Chapter 42

Crêpes et Conversation

Douceur de Marie was a small, dimly-lit restaurant in the heart of downtown Ingram. Its interior was cute but chic, decorated in a white and black theme, the only stark splashes of color coming from the low-backed chairs in the dining room, which were upholstered in red velour. Even better, Muffy's crepe, brimming with pastry cream and fresh strawberries, warm chocolate hazelnut spread drizzled over the top, tasted incredible. She needed an excuse to return here as soon as possible. Closing time was 11 p.m., so there would be no rush to make the drive from Elwood City. Maybe Francine would be interested in a sleepover Saturday after the musical's closing night performance. After all the stress she had been through this week, she deserved to be cheered up with a late-night pig out on quality sweets. She looked at Alan, who sat across the table, digging into a crepe that was filled with dulce de leche and spiced apples, and it was clear he shared her sentiments. "Good?" she asked him. Too busy chewing, he promptly answered with a thumbs up.

"As a plus," Alan said after breaking for air, "the menu gave me some ideas for cone-crete flavors I'd like to suggest to Mom."

"Ooh, corporate espionage," she said playfully. "You're such a bad boy."

Alan gave a low laugh. "Yeah, look out, world. But seriously, no one owns the rights to caramelized milk. I'm fairly certain flavor combinations are considered fair use…not that Mom isn't capable of putting a unique spin on things. She's come up with some pretty appreciable ideas over the years."

She nodded. "Kind of like Daddy. He's an idea machine. That's why I got strawberries today, to honor his latest, brilliant business venture."

Muffy could not help but gush this afternoon even though Alan had been one of the first people she had told about Van Houten Farms yesterday morning. Monday evening, during dinner, her father had announced his plan to purchase the farm and its land from the Van Houtens, to restore it and turn it into a winery and events venue, primarily for weddings. "Last year, the average cost of a wedding in the United States was around twenty-nine thousand dollars," her father had said over his plate of roast lamb, "and reception budgets ranged from two and a half to twelve grand, depending on the level of extravagance. We'll offer different packages, of course, all at competitive rates, allowing our customers to decide just how special they want their special day to be—er, this is all going in my speech to Martha. How do I sound so far?" Muffy had thought he sounded very convincing. So had Martha, it would seem. According to her daddy, she had been taken with his spur-of-the-moment elevator pitch over the phone Sunday evening, and she seemed intrigued by the idea and, most likely, the money she was set to make from it. Her father had everything lined up and ready to go, from a business plan to architectural renderings, from a restoration budget to contractors. All the Van Houtens had to do was sign and agree to license their name.

"He's flying to Lake Tahoe after Thanksgiving," she added, "to give the Van Houtens a full presentation, but he's pretty sure we're golden. Oh, and he's commissioning for the farm to be included in the National Register of Historic Places. That means tax deductions, among other things."

"Not to take away from your dad being a skilled capitalist," said Alan, "but it was nice of him to get Fern off the hook with the Van Houtens, too."

"Yes. They're too mesmerized by dollar signs to drag a teenager into a pointless lawsuit. Everybody wins. Except for George, I guess. I heard he got called to the principal's office yesterday. Brooks gave him a day in ISS for not ratting Fern out at the Autumn Ball. I don't know if that's true, but it would explain why I didn't see him all day today."

"In-school suspension…" Alan mused. "Is that fair, though? George honestly thought Fern would return. He didn't know what she'd planned to do."

"I think it's the knowing Fern planned to sneak out and then sneak back in part that got him. And he was on the committee, so maybe it's also a breach of trust thing? Principal Brooks patrolled the hallways the entire evening. Oh, you just know she's pissed off that a student got past her and her security measures. And they still don't know how Fern did it, only that she left her dress behind in her dressing room. The auditorium's back entrance was locked, and she couldn't have gone out that door or the emergency exits. The alarms would've sounded. The best anyone can guess is that she slipped out the front door or the gym entrance while Coach Sorrell was on a bathroom break and Brooks was in another part of the school. Fern's probably in for it when she gets back, but in the meantime, someone's got to pay. So, George…" Muffy drew a finger across her neck.

"When you put it that way," said Alan, "I guess he's lucky his punishment wasn't more severe."

"Yeah. Brooks could've banned him from the musical or something, then the Players would be extra screwed."

"Have you heard from Fern? Has anyone?"

"Sue Ellen spoke with her over the phone for about five minutes last night. According to her, Fern sounded kind of checked out—not how Sue Ellen put it, but that's my takeaway. She's still in pain, though it isn't as bad now. She's not coming back to school until after Thanksgiving. Sue Ellen's been collecting homework for her, but she's been so busy with the musical she hasn't had a chance to deliver it."

"I…could do that for her," Alan said.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Fern and I have the same English class. It would be easy for me to take over, at least until after the musical. Will you text my number to Sue Ellen? Ask her to meet me at my locker with Fern's assignments tomorrow morning."

Muffy instinctively reached into her handbag for her Infinity and tapped out a text to Sue Ellen within seconds. "Done. This is going to make Sue Ellen's day, Alan. It's so sweet of you."

"I have my moments," he said, a smile in his voice.

Alan continued eating while Muffy stared at him. He really was sweet, but he did not allow it to show very often. On the occasion he let that side of him shine through, it was always a pleasant, welcomed surprise. He had surprised her quite a few times since agreeing to take her on as a tutee, in several different ways. To look at him and take his quiet nature and composed demeanor at face value, one might never guess everything that was going on on the inside, the not-so-good stuff, nor the exceptionally good stuff. She had seen it, though, been made privy to his secrets and struggles, had come to understand him more as a person, had witnessed the strides he had made. Not long ago, Alan had been withdrawn, suffering internally. He had slipped a time or two along the way as he made his uphill climb toward managing his struggles, but he never fully gave up. And now he was practicing yoga, eating crepes, and accompanying her to the nail salon. He even managed to crack a dry joke every now and then. Something about that was inspiring…and kind of adorable.

Adorkable, she corrected herself.

"What?" said Alan insistently, breaking her from her reverie.

"I didn't say anything." said Muffy.

"No, you're just staring at me. What is it? What's wrong?" Alan put down his fork to examine the front of his sweater. He then wiped at his face self-consciously with his red linen napkin, as if afraid he had unwittingly smeared dulce de leche on his cheek."

"You're good, you're good. I swear. I was just lost in thought, that's all."

Alan relaxed at this. "Oh. Are you still trying to figure out how I'm different?"

Muffy regretted mentioning it to Alan. Did he think that she was holding back or something, that he would catch her off guard and she would magically give him an answer? He had pressed her again on Sunday evening after everyone had cleared out of the ice cream shop, and she still had not been able to explain it. She could not explain it to herself, though she had tried. Muffy knew that Alan had changed, that he was trying, working on himself, but that was not it exactly. This was different. He was different. He felt different, but putting those feelings into words seemed impossible. And now the conundrum would bug him until the end of time, even more than it bugged her. In an effort to avoid another awkward exchange, she would deflect and try to aim their conversation in the direction of a different topic.

"Actually, I was thinking about Francine. Opening night is tomorrow, and she needs all the help she can get. I don't suppose you could build a time machine?"

Alan's curiosity faded to disappointment. He shook his head. "I'm afraid there are limits to what even I can do. Although…!" He had only taken hold of his fork again for a couple of seconds when, suddenly, he brandished it above his head, frozen in an aha moment. "I think there might be a way I can help her. I'll have to work up to the last minute, but I might be able to do it!"

"You've got something?" said Muffy. "What is it?"

"I'll explain in the limo. I need you to get me to my workshop, posthaste! Oh, but can I get a doggy bag first? These crepes are too good to pass up."

To be continued…