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—”