idea steak tartare was served raw. When I saw the dish, I assumed it was a meat loaf, asked whether to pop it in the oven. Lisa’s delicious entries—everything from cream of carrot soup to Baked Alaska—stunned our friends. Later, Jake and I agreed to cover tuition for culinary school to ensure our daughter would have a solid career.
Afterward, Lisa worked in a well-known New York restaurant, the kind of place that sat ordinary folk like me in the broom closet and offered one lonely scallop as an appetizer, but no one complained because celebrities don’t mind shelling out for shellfish. The sexism was rampant. She fought off men with a spatula, made plans to quit for fear that she’d be driven to skewer the ma?tre d’ with a knife.
Owning a restaurant in the city was financially impossible, so she had to look elsewhere for her culinary home. She sensed that the Berkshires would provide the sort of patrons she was looking for without the expense of the city. She hit us up. With our assistance, she bought the teetering café in Woodfield that is now the Farmer’s Daughter.
She started seeing Brian. But, of course, we didn’t know that until we popped up to visit.
As Alison pulled up to the house, she said, “Lisa and I once spent a lot of time together, but now we’re both too busy.”
“She crowds a lot into a day.”
“You have no idea,” Alison said, turning to me with an eye roll, and once again, it seemed like she had knowledge I had no clue about. Something was up. “But I have to say, no matter how busy Lisa is, she has time to help other people. I was about to give up on pottery, done deal, because basically I was selling a fruit bowl, a mug, a plate at a time. Then Lisa placed the order for her restaurant. Your daughter saved my life, saved me from declaring bankruptcy, searching for what creative people call ‘a real job.’ And as if that wasn’t enough, Lisa is my best source of referrals.”
“I’m glad you’re doing well, and that’s nice to hear about my daughter.” It did my heart good to know I raised a quality person. I couldn’t wait to tell Alison’s story to Jake. Not that he needed any more reasons to be proud of his three children.
“Will I see you on the nature walk?”
I nodded. “I’m sure you’ll miss Lisa, but I’ll do my best to stand in for her.”
“Oh, Lisa never goes on field trips. It’s usually Annie. All the moms love Annie. They call her Grannie Annie.”
Wait. The entire town knew her as Grannie Annie? And more important, was Callie the only child in her class without a parent in tow—because her parents didn’t care to attend? How did Callie feel about that? My kids would’ve complained vigorously, but then, we didn’t have a Grannie Annie in our family picture.
“I’ll be there,” I said to Alison as I exited the truck.