“And how long have you been working in the restaurant business?” she asked, busy adding up the years.
“About five, I guess,” he said with a shrug and a big smile. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”
At least thirty, thought Lucy, which made him much too old for Zoe.
“And are you married?”
“No,” laughed Matt. “Like I said, I’m having too much fun.”
Not with my daughter, you’re not, thought Lucy.
Libby, having finished her biscuit, rose from her doggy bed, gave a shake, and went back to her previous spot next to Zoe. Lucy, realizing she had little to no control over a situation she didn’t much like, decided to go out and mulch the vegetable garden with compost for the winter.
When she returned to the house an hour later, Matt was gone and six dozen donuts were neatly lined up on paper towels and cooling on the counter. Lovely donuts, perfectly browned around the edges, with a light dusting of cinnamon sugar. Really, she ought to be grateful to the fellow, but she wasn’t. She even resented the fact that she really, really wanted to eat one but knew she shouldn’t. She heard the TV in the family room and went in, finding Zoe on the couch with Libby, watching a cooking show.
“Thanks for making those donuts. They’re beautiful,” Lucy said, plopping down beside the dog and scratching her behind her ears. On the TV, Ina Garten was adding a lot of butter to a pan of mushrooms.
“You should thank Matt,” said Zoe. “I could never have made such nice ones by myself. And they taste fantastic. He put in some spices I never would have thought of . . . like cumin and red pepper.”
“Red pepper?” asked Lucy, alarmed.
Ina was cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking them.
“Just a tiny bit. He said it would ‘liven’ the sweet apple flavor.”
“That will have to be our secret.” Lucy could imagine how the usual festival customers would react to the idea of red pepper in their apple cider donuts. “What is she making?” she asked as Ina added grated cheese to the eggs.
“A mushroom quiche,” said Zoe. “I have to say, I didn’t think much of her pastry technique. She used a food processor and Matt says that makes a tough crust. You can always tell, he says, if the pastry was made by loving hands.”
Ina was now outside her shingled house in the Hamptons, serving quiche to her husband, Jeffrey, who was sitting at a patio table. He really seemed to enjoy the quiche, even if the crust was machine made.
Or maybe it was the big glass of white wine, thought Lucy. “Matt seems really nice,” she said, carefully weighing her words as the commercials began to roll, “but he’s quite a bit older than you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Zoe. “He’s not my boyfriend or anything.”
“He clearly seemed attracted to you,” said Lucy. “Guys don’t make six dozen donuts for girls they don’t like.”
“That’s the silliest thing I ever heard,” said Zoe, laughing.
“Well,” admitted Lucy, also laughing, “it was a unique situation. But you’ve got to admit guys are nice to girls they’re attracted to, and offering help is one way to get acquainted. You’re very pretty. He even said so.”
“He was just being polite,” said Zoe.
“Maybe a bit too polite, too charming. I think you should keep things on a professional level. He’s really too old, too worldly for a girl your age.” Lucy sighed. “There are lots of nice boys at Winchester. Boys like Hank,” she said, naming a boy Sara had dated the previous winter. “He was so nice. I don’t know why Sara dropped him.”
“For your information, Hank DeVries is a big loser and a druggie,” said Zoe, clicking off the TV and picking up the textbooks and notebooks lying on the coffee table. “I’ve got to study.”
“You must be thinking of somebody else,” protested Lucy. “Hank was really into diving. Sarah met him at the college dive club. He was very fit and athletic . . . and smart, too. I thought he was a really nice boy.”
“Mom, you should hear yourself,” said Zoe, tucking the books into the crook of her arm. “Nice is just a code word for white and Protestant. You say that you don’t approve of Matt because he’s too old for me but what you really mean is that he’s Latino, he’s got dark skin and black hair, and he’s probably Catholic. You’d rather have me go out with Hank, who’s blond and Episcopalian and wears L.L. Bean boat shoes without socks year round.”
“He wears duck boots in winter, like everyone else,” said Lucy, stung by Zoe’s accusation. “And I don’t object to Matt because of his skin or hair. It’s because of his age and the way he’s so slick, so polished. It’s nothing but charm. He’s not sincere, and I don’t trust him.”
“But you trust Hank? That’s a laugh. He’s a dropout. He hangs around the college to score drugs.”
“I can’t believe that,” said Lucy.
“Well, it’s true. His family is all screwed up. He had a brother who was killed in a skiing accident. His parents are divorced. His father is a beach bum somewhere in the Caribbean and his mother sells crystals in Sedona.”
“I had no idea,” admitted Lucy, picturing the SCUBA enthusiast she remembered. “He seemed so clean-cut and helpful and open. I thought I could read him like a book.”
“Well, it turns out the Book of Hank has some plot twists,” said Zoe, leaving the room.
“I guess so,” said Lucy, following her into the kitchen.
Zoe continued up the back stairs to her room, and Lucy began the job of packing the donuts on trays and covering them with plastic wrap.
* * *
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