The Sweetest Thing (21 page)

I turn around, head back down the alley, and enter the house through the back door. I run upstairs, close my bedroom door, turn on my laptop, and go to my jewelry box. Mom’s note floats on top, Jack’s bracelet just beneath it.

I stuff the heart-shaped piece of paper into my front pocket, then pick up the bracelet, slip it around my wrist, and fasten it tight.

I growl at the computer, which is taking its sweet time booting up. Since Dad took my phone, I need to get the phone number for Mom’s bakery off the Internet. I am going to call her and very simply insist that she come back.

Finally, I get online and google Sweetie’s in Sault Sainte Marie. I punch the long Canadian number into the cordless and wait. I am not even a little bit nervous. This is no time to panic. This might be my last chance. Do or die.

The phone rings and rings, and then finally the voice mail picks up, again.

“Hello. This is Sheridan.” I pause. Too late to change my mind now. “Um, you said you’d call me back.” Okay, so I am a little nervous. “Uh, you need to call me back. You promised, Mom. This is my number.” I leave my cell number, but as soon as I hit “off,” I realize I just gave the number to the phone that Dad took away.

Oh crap. This day just keeps getting better. I toss the phone onto my bed, grab my bag. Jack’s bracelet gets caught on my sweater sleeve. I miss him. It’s like there’s a big hole where he used to be, like a missing piece to a puzzle. I miss his goofy sense of humor. I miss him just being here.

There’s no one I can talk to like I can talk to Jack. I want 219

to be friends again.

The doorbell rings, but I grab my coat and schoolbag, tiptoe down the stairs and sneak out the back door.

I head down the alley and around the corner to Main Street, walking west toward the church rectory. It’s five thirty and the sun is starting to go down, but there’s enough light to start a few more drawings.

I walk through the open gate and feel instantly protected by the brick walls around me. I can hide here, for a little while. My eyes are swollen from crying, and I could really use a tissue, but I flip open my sketchbook anyway.

I sit on a small concrete bench that’s curved like a smile and scan my work from yesterday, when I sketched the tulips. I notice today that they are open just a little bit wider.

The daytime temperatures have been warmer the last few days, and the garden shows it.

I glance around and decide to draw the grape hyacinths, which are so low to the ground I have to lie on my stomach to get a good look.

They are beautiful, like clusters of bright indigo bells. I focus on one single bulb and begin. My right hand seems to know exactly what to do, where to shadow, where to lightly trace. My eyes move from the paper to the flower. It’s like making music, notes and instrument working together. The flower comes alive, right there in my sketchbook.

It’s not the same as making cakes, but still, this picture is coming along. When the sketch is done, I reach for my 220

colored pencils so that I can capture the way the hyacinths look in the fading sunset, the way they rustle ever so slightly in the cool breeze.

As I pull out the green pencil, I hear footsteps on the flagstone path and snap the sketchbook closed.

“Good evening, Sheridan,” Growly says, stern, as always.

“Hi, Father,” I say, scrambling off my belly. “I was just leaving.” His usual scowl is there when I look up at him.

“Oh, don’t rush off on my account. It’s a lovely flower, don’t you think?” He points to the clump of grape hyacinths at my feet.

“Yes. Lovely.”

“May I see what you’ve done?”

No way.
“Well, they stink, so . . .”

“Perhaps they do”—he sits on the bench—“but I’ll be kind. I promise.” He reaches out. I want to turn around and run. But I open the book and give it to him.

He stares at the hyacinths for a long time, turning the paper this way and that. And then he flips the page backward.

“Oh, please, don’t.” I reach for the book. “Those are worse.”

He laughs quietly. “Oh, let an old man appreciate some art.” He considers several of the tulip and daffodil sketches from yesterday and then the withering crocuses from the day before.

He closes the book, hands it back to me.

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“Yes.” He looks straight ahead at the still-sleeping rose-bushes. “There’s definitely some talent there.”

I look down at my feet. “I told you they weren’t good.”

He crosses his arms, leans back a few inches. “Well, actually, they are quite remarkable.”

“Oh.” I shove the sketchbook back into my bag. “Thank you. But it’s not really my thing. Art, I mean. I don’t like it very much.”

“Hmm. Life is full of ironies like that, isn’t it?” He straightens his body and chuckles. “The Father hands us what he hands us. A calling. A family. A gift. And yet, we can hate the things we’ve been given. Or love them. Or sometimes feel both ways at the same time. Odd, don’t you think?”

I don’t know exactly what he’s getting at. But I feel I have to make one thing clear. “I’d rather make cakes. I love making cakes.”

“Yes.” He nods. “Like your mother before you.” He leans to one side, picks a piece of grass, and throws it into the air to see which way the wind is blowing. “Your mother was gifted, certainly. But not like you.”

“She is
very
talented,” I say. He better not insult my mother too; he’ll be sorry.

“No, no, there’s no doubt about that.” He points a finger at me and smiles again. “But she is not you and vice versa.

Your talents are not the same as hers. Thankfully, we don’t become exactly what our parents are; we have gifts of our 222

own to develop and explore.”

I look hard at the old guy. He’s trying to impart some priestly wisdom to me. But he doesn’t know me or what my cakes mean to me. He doesn’t know what my mother means to me. No one does.

“I think I’ll sit out here for a bit and enjoy the evening.

Would you care to join me?” he says.

“No. Thank you. They’re filming us tonight, or something.”

“Ah, the big show.” He grins.

“Yeah.”

“Well then, good-night.” He reaches out his hand to me.

I consider him for a second, and then place my hand in his.

He squeezes it, just a little.

“May God bless you and bring you peace, Sheridan.”

“Thanks.” I let go and walk toward the gate, hoping that maybe God heard him, thinking that a little peace would be a nice change.

Dad’s car is back at the house. I don’t want to talk to him at all. But I know I need to get my cell phone back before Mom calls. The filming starts in half an hour, and the crew is now streaming in and out of the back of the bakery, setting up.

I take a deep breath and walk quietly inside the house.

I don’t see Dad, but as I walk upstairs, his voice booms out.

“Sheridan!” He’s in his study down the hall. My feet move like they are in quicksand.
Squelch. Squerch
. When I 223

get to the doorway, I see that he’s at his desk, leaning on his elbows, tapping his chin with his fingers.

“Where did you go?” he asks.

You mean after you left me by the side of the road?

“Art project,” I say, trying to sound like I don’t hate him for what he did and said to me earlier. I need that cell phone.

It’s there on the corner of his desk. If he’s still mad, there’s no way I’ll get it back.

“Come in for a minute. Let me see your progress.”

Fine.

I walk in quickly and pull the sketchbook from the bag on my shoulder. Open to the page with the hyacinths. He scans it quickly, closes the book, and hands it back.

“We have to talk.” He motions to the chair across from him. I shake my head.

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

“Sit.”

I sit and fling my bag to the ground.

“I saw your grandmother, briefly.”

“What?” I sit up. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. She should be home this weekend.” He leans back in his chair, tilts his head. “But she says I was wrong.”

“What?”

“She says it was wrong of me to treat you like I did earlier. And I agree. So, I’m sorry for what I said and for leaving you.”

The ticking clock echoes through the silence. I see right 224

through his act. He needs me to be a good girl on his TV

show, doesn’t want me to blow his big chance.

“And she thinks I owe you some answers.” He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “About your mother.”

Well, this is not what I expected.

“So, go ahead—what are your questions?”

My mind is like an orchard of questions; I can just reach out and pluck one from the nearest tree. “Why did she leave?”

I ask, drained of all emotion. I just want to know the truth.

He nods, leans back in his chair. “She fell in love with that man. Of course, you know that.” He looks down at the desk, then up at me again. “But I guess you’re old enough to know. He wasn’t the first.”

“What?”

“There were other men.” He pauses. “You sure you want to hear this?”

I’m not sure. I nod anyway.

“She had a problem being faithful. She was always sorry after, and I always took her back.” His voice is slow, steady.

“I thought you needed her. But after a while, her behavior started to affect you, too. Do you remember the time you went to stay at Nanny’s for a while, when you were in kin-dergarten?”

“No.”

“Yeah. I was invited to be the guest chef at the Gover-nor’s Mansion. While I was away, she went off to meet some guy. Left you alone in the house, sleeping. Nanny found you 225

and took you to her place, and she wouldn’t give you back until your mother and I figured things out.” He shakes his head. “She said she’d call child services if we didn’t. Kept you for about a month. And we tried to make it work.”

He shifts, uncomfortable now in his chair. “She shaped up after that, for a while. But when she didn’t get on the plane after that contest, I knew she was gone.”

I am like a statue, barely breathing.

He nods. “I did hope she’d be part of your life. I wanted that for you. But I think as each year went by, staying away was easier than facing you and facing up to what she’d done.

I know those ridiculous cards didn’t help.”

I am listening, trying to sort through his words. But they are jumbling up inside of my head.

“I don’t care.” I stand up, trying to stay calm. “I don’t care if there were other men. I am her daughter, and she loves me. She’ll come back if I ask her.”

His eyes are closed. “Sheridan. She doesn’t want to come back.”

“Well, I’ll bet I can make her. Give me my cell phone.

I’ll show you.”

“No. Sit down.” I sit, too tired to argue. “I’m sorry, but you can’t
make
her do anything. And … I want you to listen to me.”

“No, you’re wrong, Dad.”
How can I convince him?
“She’s coming back.”

“No. She’s not.”

226

Think of her hand in mine. Think of that brush through my
hair. Here’s how you make a buttercream rose, Sheridan. I love
you. I miss you. I will see you soon.

“Listen to me very carefully, Sheridan. If you keep calling her, you are going to get hurt. I want you to leave this alone, okay? We’ll film the show. And when we’re done . . .

Are you still listening?”

“No.” I straighten my spine. “After the show, you’ll leave, too.”

“I told you it’s not going to happen that way. You are coming with me.”

I shake my head. He’ll never listen. How can I make him understand that leaving here will kill me?

He keeps talking. “You don’t have to agree with me, but this show is the chance I’ve wanted for you. Your chance for a remarkable life. Look at those sketches.” He nods his head in the direction of my bag. “You have so much talent. I won’t let you waste it.”

I stare, confused by his words. “No, Dad.” My voice breaks. “This is
your
chance. Not mine. I am happy the way things are.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll be in the show,. But I am
not
going to New York.” I stand, pick up my bag. “And if
you
go, if you leave, then I don’t want to see you anymore.

I’ll live with Nanny and you won’t have to worry about me.”

His broad shoulders sag. “I’m not going to leave you, Sheridan,” he says in a whisper.
“I’m not her
.
”

“Please stop talking about her like that. She
loves
me.”

227

We stare at each other with the same unwavering look.

I can see the pain in his eyes. I’ve hurt him. I’m getting scary good at hurting people lately. My cell phone is on the corner of his desk. I walk to it and pick it up.

“Since you admitted you were wrong, I assume I can I have this back?”

His jaw tenses. My stomach flips. I turn around and walk down the hall with the phone in my hand.

I close my bedroom door. Sit on the edge of my bed. Flip open the sketchbook in my hands. Slowly, I page backward.

Bright yellow tulips, tinged with red.

There were other men?

Purple crocuses edged with yellow.

She doesn’t want to come back?

Daffodils with delicate ruffled petals.

I stop on the hyacinths. This sketch was the tenth picture. I’m done with the project. I run a finger over the deep purple blossom. I don’t wonder what’s missing. Don’t wonder what my mother would do. I drew what I wanted. And I know that it’s right.

S
taying away was easier?
I can understand that. It’s not easy to admit when you’re wrong.

I pick up the cell phone, check for messages. Nothing.

And then I dial Jack. I can’t help myself. I need him. I want him back—Haley or no Haley, Ethan or no Ethan. It’s ringing. I hope he will answer.

“Hi.” It’s him and he doesn’t sound thrilled.

228

“Hi.” I stand up, walk to my window, push aside the curtain. What do I say? “Jack.” Well, that was profound.