Ronda shook hands, hers thick and warm. It was soft, too, as were her flushed cheeks, and Markie thought of the Lycra-encased members of the Saint Mark’s Mothers’ Club, who spent countless hours and dollars in the quest for the dewy-pink glow Ronda had acquired for free by making a two-minute trip from the house to the garage to the fence. It made her love the fleshy cook instantly.
Holding on to Markie with one hand and fanning her face with the other, Ronda said, in her tiny voice, “Oh, land! Wrestling with that old chair!” It seemed an impossible incongruence, Markie thought, the largeness of Ronda’s body and the smallness of her voice. “But at least I won!” She pointed to her victim, sitting obediently open in the sun.
Finally releasing Markie’s hand, Ronda said, “We’ve all been so eager to meet you. And to meet your boy. Especially Lola. She’s so excited about having a playmate next door. You should’ve seen her when Mrs. Saint said she’d spoken to him a few times on his way home from school. She about blew her top! She wanted to leave school early so she could be standing out at the front, too.” She chuckled briefly, then leaned closer and, serious now, said, “She knows she’s not allowed to knock on your door and seek him out. Not until you’ve shown you were, you know . . . ready.”
Markie decided to ignore the part where Mrs. Saint had indeed been standing outside, waiting to intercept Jesse, not just once but “a few times,” and went straight to setting expectations for Lola’s interactions with him. “I hope someone will warn her that high school kids aren’t really into playing,” she said, striving for a tone that was as kind as it was firm. “I wouldn’t want her to get her hopes up.”
Ronda smiled, undaunted. “Too late for that, probably. And thanks for the offer of a chair, but it’s for Lola, not me. And I don’t think you want her smearing her chocolate into your new cushions.”
As if on cue, the door from the screened porch opened and Lola appeared, wearing a short, summery dress with jeans underneath and an old hooded sweatshirt, unzipped, over top. Holding something aloft in one hand, the girl jumped from the top step down to the grass, sailing over the four wooden steps that led down from the porch and landing with her bare feet planted together, both arms high in the air.
“Nice!” Ronda called. “I’d give it a nine point five.” To Markie, she said, “We let her watch the Olympics this summer. She’s been doing that ever since.”
Lola snapped her head toward the fence, her mouth open.
“You didn’t notice anyone else was out here?” Ronda laughed. “Why am I not surprised? Put a Hershey bar in your hand and watch the rest of the world disappear.”
At the mention of it, Lola gazed lovingly at the chocolate bar she held, then turning back to Ronda, pointed at the chair, her expression inquisitive.
“Yes, I put it there for you,” Ronda said. “Your mother says I should only give you fifteen minutes, though, and then herd you back in for homework. You want a glass of water?”
“No, thanks.” Lola shivered and pulled her sweatshirt closed.
“I thought your mom was going to fix that zipper,” Ronda said. Lola shot her a look, and Ronda said, “I know, but even a few safety pins would keep it closed. She doesn’t have to actually sew. Leave it here when you go, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Lola nodded and climbed into the chair, crossing her legs. Using her free hand, she brushed her stringy, dirty-looking hair out of her eyes, and Markie tried not to think of how much she could accomplish if the girl would let her take a damp cloth and a hairbrush over.
“Oh!” Ronda said. “Our manners! Lola, this is Mrs. Saint’s new neighbor, Ms. . . .” She peered at Markie and asked, “What should she call you?”
“Markie is good. Hi, Lola.”
Lola smiled shyly. “You have a boy.”
“Yes, I do. His name is Jesse. He’s older. He started ninth grade this year.”
“I started second.”
Markie almost said, “I know, I heard,” but caught herself, and instead asked how she liked school so far.
“I like after school better. Ronda gives me these sometimes.” She held up the chocolate bar. “And Frédéric lets me help him do stuff.”
“But not today,” Ronda said. “You have that reading work sheet, and then your mom needs to get going early. So there’s not much time.”
Lola didn’t need to be told twice, and in about two seconds, she had the candy wrapper torn off, rolled into a ball, and shoved into the pocket of her jeans.
“That girl would eat five of those bars if I let her,” Ronda said. “She once told me she’d had chocolate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner over the weekend. On both days! She doesn’t have too many rules at home. So I’ve got to be a bit strict with her here, keep her to a bar a week.”
“I wonder what her dentist thinks about her eating so much chocolate,” Markie whispered.
“That’s what Mrs. Saint’s always saying every time I give her some. But then Frédéric reminds her what it was to be a child with a rare piece of chocolate, and she backs down.” Ronda smiled.
“Mrs. Saint certainly has a lot of opinions,” Markie said, leaning toward Ronda conspiratorially. “I’m surprised to hear she ever concedes a point, to Frédéric or anyone. By the way, how did she meet him? I’ve asked her a few times, but she always acts like she can’t hear the question. For someone so interested in everyone else’s story, she’s certainly reluctant to reveal her own!”
Ronda’s smile sagged, and her eyes told Markie there was no point in anyone trying to get her to utter a negative word about her employer or in expecting her to reveal information the Frenchwoman didn’t want others to know.
“I imagine most people that age have a little mystery to them,” Ronda said lightly. “All that life! I know I’d find it hard to keep all the details straight, even if I wanted to let people know everything!”
Markie didn’t buy it, and Ronda must have been able to tell, because she gave an apologetic smile. But she didn’t offer anything further, and Markie could see it would be futile to push.
They were both quiet for a few minutes, and then Ronda said, “I can tell you this, though. She may come out swinging hard, but on the inside, she’s really an old softie.”
Markie pictured Mrs. Saint sliding into the diner booth beside the crying Ronda, putting an arm around her, tut-tutting as she brushed hair out of Ronda’s eyes and told her she needed to find a job that wasn’t so demanding. “I could use a cook myself,” she heard the old woman lie.
“She has really helped the others,” Ronda said. In response to Markie’s look of confusion, Ronda said, “Bruce, Frédéric, Patty, and Lola, I mean. They needed a place, and she made one for them. A job and a good salary. Even meals; that’s where I come in.” She jabbed a thick finger into her breastbone.