Page 6 of Snowballed

“Rocky! You look amazing.” And different. Her dark hair is cut into a stylish sixties shag. Rocky is a fashion chameleon.

Someone clears his throat behind us.

“Ah, je m’excuse.Zoe Meyers, this is Jean-Pierre Lanctôt.”

I shake hands with a tall, good-looking man in a trendy leather jacket and dark jeans. Rocky and I are opposites in many ways, perhaps the biggest being her ability to find new boyfriends. She doesn’t believe in long distance, so she finds new boyfriends every summer when she goes home to Montreal. And then changes men up when she gets back here. Maybe I should start snagging her discards.

“It’s very pretty here,” Jean-Pierre says which immediately boosts my opinion of him.

“Would you like a tour of the farm?” I offer.

He takes a quick look at the muddy yard and declines. He is wearing suede boots better suited to city strolls.

The three of us unload Rocky’s suitcases and hockey bag. She’s staying here for the weekend and then moving back into her apartment near campus.

My mother invites Jean-Pierre to stay for dinner, but Rocky interrupts, “Unfortunately, J.P. must drive back to Montreal, so he better get going.” It’s less than a two-hour drive, but Rocky is pretty ruthless about her breakups. When it’s over, it’s over. The two of them go outside. My mother and I spy on them through the curtains.

“He’s a very nice-looking boy,” says my mother.

“Boy? He looks like he’s 30,” I say.

My mother laughs. “It’s all relative.”

Rocky and J.P. have a passionate clinch, but then it’s over. He watches her walk away, and he looks so sad that I feel quite sorry for him.

“Poor guy,” I say, but to my surprise my mother laughs.

“Marie Josée knows how to handle men.”

“Where is this pizza I’ve been hearing about?” Rocky calls out as she enters the house. The breakup has had zero emotional effect on her.

“Coming right up,” I say. We head into our kitchen, which is the best part of the house. It’s an old-fashioned room with tall, white cupboards, counters on both sides, and a worn wooden table in the center. Our farmhouse is nothing like the perfect magazine ones, but what we lack in charm we make up for in good food.

I pull my pizza dough out of the fridge and roll it out. Rocky pours herself an apple cider and sets the other end of the long table.

“Just the three of us?” she asks.

“Only two of us. My mother is going out tonight.”

“Aren’t you going to throw the dough in the air?” Rocky asks.

“That’s advanced pizza making. I’m not there yet.” I continue to stretch the dough to the right thinness. “These pizzas are going to be a money-maker next season.”

“How?” Rocky asks.

“I read an article about it. People are paying big money to eat pizza at farms. Farm-fresh ingredients and a lovely rural setting, and families can bring the kids—it’s destination dining at its best.”

Rocky laughs. “You are the best at dreaming up crazy schemes.”

“What do you mean, crazy?” I ask.

“Don’t make me bring the rain.” Rocky is perfectly bilingual, but sometimes she mixes up her idioms.

“Rain away,” I say. Rocky is not as negative as my mother and brother, so I don’t mind hearing her opinions.

“Well, I went to one of those farm restos north of Montreal. It’s a lot of work. They had a big stone oven, picnic tables, gardens, and trails. And many staff.”

Yeah, everything always boils down to more work and money. Still, I fight for my idea. “I saw this video where a guy built an outdoor pizza oven out of bricks, and it hardly cost anything.”

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