In the Bag (24 page)
I knew instantly what Coco was thinking because I was thinking it, too.
Something is up with our parents.
“So how do you guys know each other?” I asked.
“Yeah, like what’s
up
with you two?” Coco added quickly.
“Remember the favor I did for Solange?” Coco’s mom said. “Fixing party food for that museum gala in Madrid? Andrew was the designer for the exhibit.”
Dad turned to me. “Webb, you know the cookies and gooey butter cake served on opening night?”
“Yeah?” I said cautiously. Because I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Daisy made those,” Dad said. “Er, I should say, Ms. Sprinkle.”
“Daisy’s fine,” Coco’s mom said. She was almost as pretty as her daughter.
The waiter arrived to take our order. I looked at the menu, but it had morphed into a Hieronymus Bosch painting filled with tiny, giddy figures tangled in a human knot.
I
could tell Webb was trying to connect the dots, just like I was. If my mom and his dad knew each other, did that mean they also knew about
us
?
It didn’t seem possible. Mom was acting so nicey nice. She’d be in flames if she knew I’d lied to her about being sick to get out of going to Madrid.
Then again, she
did
seem to be prodding me lately to fess up to something.
I looked at her more closely. She was staring at Webb’s dad. She was laughing and batting her eyelashes like a cartoon character.
That’s when it hit me: Was this old guy my
father
? I nearly choked on my water.
“Honey, are you okay?” Mom asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Fine.”
I’d always assumed my dad was French. But maybe he was American. Why couldn’t a master chef working in Paris nineteen years ago have been an American?
I took a breath. “So exactly how long have you two known each other?”
Webb’s dad looked at Mom and smiled. My heart sank. And then it fluttered.
Wait a minute. If Webb knew his dad was also
my
dad, that would explain why he hadn’t wanted to have tantric sex with me. I was his sister!
Oh. My. God!
This was like a weird-ass European edition of
The Parent Trap
!
“We met on Tuesday night,” Mom said.
Shit.
T
he food arrived and I’m sure it was delicious. But I had no appetite. Not for food, anyway.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Daisy. Even in her wine-splattered blouse, she looked radiant. Webb seemed to like her, too.
“Do you know how to make crème brûlée?” he asked over dessert.
“Sure,” she said. As Daisy began to explain the process to Webb in the most wonderful and encouraging way (“It’s easy if you have the right tools”), I couldn’t help reaching under the table and placing my hand on her knee. She looked surprised, but also—
was it too crazy to think?
—pleased.
“Crème brûlée is a great dessert to serve tableside,” Daisy was saying. “As long as you don’t set your guests on fire.”
“Has that ever happened?” Webb asked, a strange delight in his eyes.
Please ignore my son’s fascination with fire. He’s really quite harmless.
“No,” Daisy answered. “But you have to be careful with the torch. Isn’t that right, Coco?”
“Mom’s referring to the time I almost burned our house down. I was trying to make baked Alaska.”
“You know how to make baked Alaska?” Webb asked. “With flames and everything?”
Please stop acting like a pyromaniac.
“Yeah,” said Coco. “It’s not hard to make.”
“Seriously?” Webb said.
“Coco, why don’t you e-mail Webb the recipe when we get home?” Daisy suggested.
She withdrew from her bag a pen and a small silver case containing business cards.
“Here you go,” Daisy said, handing cards to both Webb and Coco. “Exchange e-mail addresses so you can keep in touch.”
She replaced the case in her purse. Then she made a face at something she saw in her bag. She pulled out a piece of folded paper and handed it to me. I recognized it instantly, but reread it to torture myself.
Dear Ms. 6B,
Please forgive my clumsiness while boarding. I would be more than happy to pay for the cleaning or replacement of your blouse. Truth is, I would be even happier if you’d let me take you to dinner sometime when we return to our side of the pond. That is, if you do plan to return to the U.S. (For all I know, you could be Parisian. You have That Look.)
Were I traveling alone, I might be bolder and introduce myself to you. But for now, all I can do is invite you to e-mail me if you’re interested in meeting an admirer who feels terrible about ruining your travel attire.
Most sincerely,
Mr. 13C
My E-mail: lineman@com
P.S. You are truly first class.
T
hat’s the thing I was telling you about,” I whispered to Andrew as he unfolded the note.
I was trying to be cryptic because I hadn’t told Coco about my creepy secret admirer and didn’t plan to. I didn’t want her to be any more afraid of dating than she already was.
I watched Webb and Coco trade e-mail addresses. If I wasn’t completely blind, there was something between them. A spark of interest, perhaps? Or maybe just a bit of healthy curiosity.
“So, yeah, e-mail me sometime, Mr. Nelson,” Coco said coolly.
“I might just do that, Ms. Sprinkle,” Webb said.
“Please do,” Coco said, batting her eyelashes like a soap opera vixen. “I’ll be home late Saturday night.”
“Me, too,” Webb said. “We’re flying from Paris tomorrow.”
They joked and laughed about flight schedules and the merits of checking or not checking luggage. I couldn’t help silently rejoicing. Coco was being
nice
. Her weeklong cranky attitude was apparently directed only at me—and not the whole world. This was huge. This was cause for celebration. She would do fine at college—and in life. My work was done!
And Andrew’s son was adorable. Maybe Webb was bringing out the best in Coco.
“You guys should trade e-mail addresses, too,” Coco said, looking from me to Andrew.
“Of course, how rude of me,” I said, pulling out my card case and retrieving another business card. I handed it to Andrew. “Now you know where to find me online.”
But Andrew continued to stare as if in disbelief at the handwritten note I’d given him. With an odd expression on his face, he folded the note and returned it to me.
“Dad, give her your e-mail address,” Webb said.
“I . . . don’t use e-mail very much,” Andrew said, signaling for the waiter to bring the check.
Webb burst out laughing. “Yeah, right, Mr. Chained-to-His-BlackBerry.”
Andrew cleared his voice. “I mean, I
used
to. But I’m really trying to connect more. With people. You know, face-to-face connections. Or sometimes the phone. Or—”
“What are you
talking
about?” Webb interrupted. “You don’t even turn off your BlackBerry when you go to bed. Remember when we first got to Madrid? You were getting up in the middle of the night to check e-mail. So give her your e-mail address.”
I felt my chest tighten. The room was starting to spin. I put my hands on the table to steady myself.
“
Da-ad,
” Webb pressed. “
Give
her your e-mail address.”
Andrew’s face was locked in a pained expression. “I’m afraid I can’t. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find our waiter.”
He left the table.
Of course he had somebody back home. Of course he did. Or maybe he had someone in Madrid. Maybe somebody in Barcelona, too. And Paris.
Why had I been such an idiot? Why was I so stupid?
Oh God, I’m having a heart attack
.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“It’s time to go, Coco,” I said, standing up.
It’s not a heart attack, I told myself. It’s only anxiety. And anxiety is just unexpressed anger.
“Wait,” Webb said, looking around the restaurant for his missing dad. “Can you wait till my dad—”
“No,” I said. “We’re leaving.”
Who are you angry with?
Nobody
.
I’m really not angry. I’d explained this to Nancy a million times.
Yes, you are angry. Who are you mad at?
I’m not mad! I’m just tired. Tired of the whole damn thing.
“Where are you guys staying?” Webb asked. “Maybe we could take a cab back together. I think Dad’s just paying the bill.”
“Tell him we said thank you,” I snapped. “Come on, Coco. Let’s go.”
D
ad looked terrible when he got back to the table.
“Yeow, did you get sick?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Where are—”
“They left. Daisy said to tell you thank you.”
I didn’t tell him how she’d said it. I didn’t have the heart to tell him how I’d screwed up his chances with this woman he obviously liked.
I was pretty sure what had happened. When Coco and I were pretending to trade e-mail addresses—as if I didn’t have CocoChi@com tattooed on my brain—Coco must’ve given her mom the “We’re
out
of here” look.
I’d known since middle school how girls had all these secret codes and eye signals. Coco probably gave her mom the “If you think I would ever go
out
with this guy, you’re insane” signal.
Whatever the message was, they were gone. And Dad was sick about it.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s not your fault.”
It is so my fault,
I wanted to say
.
I wished I could tell him the whole story, but I couldn’t. It would take too long, and he’d get mad. And it didn’t really matter now because I’d screwed up this thing he was trying to get going with Daisy, who seemed pretty damn great, like her daughter. Coco looked even prettier than she had in Paris. She was funnier, too. And once we got past the initial shock of seeing each other, I thought it was going pretty well.
Obviously I was wrong.
So, let’s see, not only did I bungle any chance I had with Coco, I’d also spoiled Dad’s chances with Coco’s mom.
What an idiot
.
M
o-om,
” I repeated for the tenth time in the cab back to the hotel. “What’d I do? Just
tell
me what I did wrong. I’d actually like to know.”
“
Actually
, everything isn’t
about
you,” she said, staring out her side of the cab. “I know you might find that hard to believe, but it’s true. The world doesn’t revolve around you.”
Right.
She was obviously mad at me for flirting with Webb. It was 100 percent obvious. Part of me wanted to tell her the whole stupid story so she’d know that I
knew
him already, and we were just goofing. But then I’d have to deal with her getting mad about
how
I knew him.
We rode the rest of the way to the hotel in silence.
“Did Webb say they were flying to Chicago on a five o’clock flight from Paris?” Mom asked as we walked in the lobby.
“Yeah, I think so. Why?”
“I need to change something,” Mom announced. She marched straight to the concierge desk and began making arrangements to get us on a different flight.
“Mother,” I said as calmly as I could. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a
little
bit?”
“No,” she replied. She was staring straight ahead. “We’re done here.”
