cup, crumbly scones, and Danish that could have doubled as doorstops.
The town selectmen finally decided that Starbucks could open, but it couldn't have a sign out front, because a sign would compromise the quaint character of Main Street. Thus, the Secret Starbucks, on the corner of Maple and Main, with nothing but the smell of roasting House Blend to give it away. It was like a speakeasy, in need of only a password to get you through the unmarked glass and metal door.
I sidled inside, dressed in Janie's suede stiletto boots and light blue cashmere sweater--a size medium, which I couldn't have comfortably fit into even before I'd breast-fed three babies--and a clean pair of cargo pants that had been modified to show the small of my back and about two inches of my butt crack ("I need to test my theory!" Janie had said. I'd nodded my consent, then snuck into the bathroom to change my underwear, so that now the pants revealed the small of my back and two inches of faded grayish Hanes Her Way briefs.)
Janie had trailed my minivan in her Porsche. We'd found three broken pay phones before locating one that worked, but Evan's phone just rang and rang before voice mail picked up and Janie cut the connection before I'd said a word. "No leaving incriminating messages," she said. She'd gotten behind the wheel of the van to take the kids back home, tossed me the keys to her car, and told me to call her when I was done interrogating the sitter.
Once I'd placed my order, I scanned the room looking for--I'll admit it--a busty blonde, because that was the image the words "twenty-four-year-old babysitter" had conjured: every suburban mommy's nightmare; every suburban daddy's happy dream.
Under different circumstances, Lisa DeAngelis, with her big blue eyes and buttercup blond hair, might have fit the bill. But when she gave me a listless wave from her table in the corner, she wasn't looking like anyone would be begging her to pose in lingerie any time soon.
"Kate?" she asked tonelessly.
"Hi," I said, and wobbled over to her table in Janie's boots. "Can I get you anything?"
Lisa pointed at a plastic cup in front of her that seemed to be filled primarily with whipped cream. Her eyes looked glazed, whether from sleeplessness or something chemical, I couldn't tell. Her hair was pulled back in a listless ponytail at the nape of her neck. A canker sore bloomed in the corner of her mouth; a pimple was flourishing in the center of her forehead; and the tiny gold stud in her left nostril was surrounded by puffy, infected-looking red flesh. She might have had a drop-dead figure, but since she wore baggy gray sweatpants and an oatmeal-colored sweater, it was impossible to tell.
"Thanks for meeting with me," I said. She shrugged.
"I've got some free time now?" she said. She had the habit remembered from my own younger days of turning every statement into a question. "Now that..." She sighed and stared into her coffee cup. I was grateful that she wasn't staring at me, the way the three baristas and the six other patrons all seemed to be. The sweater and the boots, I thought sadly, had been a mistake.
"Well, if you're looking for kids, I've got 'em!" Oy. "There's Sophie, my four-year-old--well, she's four going on forty--and my twins, Sam and Jack, are three..." I shut my mouth as a tear made its way slowly down Lisa's check. "Are you okay?"
I handed her a napkin. She wiped her eyes, then blew her nose. I slid more napkins across the table.
Lisa blinked, wiped her cheeks, then tilted her head back and fanned at her lashes. "I still can't believe it?" she said.
Just the opening I'd been waiting for. "It is unbelievable," I murmured.
She spun her cup in a circle. "She was nice, you know?" she said. "She'd talk to me. And there was never any Oh, could you please unload the dishwasher? or Oh, if the kids nap, can you fold some clothes? They had digital cable, and TiVo, and actual ice cream in the freezer. Ice cream just for me," she said. "The
The town selectmen finally decided that Starbucks could open, but it couldn't have a sign out front, because a sign would compromise the quaint character of Main Street. Thus, the Secret Starbucks, on the corner of Maple and Main, with nothing but the smell of roasting House Blend to give it away. It was like a speakeasy, in need of only a password to get you through the unmarked glass and metal door.
I sidled inside, dressed in Janie's suede stiletto boots and light blue cashmere sweater--a size medium, which I couldn't have comfortably fit into even before I'd breast-fed three babies--and a clean pair of cargo pants that had been modified to show the small of my back and about two inches of my butt crack ("I need to test my theory!" Janie had said. I'd nodded my consent, then snuck into the bathroom to change my underwear, so that now the pants revealed the small of my back and two inches of faded grayish Hanes Her Way briefs.)
Janie had trailed my minivan in her Porsche. We'd found three broken pay phones before locating one that worked, but Evan's phone just rang and rang before voice mail picked up and Janie cut the connection before I'd said a word. "No leaving incriminating messages," she said. She'd gotten behind the wheel of the van to take the kids back home, tossed me the keys to her car, and told me to call her when I was done interrogating the sitter.
Once I'd placed my order, I scanned the room looking for--I'll admit it--a busty blonde, because that was the image the words "twenty-four-year-old babysitter" had conjured: every suburban mommy's nightmare; every suburban daddy's happy dream.
Under different circumstances, Lisa DeAngelis, with her big blue eyes and buttercup blond hair, might have fit the bill. But when she gave me a listless wave from her table in the corner, she wasn't looking like anyone would be begging her to pose in lingerie any time soon.
"Kate?" she asked tonelessly.
"Hi," I said, and wobbled over to her table in Janie's boots. "Can I get you anything?"
Lisa pointed at a plastic cup in front of her that seemed to be filled primarily with whipped cream. Her eyes looked glazed, whether from sleeplessness or something chemical, I couldn't tell. Her hair was pulled back in a listless ponytail at the nape of her neck. A canker sore bloomed in the corner of her mouth; a pimple was flourishing in the center of her forehead; and the tiny gold stud in her left nostril was surrounded by puffy, infected-looking red flesh. She might have had a drop-dead figure, but since she wore baggy gray sweatpants and an oatmeal-colored sweater, it was impossible to tell.
"Thanks for meeting with me," I said. She shrugged.
"I've got some free time now?" she said. She had the habit remembered from my own younger days of turning every statement into a question. "Now that..." She sighed and stared into her coffee cup. I was grateful that she wasn't staring at me, the way the three baristas and the six other patrons all seemed to be. The sweater and the boots, I thought sadly, had been a mistake.
"Well, if you're looking for kids, I've got 'em!" Oy. "There's Sophie, my four-year-old--well, she's four going on forty--and my twins, Sam and Jack, are three..." I shut my mouth as a tear made its way slowly down Lisa's check. "Are you okay?"
I handed her a napkin. She wiped her eyes, then blew her nose. I slid more napkins across the table.
Lisa blinked, wiped her cheeks, then tilted her head back and fanned at her lashes. "I still can't believe it?" she said.
Just the opening I'd been waiting for. "It is unbelievable," I murmured.
She spun her cup in a circle. "She was nice, you know?" she said. "She'd talk to me. And there was never any Oh, could you please unload the dishwasher? or Oh, if the kids nap, can you fold some clothes? They had digital cable, and TiVo, and actual ice cream in the freezer. Ice cream just for me," she said. "The
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