4 HOW TO FIND A GOOD DENTIST
Some days, a shot of espresso did the job. Other days, I sought relief in an affogato—three shots of espresso and a liberal scoop of Cappuccino Di Cremona gelato. This was one of those days.
Business was dead. I’d had three customers since lighting up the Open, takeouts for birthday cakes, each prepaid. Ice cream and winter don’t mix at the best of times, but the cakes and hardpacks paid the offseason bills. Throw in a blizzard and a guy might as well stay in bed.
I sat by the window, nearing the bottom of my cup and a sluggish five o’clock, when the headlights swept through the parking lot. My expectations were zero. I was ready to close up, grab dinner from China Wang in Malta, and settle in at home with a movie. My guess, the driver would U-turn to BAR-B-QSA a hundred yards back. I drained the last of my affogato and stopped dead at the sight of the apparition in the window.
A drop in barometric pressure will do that to you, or to your brain, at least. Not that I believed in the supernatural or much else by then. And a phantom in a snowstorm had to be abnormal even for the paranormal. The wind was pushing forty. Ice pellets pelting. Drifts up to your nostrils. White on night, no sign of life, except for this ethereal waif, peering through the vapor, looking to get a rise out of someone or something. I wondered why she (or it) hadn’t opted for better weather and a busier time, the opportunity to freak out more than my gang of one. But then she vanished as abruptly as she’d appeared, dispersed into the ether, down vest, cozy fleece, and ectoplasm. An instant later she traipsed through my door and taxied to an unhurried landing at my table. Angel of Death come to collect a soul past due.
She pocketed her gloves, tossed off her hood, brushed snow from her vest and bangs. And there I sat, the oblivious male lead in a déjà vu screenplay: the tenderfoot newly arrived at the ranch, waiting for Billy the foreman to show up in a pickup truck, except Billy turns out to be a spirited babe in a cowboy hat and the story writes itself.
“You’re still open, I hope?” She unzipped her vest, loosened her scarf. “I’m not too late, am I?”
My diaphragm rebooted. I got to my feet. “Too late for . . . uh . . . ?”
She appraised me with a quizzical grin, her brown eyes probing, and raised her hands to indicate the surroundings. “This is an ice cream shop, isn’t it?”
“Ice cream?” Her hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders, the shade a buttercream the overhead lighting somehow mined for platinum.
“I’m sorry. Am I missing something? Did I wake you up?”
Dazed is what I was, arms straight to tabletop, elbows locked, knuckles flat. I must have looked like I was set to detonate. “I’m sorry. Yeah, I guess you caught me napping, sort of. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Me?”
“Anyone. The weather . . . ”
“So you are closed?” She flicked her scarf back to her neck.
“No, no. I’m open. Wide open.” I pointed her to the counter and the backlit overhang that was the menu. “Take your time. Anything you want, on the house.”
She eyed me with suspicion. “That’s not necessary.”
“To come out on a night like this . . . for ice cream. Yeah, it is necessary.”
“Well, okay then. Thank you,” she said. I had the feeling she had more on her mind, but she let it pass. Seconds later she pointed: “I know I shouldn’t, but this sounds wonderful.”
Vermont Volcano Sundae!
Ribbons of pure Vermont maple syrup,
crunchy nuggets of pure Vermont maple sugar,
and the most awesomely vibrant vanilla in the galaxy.
Topped with Everest-inspired peaks of farm-fresh whipped cream, crisp slivers of home-baked raspberry wafer,
and the fiery essence of South Seas cinnamon.
“Still, you’ve got to let me pay,” she said. “I insist.”
“Look, I’m just glad to have company. It’s been a long day.”
“We’ll make a trade, then. I pay for the ice cream, you talk my head off. Deal?” She offered her hand and I was happy to reciprocate, though wisely kept it brief. She’d done next to nothing, said next to nothing, and yet I was drawn to her. She was a small planet with a gravitational attraction akin to Jupiter, fragments of unknown worlds in orbit about her. I didn’t say this out loud, of course; I wasn’t a dope, doped-up, or Pablo Neruda.
Forgoing poetic (and pathetic) allusion, I let my actions do the talking. Indeed, I gave that sundae everything I had, scooping, saucing, sculpting, and sprinkling to beat the band.
“You’re an artist,” she said, as she watched.
“It’s too beautiful to eat,” she said, as I set the glass tulip before her.
“Well, almost,” she said, as she submerged her spoon.
“Oh, my,” she said, as the first taste touched her lips. “Oh, my.”
She was around my age, twenty-five, twenty-six, though self-possessed in ways I couldn’t come close to. You could see it in her eyes: the amusement, the knowing, as if any surprise would fail to surprise. She came across as the storied girl-next-door, ambitious and eager and quick to leave home, only to return years later with worlds in her pockets.
I made myself another espresso, a double, and took a seat at the counter, two deferential stools between us. Lenora-Jo Coffey’s sneaker on my crotch had been a lesson well learned.
Her. Me. And the wavy orange and blue stripes that animated the walls and ceiling of Loony Scoops. Our tête-à-tête had all the makings of those super-vivid dreams that send your hopes soaring, opening your life to wondrous possibility, before the crushing reality that arrives on awakening.
“First time here?” I asked, as syrupy suave as a shot of Buckley’s Original.
“Once before. Labor Day weekend.”
“Did we talk?”
“You were busy. The place was packed. Not like now.”
“Yeah, always best to hold off on ice cream until there’s a snowstorm.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” She burrowed deeper into the sundae, her spoon emerging with a taste of pretty much everything. “And you, Rob, been here long?”
“You know my name?”
“It’s embroidered on your shirt.”
“My middle name is Idiot,” I said.
“I’m Cori, by the way,” she said, and extended her hand a second time. I held it a fraction longer than before, waited for her thumb to signal time-up.
I told her how I got into ice cream and ended up in Saratoga. She told me how she was new to the area, had gone to McGill University, up in Montreal. “I was so anxious to get back to the States, I took the first job offer to come along. I thought I’d be miserable here, but I’m not. Saratoga. Lake George. Even Queensbury. I love the area.” She looked me in the eye. “I really do.”
Smitten had never been part of my vocabulary. It ranked alongside fiancée and marvelous as words no man should ever speak aloud. But as I chatted with her, smitten is where I sensed I was heading. She was spooning up the last of her sundae when I got to the question I’d been avoiding. “You’re not a writer, are you?”
“Like books?”
“Like a reporter.”
She paused to parse my question, and again looked at me like I might be off my nut. “Why would you think that? Do I give off vibes or something?”
“Just wondering, that’s all.”
She shook her head as if she might have finally had enough of me. She took a ten-dollar bill from her purse.
“I told you,” I said, “it’s on the house.”
“Okay, if that’s how you want it.” She took back her money and slid her business card across the flecked Formica, through a dollop of marshmallow topping, and onto my palm. “We’ll do a trade-off, then.”
CORINNE MEREDITH WIDDOES, DDS
ORAL CORRAL DENTAL
WEST HIGH STREET, BALLSTON SPA, NY
“I could use a good dentist,” I said, in the great dairy-romantic tradition.
She laughed. “You’re an interesting guy, Rob.”
“You think so?”
“I do.”
“Because interesting is the last thing I try to be.”
“Clearly, you need to try harder.”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad you liked the Volcano. Hope you’ll come by for more sometime”
“Only if you’ll let me pay.”
“I promise,” I said. “If it’ll help, I’ll charge you double next time.”
She was the girl every band in history has sung about—a pop-song crush in melody, verse, and yearning. And for reasons yet unknown, she had transcended the lyrics to touch down in my life. I watched for her daily, but soon saw her passion for ice cream was dictated by the weather. She showed up solely on the stormiest days, when business was dead and I was alone. According to the love guru who resided at the sub-basement level of my brain, this was a good thing. At this rate, I’d soon be writing my own songs.
Six visits down, Cori’s tally was formidable:
One Vermont Volcano Sundae.
One Pistachio Parfait.
One double scoop of Georgia Treasure on a cake cone.
One double scoop of Salted Caramel in a handcrafted waffle bowl.
One Amorous Amaretto frozen cannoli.
Lastly, three-quarters through one Kiwi Mango milkshake, she poked her straw aside, pondered me a moment, and said. “I’d give anything to see what you look like when you’re not wearing brown or an apron or that baseball cap.”
“What? You’ve got a problem with my sense of fashion?”
“To put it mildly . . . ”
“We’d have to meet somewhere outside of here, then.”
“Are you asking me out?” she said.
“Like a date? Yeah. Guess I am.”
“About time.” She pecked me on the cheek and cut a hasty exit.