I miss it a lot already.
Focus. Meadow’s childhood, not mine.
I have to start with the earliest known facts about her: she started her food career at a pirate-themed restaurant for kids and tourists called the Buccaneer. It’s on the beach along Highway 101, and before I head out there—thus wasting Uber fare I really can’t afford to spend—I call to find out if Trudy, Meadow’s old boss, is still working there.
“Dude, no way. She’s like a hundred years old.”
“Do you know if she still lives around here?”
“I don’t, but hold on.”
I hear a muffled yell and then someone else picks up. “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Trudy Nickels,” I repeat.
“What do you want with her?”
The truth is often the best policy. “I’m writing a dissertation on Meadow Beauvais and I’d like to talk to Trudy about the early days.”
“Ah. She loves talking about her girl. Let me call and make sure she’d be down with it.”
“No worries. Thank you so much.” He takes my phone number, and in less than five minutes, he calls me back.
“Got a pen?” He gives me a phone number, and I scribble it quickly. “She lives downtown.”
The house is a little square box on a small lot planted by someone who loves and understands plants. It’s a very hot location, with bright sun burning down, but the beds are tidy with blooming flowers I don’t know the name of, and little statues peek from the foliage.
On the concrete square in front of the door, I take a minute to wipe my face and shake out my sweaty hair, then knock.
A woman opens it. She’s nearly six feet tall, with surprisingly beautiful silver hair and an apple-shaped body clothed in easy-wear pastel separates, a sleeveless blouse and capri pants. Her age is hard to calculate—her face is extremely wrinkled, but her movements are brisk. Well into her seventies, if I had to guess. “You must be Norah,” she says.
“Yes. Are you Trudy?”
“Come on in.” She leads the way and I step inside gingerly. The heavy odor of cigarettes hangs in the curtains and walls, and the ceiling overhead is yellowed with tar. “Can I get you a glass of tea?”
“Sure. That would be great.” I stand in the middle of the small living room holding my notebook. An orange cat wanders out and winds around my ankles. I bend over to stroke him, pleased when he purrs.
“Sit down, sit down,” Trudy says when she returns from the kitchen. “I hope you like mint tea. I grow it myself.”
I take a sip, discovering a reviving, bright brew. “Mmm. It’s great.”
She settles in a recliner, clearly her favorite chair. Paperbacks and sudoku digests are neatly stacked on the side table, and she tucks a coaster under each of our glasses. “Probably not much use, but I always have to try.”
“Of course.”
“Now, what can I help you with, dear?”
“I’m writing about Meadow Beauvais and her influence on the foodie movement—”
“Bah. I hate that word, foodie. What the hell does it even mean?”
I grin. “You’re right. It’s silly.”
“But go on. Sorry. That’s how you get when you get old, set in your ways. You want to know about Tina?”
“Tina?”
“Oh, that’s her real name. Meadow was something she came up with along the way.”
“Of course.” I smile, feeling a piece drop into place. I write down TINA in capital letters. “Do you remember her maiden name?”
“Ah, it was a really long time ago.”
“No worries. She was very young when she started working for you, right?”
“Yeah. She said she was eighteen, but I thought it was younger, even though she had a little girl of her own.”
“Rory, right?”
Trudy squints. “Maybe. I honestly don’t remember. Pretty little thing, as pretty as her mother.”
“Did she ever talk about the baby’s dad?”
“No, no. She never talked about her life before. I got the impression she came from one of the farm towns in the Central Valley. She had that roughness, you know.”
“Really,” I comment, surprised. “She’s so polished now, you’d never guess.”
“You know her, then? Why aren’t you talking to her directly?”
“I am,” I say, trying to make it sound obvious. “I’m just trying to create a fuller picture.”