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.

The Maxwells were in residence only a few times a year. The rest of the time the land was worked by hired hands and groundskeepers, making sure it was always ready for the city folk. As time passed, most of the land went fallow, the fields were retaken by the woods, and the house was shuttered for years at a time. I suppose the Maxwells had found other places to “get away” to.

The home and barns fell into disrepair, and the property became a lonely estate on the edge of town. In the 1970s, the new Mrs. Maxwell became interested in the history of the family she’d married into and began a restoration of the house. No one ever lived there for any length of time, but tours were given on special occasions, and my own fourth-grade class trotted up there on a field trip to marvel over the views and the house and the grandeur.

I saw all that land not being used, all those barns not filled with livestock, a cold stone house filled with flowers but no other form of life, and always felt it was a waste.

“Well, I’m glad to see it’s going to good use now,” I said. “Agreed.”

“And Leo is the guy that delivers all the produce? Well, that’s great. Just great.”

“Agreed.”

“Do they have a stand at the farmers’ market?” “They do.”

“Well, maybe I’ll check it out. It’s still on Saturdays, right?” “Mmm-hmm.”

“Might be a good idea to see what they’ve got in season, for the diner.” “Agreed.” My mother sipped her coffee, a dreamy look on her face. Must

be thinking about her amazing race.

“Let’s go home,” I said. “You can make me some of your vegetable soup, and then I’m going to bed as soon as the sun sets.” I dragged myself out of the booth and grabbed my bag. My jeans literally creaked as I walked, stiff with dried potato and snap pea water, reminding me of the tumble I’d taken with the cutest farmer this side of Little House on the Prairie.

“Why are your jeans creaking?” my mother asked.

Nothing, and I repeat nothing, gets by her. Except final due notices from the electric company. And property taxes. And renewing her driver’s license. But walk in the kitchen and find your daughter spread-eagled on the floor with some random guy’s face in her lap, while nuts and sugar snap peas skate around? She won’t miss that. Or the subsequent jean creak.

“It’s nothing. Let’s go home.”

I’m assuming she also didn’t miss my blush.

I drove in my car, my mother drove hers, and despite my exhaustion, I used the few minutes of quiet (quiet! I’d almost forgotten what it sounded like, after the diner chaos) to take stock. Some things in town had clearly changed since I was home, and I tried to really see it.

It was beautiful, actually. Drive through Bailey Falls pretty much any time of the year and you’ll convince yourself that there’s not a prettier town on the planet. Autumn in upstate New York? Forget it. The flames of orange and yellow and red that raced through the forest and turned everything into a blanket of crispy, crunchy, kicky leaves—there’s nothing like it. Except maybe the winter. When the snow piles for miles, and everything takes on a hushed quality, all stars and silver and moonlight. Then again, spring was pretty extraordinary, when the apple blossoms pillowed out, and the air was

soft and warm and filled with that gorgeous growing green scent. Yeah, plenty going for it in the scenery department.

So why was I always so reluctant to go home, and why was I so adamant about making sure my mom knew this was temporary? It wasn’t to be hurtful . . .

My eyes swept over the quaint and cute once again. It was just that Bailey Falls was like quicksand to me. Like stepping into muck in your Wellies, and trying to get out of it left you with a cold, wet foot and your shoe behind you in the puddle. It was like a whirlpool, a black hole, a Norman Rockwellian SuckSpace that was nearly impossible to escape.

That small-town Americana that everyone seemed to want nowadays? I’d grown up in it. And for a shy, dorky, apt-to-trip-over-her-own-feet teenager, I was beyond ready for an adventure when it was time to leave home. And though I hadn’t lived there since I was eighteen, there was like a tiny rubber band tucked into the back of my pants, and no matter where I went or how far I traveled . . . Helloooo, Roxie . . . your past is calling . . . that small town was ready to snap me back eventually. And sure enough, here I was.

I certainly can’t say I had a bad childhood. But I grew up early and fast, and over the years the resentment grew. The classic child-becomes-the- parent scenario. Flaky parent and studious child: watch the disconcerting yet sometimes charming storyline unfold on tonight’s episode of What’d Your Parents Do to You? I knew it, I recognized it, I could see my issues coming a mile away. Especially when I was halfway through my twenties and my mother was halfway through her fifties, and I was still cleaning up her messes.

I was California Roxie now, but I was secretly scared to death that I’d morph back into Bailey Falls Roxie here. I’d defined myself in California, and I was extremely reluctant to live again in a town that defined me only as Trudy Callahan’s daughter, the one who blushes a lot.

This really couldn’t have come at a better time, though . . .

Okay—so I just wouldn’t let it get under my skin. I’d do this for her, but this was it.

“It’s good pie. Really good pie. Lard?” I asked my mother later that evening. She’d brought home the last of a pie from the diner for dessert.

“Pardon me?”

“Is there lard in the crust?” I asked again.

I’d come outside after dinner to clear my head, get some fresh air, and of course, she’d flitted after me like a moth. I realized shortly after I entered the house that my dream of going to bed with the sun was a pipe dream. But I had to admit, there was great air in the Hudson Valley—far better than that in Los Angeles.

“Oh, you’d have to ask Katie about the pie, dear; she makes it.” My mother scraped her plate clean with the back of her fork, getting the last little bit.

“Have you ever asked her why she only makes cherry?” I asked, also scraping the plate clean. It was really good.

“No.”

“Why not? Didn’t you ever think that maybe, since the cherry pie is so fantastic, she might make other pies? Just as good, if not better?” I asked, licking my fork.

My mom just shrugged.

I exploded. “But you run the place! It’s your diner! Why in the world wouldn’t a business owner ask the pie woman if she makes more pie?” I thumped on the arm of my Adirondack chair for emphasis, and my fork clattered to the porch floor.

She looked at me for a moment; my hand was still clenched in a fist. “Just how pissed are you?”

“Pretty pissed.” I sighed, setting my plate on the floor. So much for not letting it get under my skin. Evidently this was a splinter the size of a telephone pole. “I just — ugh.” I set my head down where my plate had been.

“Say it, Roxie,” she said.

“I’m here. And I’m going to hold down the fort while you’re gone. But like I said, I’m not bailing you out again.” I lifted my head to look up at her through tired eyes.

“I hardly think coming to help at your family’s diner is bailing out. Not when I have a chance to go on TV and try something really new and exciting,” she said.

I closed my eyes. I was feeling the effects of my drive, and not up to a fight right now.

“I agree that this time has a different feel to it. CBS programming isn’t usually the method you use to get me to come home, or fix something, or make a call, or literally bail you out when you flood the basement because you forget to turn off the hose. But I’m talking about in the future. When these things happen again? Not going to come running. I’ve got my own life to take care of. I have a career—or I’m trying to, anyway. We clear?”

She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “When will you be back?” I asked quietly.

“The main producer said I won’t be able to check in, something about a nondisclosure, but that in an emergency I’d be able to contact you or vice versa, so don’t think that—”

“When will you be back?” I repeated.

“It depends on how well I do, how well Aunt Cheryl does, if we’re able to stay in the game until the end, so—”

I used literally every ounce of patience available to me to calmly ask one more time, “When. Will you. Be back?”

“September. Hopefully by Labor Day.”

Three months. I’d be here the entire summer. Wow. Would I have totally morphed back into my high school self by the time she returned?

I sat up tall. I wasn’t that socially awkward girl anymore. I was a graduate of the American Culinary Institute. A private chef in Los Angeles. California Roxie, a chef so talented I once made a spotted dick so good that Jack Hamilton made a face I’m pretty sure only Grace Sheridan usually gets to see.

I took a deep breath, centered, and nodded. “Okay. The summer. That’s fine.”

“Really?” she asked, looking surprised and relieved.

I forced a smile. “I’m sure it will be just fine. And I’m exhausted, so I’m going to bed.”

I settled into my childhood bed, surrounded by everything important to me as a teenage girl. Instead of posters of Justin Timberlake and Edward

Cullen, I had a shrine to Eric Ripert and Anthony Bourdain. Those two would make a heavenly sandwich for any woman to slip in between. If asked, I’d be their meat.

Instead of cheerleading pom-poms and pictures of the prom, I had framed menus from some of my favorite restaurants in New York City. The NoMad. WD-50. The Shake Shack. Pok Pok NY. Union Square Café. Of course Le Bernardin. See above-mentioned Ripert/Bourdain sammich.

While other girls in my high school were planning which sorority to rush next year in college and what dress to wear to prom, I was daydreaming about chanterelles and geoduck. Of the American Culinary Institute in beautiful, sunny Santa Barbara. A world away from my hometown.

And here I was, back in the house I’d grown up in. I pulled back the comforter, smiling when I smelled the homemade lavender laundry soap my mom made each summer, when the herb gardens in the backyard were thick with spicy scent.

She forgot to leave me a note on the door, but she made sure I had fresh sheets.

I slipped between them, turned off the light on my nightstand, and watched as the shadows became familiar. The glow from the old shed still shone through the back window, making the sequins dance in the blue ribbon I’d won in the pudding contest at the county fair. The dolls on the shelf above the desk were still lined up, their shapes changing a bit as the moonlight settled over them. Blue and silver, they waited to be pulled off the shelf again. I could hear the crickets, ending their first symphony of the evening, but knowing they’d only take a brief intermission before their till- dawn concert continued. I flipped and flopped in the twin bed, taking comfort and a bit of melancholy in the knowledge that nothing had changed. The nights I spent in this room, fighting to fall asleep, fighting to relax and will myself to get a few hours in before the alarm went off—it felt exactly the same. And right on cue, that last train from Poughkeepsie heading down the Hudson sounded its lonely horn. On its way to Grand Central in the city, that sound marked the beginning of the loneliest part of the night. When I knew everyone else was asleep, and I couldn’t pretend

anymore that I wasn’t the only person still awake.

I hated that sound.

I flopped one more time, feeling the edges of pure exhaustion begin to

pull me under. I still couldn’t believe I was back here.

But only for the summer. And then I’d take Grace Sheridan up on her promise to introduce me to some better people to cook for.

And if I was lucky, I’d find some company in the meantime.

When I woke the next morning my mother was already gone, and I was immensely thankful not to be officially on the diner work schedule yet, since my brain remained on Pacific time. As I struggled to feel even remotely alert, the specter of high school Roxie emerged again—so I called in reinforcements. Literally.

My best friend Natalie and I had met years ago when we were both freshmen at ACI in Santa Barbara. Wild-eyed eighteen year olds, away from home for the first time, we bonded, and met our other friend Clara in Basic Baking and Pastry Technique class the first day of school. Natalie and Clara both left ACI after their freshmen year, not having the passion for food as I did, but we’d remained close even though we were spread across the country. Natalie returned to her hometown of Manhattan, while Clara headed back to Boston.

“Girl. What’s up?” Natalie answered on the second ring.

“Oh, the usual. Cooking. Sharpening my knives. Lounging in my childhood bedroom.”

“You got a gig cooking in New York or something?”

“I got a gig cooking in Bailey Falls,” I said, preparing myself for shrieking.

Natalie did not disappoint. Ten seconds later, the shriek was still ringing in my ears.

“Wait a minute, just wait a goddamned minute. You’re in New York? When? How? When? Why? When? Awesome!” Another shriek. “Okay, okay. Stop yelling and tell me what happened!”

“Pretty sure I’m not the one that’s yelling,” I reminded her, laughing. “Fine, fine, I’m calming down. Tell me what’s going on,” she said in a

singsongy voice. Natalie excited meant singsongy. Although come to think of it, Natalie anything meant singsongy.

I regaled her with stories of butter and texts, lemon pound cakes and Hollywood hunks. Amazing races and bailing out Mother. She sympathized

with the client loss, but didn’t hide her excitement that I was closer now. At least for a little while.

“You have to come into the city as soon as possible! Or I could come see you; I never get a chance to get out of the city.”

“You choose never to get out of the city, Nat.” I laughed. A born-and- raised Manhattanite, she thought the country stopped at the West Side Highway and didn’t start again until you touched down at LAX. With an occasional trip to the “country,” meaning Bridgehampton.

“All the more reason for me to get off my island and come see you. Besides, after hearing you complain about your hometown all these years, the chance to actually see you in it? That’s worth a Metro North ticket.”

“Save the ticket. Actually, don’t save the ticket, send me one. I’m already dying for a chance to get back into actual civilization. If I’m wearing a big floppy hat and waxing poetic about aromatherapy by the time you see me, go ahead and tie me to the tracks.”

“Big floppy hats are totally back in, Rox,” she replied promptly. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re hipper than you know.”

I harrumphed in response.

“And it can’t be that bad there, right? I mean, you’re at least in the same time zone now. Isn’t there anything—or anyone—that seems promising? By the way, how long have you been there?”

“I’m just now passing the twenty-four-hour mark,” I told her. “And very few of those hours have been spent sleeping, so there could be hallucination involved, but I did have an interesting encounter in the back of the diner . . .” I trailed off, thinking of slippery nuts.

“And?” she demanded.

So I filled her in about Leo and his route, perhaps leaving out a few of the more embarrassing potato-water-related details.

“Ooooh, a summer boyfriend seems promising!” she crowed, launching into a rendition of “Summer Lovin’ ” from Grease.

“Whoa, sister. My position on dating has not changed.”

I didn’t one-night-stand per se. More like . . . enough nights to get to know the guy’s body and what he liked, and to make sure he knew what I liked, but not long enough to get into anything serious. Easy. Simple.

“Yes, but you’re going to have some free time this summer. Maybe Leo would be good company.” I could practically hear her waggling her eyebrows.

“Who knows? My career is still my focus, so if I need a little something to take the edge off, I’ll get a guy on standby. No strings, no attachments. Just easy breezy fun times.”

She was quiet for a moment. “That’s totally how a guy would set things up.”

“Yeah, if a guy bangs chicks all over town, he’s just being a guy. But if a girl does it, she’s slutty, right?”

That’s probably how Bailey Falls people would react. I wondered again if this was a huge mistake. But as usual, Natalie knew what I needed.

“I think it’s kind of brilliant, actually,” she said. “You’ll make it work. Just find a way to run into him again.”

“This is silly to even talk about—it’s hardly the focus of my life. Now, what’s up with you? Break anyone’s heart lately?”

We chatted for over an hour, until I began to feel more awake and more like myself. And guilty for not maximizing every moment to figure out the diner before my mother headed off into the sunset. I promised I’d check in with Natalie again once I had things under control, and we hung up.