The Sweetest Thing (9 page)

It’s four thirty and since I can’t sleep, I decide to head to the bakery. I grab my coat, lock the back door, and run toward the alley. It’s still dark and freezing cold, but the piled-up snow is reflecting the moon like a nightlight. I push on the bakery door, find it open, and slip into the warmth of the kitchen.

“Hey, sugar. What you doin’ up?” Nanny keeps a baker’s hours and will be napping by noon. But right now she’s standing in front of a tray full of diamond-shaped brownies, giving each one a generous coat of chocolate fudge frosting.

She stands up and stretches as I grab an apron.

“Well, you look happier than a clam at high tide. What’s going on with you, darlin’?”

I shrug but the grin on my face is huge. “Nothin’.”

She laughs. “Seem pretty smiley about nothin’.”

Mr. Roz walks in from the front of the store.

“Hey, Mr. Roz!” I say, as he slides a tray of donuts out of 85

a rack. He looks surprised, and I know why—usually I am a total grump this early in the morning.

“Hello, Sheridan!” he beams. “And Happy Easter to you!”

“Bunny left you a little something. . . .” Nanny nods toward the back counter. I turn and see an Easter basket stuffed with candy: jelly beans, marshmallow chicks, and even one of those cheesy hollow chocolate bunnies with Day-Glo sugar eyeballs.

“Nan. Don’t you think that I’m a little old for an Easter basket?” I pop a red jelly bean in my mouth.

“Fine,” she says. “Doc says I should watch my sugar, but I’ll go ahead and take it off your hands.”

“No, no, that’s okay.” I laugh. “I wouldn’t want to give you diabetes or anything.”

“Oh, what a sweetheart—always thinking of your old Nanny.”

I add a yellow jelly bean to the red one.

“Always.”

She chuckles from deep down. Gosh, I love her. I want so badly to tell her that I’ve found Mom. I think she’ll be happy; she knows how much I miss her.

But there’s a knock on the back door. “Who’s that?” I wonder out loud.

Nanny walks over, wipes her hands on her apron, and lets in a rush of frigid air. I see Growly’s bald head sticking up above hers. Great.

86

“Mornin’, Father Crowley.” Nanny smiles and gives him a hug. Even though Nanny left the Catholic Church when my grandfather died, she stayed close with Growly, who didn’t mind that she went back to her roots at First Baptist of Grand Rapids.

This might make him sound like a nice guy. But he’s not. I watch him, suspicious. Maybe he’s come to try and save my hopeless soul. I don’t have time for that this morning.

“How are you doing this fine Easter Day, Lilian?” he says to Nanny.

“Fine as frog hair; finer, maybe.”

He looks at me, his lips drawn across his face in a straight line. “Miss Wells.” He nods. “You are a hard worker. Not many individuals your age would be willing to sacrifice so much time for a family business.”

“Thank you.” I think that was a compliment. But I feel my good mood spoiling. Why is he here?

“She has a servant’s heart,” Nanny says. “That, and I pay well.” They laugh.

Roz walks into the kitchen. “Father!” He gives Growly a hearty two-handed handshake and disappears up front again. In another minute, he returns with a cup of coffee and a slice of Michigan cherry strudel.

“Ah.” Growly grins and takes the strudel, then sits on a stool. “One of the perks.”

Nanny waves me over and hands me a bag filled with 87

buttercream. “Let’s top them with flowers,” she says, direct-ing me to a tray of frosted brownies. “What do you think?

Roses? Lilies of the valley? Lilacs?”

“Yeah, I don’t care if I make another lilac for the rest of my life.” I think of the Bailey wedding cake, picked up yesterday. They
loved
it. Another satisfied customer.

“Yes, I suppose that we did OD on lilacs just a bit, didn’t we?” Nanny laughs.

“Lilian,” Growly, watching me, says between bites of pastry. “Your granddaughter is looking more and more like you did when we first met.”

“Yes.” Nanny watches me as I squeeze the icing to the top of the bag. “I suppose we favor each other here and there. But I swear this girl is positively shining this morning.”

I can’t hold back my smile. I don’t even try.

I’ve always been relatively open with Nanny when it comes to Mom. And I don’t think I can keep this latest development to myself any longer.

“Well. It’s because I’ve got some good news. Really good news.”

I have their attention. Nanny puts down a bowl of buttercream frosting. “Don’t leave us hanging. What is it, girl?”

Now that they’re waiting, I’m having second thoughts.

Nanny knows I’ve had no luck trying to find my mom in the last few years. And that it’s gotten me into some trouble.

But everyone likes good news. Like Jesus and the whole 88

rising-from-the-dead thing, right? It’s Easter, a time for good news.

“I think I’ve found Mom.” I just say it, spit it out. They are staring at me, their mouths hanging open. No one looks happy. I suddenly wish I could take back the words, keep them safe inside.

“What?” My smile disappears. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, really?” Nanny’s big soft voice has gone hollow.

“Yes. Jack and I found her,” I say, sticking my chin out.

“How?” Nanny looks at me like I’ve robbed a bank or something. Which makes me very angry.

“It’s called the World Wide Web.” I squeeze the pastry bag it harder than necessary. It squirts across the room.

“Ever heard of it?”

I expect Nanny to tell me to watch my mouth. To clean up that frosting blob on the floor. But she doesn’t say a word.

I bend over and make a mutant rose on top of a brownie.

“Does your father know?” Nanny asks.

“No. And you can’t tell him.” I make another rose, this one a little better. “Seriously. None of you can say anything.”

I should have kept my big mouth shut.

They are dead silent, and I am very uncomfortable. So much for spreading the joy.

Growly breaks the silence, pulls a small brown paper bag out of his coat pocket. “Well, let’s get on with it, shall we?”

He sighs. “Will you all be receiving?”

“Yes.” Nanny walks over to me and yanks my arm over 89

to where the priest stands waiting. “Come on, you’re taking Communion.”

The old broad can be so pushy. Even about things like taking Communion, though she’s not a Catholic anymore.

I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules. I yank my arm out of her grip. But I still follow.

Mr. Roz, Nanny, and I make a semicircle as Growly begins to pray. “On this holy day . . . ,” he says, or something like that. I’m not really listening. I am thinking of Sweetie’s, the Canadian version, and my mother. I glance up and catch Nanny looking at me, her eyebrows knit together in the middle. I glare at her.

“Receive this bread of life and this cup of blessing . . .

that you may be strengthened through our communion . . .

,” Growly says. Bread of life. A cup of blessing. Sounds like God is a bit of a baker. I kinda like that idea.

I mumble the Our Father with them, and before I know it, Growly is in front of me, holding up a wafer.

“Body of Christ.” He’s searching my eyes, looking less mean and more worried than usual.

“Amen,” I say, taking the round, flat cracker, shoving it into my mouth, and turning back to the brownies. I cross myself and grab the sleeve of icing. I wonder about that stale cracker actually being the body of Christ. Seems pretty un-likely. Although I do understand the concept of believing in something that might seem impossible. Like my mother coming back. I can tell that no one—not Nanny, not Roz, 90

and certainly not Growly—believes that it will happen.

But that’s what faith is, right? Trusting that no matter how things look, everything’s going to work out according to plan.

91

lemons, make lemonade

My father calls my cell phone a few hours later and tells me that Danny, the sous-chef, is puking and that a few of the staff are also sick. It’s a disaster. He orders me to finish up at the bakery and come immediately to the restaurant.

They need all the extra hands they can get.

He’s not at all nice about it; doesn’t say please or thank you. But that’s all right. I am still floating on a fluffy cloud of goodness. I don’t care what I have to do today. I found Mom. She can come home.

For now, I’m still at the bakery, boxing up pastries for Pedro and Paul, two busboys from Sheridan & Irving’s. Nanny is on the phone. She catches me peeking at her and squints her eyes like she’s completely annoyed. I am mad, too. Mad-der than a pig in a poke, which is one of Nanny’s sayings. I have no earthly idea what it means, but it seems to fit this situation.

My cell rings. Dad again.

“Yes?” I ask, arranging a layer of lemon tarts in a pink cardboard box.

“I told you to get over here. I need you. Now!” Click.

Okay. Love you, too.

I shove the phone in my pocket and growl, “Jerk,” I mumble.

Paul is standing next to me. He tries not to laugh, but his shaking stomach gives him away.

“That’s enough, young lady,” Nanny says, her ears like a bat’s. I shoot her a rude look, but she doesn’t catch it.

We finish up, all the boxes closed now and tied with white string. “Mrs. Wells?” Pedro asks. “You got anything else?”

Nanny looks to Mr. Roz. “Jakup?”

“Datz all for now. I got more strudel in the oven. I call when they ready.” Pedro heads out.

I reach around to untie my apron. “Yeah, I’m going, too.

Dad wants me there now.”

Nanny takes a deep breath. I know she was expecting to have me for the morning rush. “Fine,” she says, and walks up front.

“Fine,” I say to the empty kitchen.

I walk out the back door with a pile of bakery boxes. The 93

sun is coming up, its rays creeping across the snow like a cat on the prowl. I replay Mom’s voice mail greeting in my head and want to kick myself for spilling the beans. If Nanny tells Dad, I’m screwed.

But I couldn’t help myself. I am so happy. Mom is out there, and so close.

I walk through the back door of the restaurant. The kitchen is buzzing; everywhere I look there is someone working. My pastries need to go to the buffet tables in the dining room, so I make my way through the kitchen.

“Morning, Sheridan,” I hear from my father’s employees, most of whom I’ve known forever. I smile and say hi, but there’s no time for chitchat today. So much electric energy flows through the place that I get goose bumps. Dining tables are being set; buffet tables are going up.

“Good morning, Sheridan.” The voice comes from the bar to my right, and I turn. It’s Amazon, with two cameramen behind her.

“Hi,” I say, looking around for my father. “You guys are here?”

I can’t imagine what kind of footage she’ll get today.

Maybe they’ll catch my father having an aneurysm. Now that would make for some interesting ExtremeCuisine TV.

“SHERIDAN!” I quick-hop around and see my dad’s red face sticking out of the kitchen’s swinging door. Aim your cameras, boys; here comes your aneurysm. But he sees Amazon and his look instantly softens, his face fading to a 94

nice pale pink.

“Sheridan, I need you in the kitchen. Please.”

Oh,
now
he’s going to say “please”? Nice.

“I better go,” I say to Amazon.

I step through the door. Dad points to me. “Help Raoul.

Now!”

“Yes, master,” I mumble all Igor-like, thinking of how fun it would be to tell him right now that I’ve found Mom.

Yeah. Aneurysm City.

I watch him stalk back into his office.

“Senorita.” Raoul nods. He’s a good guy who knows I’ll do the job right. He hands me a big knife and slides away from his spot. I take over, coarsely chopping an enormous clump of flat-leaf parsley. Across the kitchen, Amazon pushes through the door and walks into my father’s office.

I wonder if she’s into him. So many women are. He’s always going out with someone new. Frankly, I don’t see the appeal. Luckily, the shelf life for his girlfriends is so short, I don’t even get a chance to meet them. Which is fine with me.

I scrape the bright green pile of herb into a plastic bin, and a fat bunch of basil magically appears.

“Please . . . chiffonade,” begs Raoul. It occurs to me that most fifteen-year-olds probably don’t even know how to pronounce
chiffonade
, much less make it happen.

As I finish up, Amazon walks out of Dad’s office and leaves the kitchen with a smug grin on her face. She returns 95

in a minute with one of the camera goons and points to me.

Hmm … this doesn’t look good at all.

“Sheridan!” At least she got my name right. “Sweetheart, this is Dylan. He’s going to film you for a little while.” She grimaces. “So just act natural, all right?”

No way. My hair is once again in a tragically unhip hairnet, and I don’t have one bit of makeup on. I think of the zit I saw percolating on my chin this morning.

Amazon stares. Then she runs out to the dining room without a word and comes back with a Prada bag that I’m sure is
not
a knockoff. She pulls out a small pouch, unzips it, and reveals a small tube.

“Come closer,” she orders. “You have a little something right here that needs to be covered.” She hits the zit with concealer and then pulls out an eyeliner pencil. I put down the huge chopping knife and cross my arms.

“Now stay real still,” she says. She proceeds to line my eyes, dab a little makeup underneath them, swipe on some mascara, and touch my lips with a dab of gloss from a pot.

Then she stands back to survey her work.

“God, I hope you appreciate how utterly perfect your skin is now.” I guess that means I’m camera-ready.

“Okay. So act natural, do your thing, go about your business, and Dylan will film you. Remember, just act natural.”