The Chicken Sisters(34)
Mimi’s wasn’t going to win in a head-to-head beauty pageant with Frannie’s, and everybody knew it. But it could appeal to a certain subset of viewers—the ones who valued simplicity and authenticity over variety and constant change, who would prefer one classic, beloved, well-made handbag over a collection of cheap knockoffs.
The ones like Mae, in other words, and the ones who would do two things: follow Mae, giving her increased visibility and setting her up for the next stage of her career, and, if they were at all local, come check out what Mae intended to bill as “fried chicken like your great-great-grandparents loved.” That would bring in a fresh influx of customers, all ready to see Mimi’s in a new light. Win-win, even in the face of an ultimate Food Wars loss.
Because while Barbara might have been adamantly declaring that Mimi’s was in fine financial shape, all around her Mae could see the same old signs of penny-pinching—except, of course, for the bizarre advent of Andy. Which brought her mind back to her mother’s disappearance last night, also bizarre. Step one and a half: figure out whether there was a reason Barbara was acting so strangely, or whether this was just one of those Barbara things. That might be step three, actually, because if they were going to get anything about Mimi’s improved before the Food Wars crew showed up again, they didn’t have much time.
Mae, now out on the sidewalk just past Mimi’s, could see her mother disappearing into the Inn. She set out after Barbara, not quite at top walking speed because the coffee shop was extremely likely to also contain Kenneth. Reunions weren’t on Mae’s agenda, as much as she wanted to hear the story—Kenneth had wanted out of town even worse than she had, and she couldn’t imagine why he’d trade pulling all-nighters at a start-up in San Francisco for pulling shots of espresso in Merinac. Later, though. Could she just pretend she already knew the whole thing? Her mother’s dog, sprawled on the sidewalk next to the Inn’s door, looked up but didn’t move as Mae grasped the handle and pulled it firmly open. Bells jingled, heads turned. Fine. She was a New Yorker now, a TV personality, a little bit famous. She put a little cock in her walk. She could handle this.
Her mother’s back was to her, but the man behind the counter, who was not Kenneth, looked up immediately. “Mae Moore,” he said with evident pleasure, and set down the cup he was holding, as if to come out and greet her.
Barbara leaned forward and tapped on the counter. “Patrick Lehavy,” she said without turning around, “you finish my coffee before you do one more thing.”
Patrick, still smiling widely, picked the cup back up and began carefully topping it with frothed milk, looking up at Mae as he did so. “Welcome,” he said. “Kenneth has been assuring me you’d turn up sooner or later. Said you couldn’t hold out against the best coffee in town.”
“It is that,” Barbara agreed. “Make Mae one—she’ll be needing it.” Her tone was casual, as though she and Mae ran into each other here every day of the week, but she turned and smiled at Mae, leaning back against the counter. Her hair, in two gray braids, hung over her shoulders; she wore, as she always did, a full floral apron over shapeless polyester pants and a high school sweatshirt—baseball, because it was spring. She looked exactly as she always had, and Mae felt an enormous loosening inside of her, an untying of knots she had not known were tied, as she walked straight into her mother’s outstretched arms.
As they stepped apart, with Mae hanging on for just a half second longer than Barbara, Patrick handed Barbara a thick mug, filled not quite to the brim. “I think, if I am not mistaken, that I have already made Mae at least one coffee,” he said. “Am I wrong in thinking that the young woman who’s already been in here twice this morning works for you?”
Of course. Nothing went without comment in Merinac. Not your coffee, not your groceries, not your decision to try running or subscribe to The New Yorker, which had once made Kenneth a topic of discussion all over town. It was a little ironic, then, that it was Kenneth’s husband who was heading up this morning’s gossip brigade, but as much as it pushed Mae’s old Merinac buttons, she held in the snippy response that rose to her lips and smiled back instead.
“Yes,” she said, mindful of Amanda’s reaction to the word “nanny.” “I brought someone to help me with the kids.”
To her surprise, her mother and Patrick nodded. “Probably smart,” Barbara said as she picked up her mug carefully, using both hands, and turned away. Greeting over, then, and it was time for Mae to fall into line beside her mother. This coffee shop, with its two gay proprietors and its lattes, should have felt like Mae territory, but it was Barbara who was at home here. Barbara’s affections were unpredictable and, once set, unchangeable, and she did not care what other people thought. It was why she always clicked with Jay on her rare visits to New York, where she refused to make the slightest alteration in her appearance to fit in with her surroundings. They shared that rebel quality.
You just couldn’t ever be sure if she might choose today to rebel against you. Still, even with the nagging worry in the back of Mae’s mind about how Kenneth would greet her, even with the coffee grapevine in full swing, finding Barbara in this atmosphere made Mae feel like things might be going her way.
Patrick didn’t leave her in doubt about Kenneth for very long. “You can wait for that third latte,” he said. “I’m getting Kenneth. I know, I know, you guys have lost touch. We’re fixing that. Right now.” He disappeared into one of the two doors behind the counter, this one clearly leading to the lobby of the bed-and-breakfast. “I’ll be back,” he called over his shoulder. “I know you won’t go anywhere without your coffee.”