The Sweetest Thing (2 page)

“Hey, kid, what’s up?” he says. This is most likely a rhe-torical question, so I don’t answer.

“I can’t believe you left in the middle of church,” I snap.

“Oh, chill out.” He laughs and rolls his eyes and throws something in with the pancetta that makes it sizzle. “It was 8

important. You know Sebastian—no such thing as a day of rest. But . . . he had good news.” Dad picks up the pan, thrusts it forward with a pro-chef flick of his wrist, and replaces it on the burner. “They want me.”

He dumps the contents of a small bowl in with the other ingredients. A shock of black hair falls onto his forehead. He looks young, even though that hair is flecked with silver.

And he seems happy. Really happy.

“Good. That’s great,” I say, unenthused. “What are you making?”

“Frittata.” Yum. Frittata, an Italian omelet-like thing that may be my favorite food in the world. I hope I get to eat it.He looks at me. “So you’re not even going to ask?”

“Oh, sorry.” I lean against the prep table on my elbows and look at him sideways. “What? Someone wants you to teach a flambé class in Timbuktu or something?”

“No.” His eyes twinkle. We have the same eyes: big and brown and almond-shaped. But mine are definitely not twinkling at the moment.

“I finally got a show. My own show.” A smile threatens to overtake his face. I raise my eyebrows as he circles the prep area and leans on the counter next to me. “ExtremeCuisine TV. They’re giving me my own series.” He waits for me to react, but I don’t. “They’re gonna call it
The Single
Dad Cooks.
” He crosses his arms, still waiting. “Isn’t that amazing? And they want to film the first episode here.” He stands up tall now, puts his hands on his hips, and gulps.

9

I can see his Adam’s apple bob like a sinker at the end of a fishing pole.

I reach over to the other side of the counter, pick up a basil leaf, give it a sniff. “What’s the catch?” I say, real casual, sure that there is one. I can see it in his eyes.

He laughs. “If it’s a catch, it’s a good one. One that you need to be open-minded about.” He eyes me warily, clears his throat. “If it all works out, they want us to move to New York.” Another hard swallow. “The city.” He looks a little scared of me right now. And he should be.

“Wait, wait, wait.” My hand is up and my mind is swim-ming. He’s been talking about having a show forever, but he never mentioned having to move. “New York City? Why wouldn’t they film it here? This is where you cook.”

“Because they’re serious. This isn’t a onetime thing. They are hiring me to work for them, in their studios.”

Now my arms cross. We look like a couple of wild ani-mals staring each other down, waiting to see who strikes first. “Well, I’m not moving anywhere.” My words are sharp, each syllable distinct, so that he’ll understand me.

He squints his eyes up really small and mashes his lips together. “Sheridan, why wouldn’t you want to go to New York? It’s a great city. Museums, parks … bakeries.” He must be desperate to mention bakeries, since he thinks I spend too much time in ours.

With a weak smile, he stretches out his arm to touch my shoulder, but I step back before he can reach me.

10

“Why would I want to go to a bakery in New York?”

My voice goes squeaky. “The best bakery in the world is right here. And there are parks and museums all over the place. Right here. Where we already live.” I wave my arms in frustration and turn around to leave. I can’t listen to any more of this.

But Dad stands tall and grabs my shoulder. “Sheridan, don’t walk away from me.”

I spin back around, stick out my chin, and stare directly into his eyes. His posture relaxes, just a little. “Just hear me out, okay? Please?”

I shrug.

“Look. I really want this for you. It’ll be a good thing—I promise. You could stand to have your horizons broadened a bit.”

“Oh, gee,” I snort. “That’s really nice of you, but my horizons are just fine the way they are.”

As I work hard to maintain my determined expression, I think of how Dad and I have really gone downhill over the last few years. When he’s not at the restaurant, he’s traveling all over the world, cooking at conventions, judging contests, trying to build the Donovan Wells “brand”—that’s what his agent calls it, like he’s a bar of soap or something.

Now he’s totally branded, and he’s got a show and big plans to turn my world upside down. “I’ll stay right here, thank you very much,” I say,forcefully.

“You’ll do what you’re told,” he says like one of the com-11

munist dictators we’re studying in world history.

“No. I won’t. I need to be here.” I look away for a second and gulp, then meet his stare again. “For when mom comes back.”

He laughs out loud. “Seriously?”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“Well, don’t bring her into this.” He says her like he’s just tasted something nasty. He hates my mother and he’d love it if I forgot about her altogether. But that’s not going to happen.

I take a step backward, lean in just a little. “She is in this, Dad.” My words hiss out, like steam from a pressure cooker.

I get a whiff of the frittata, though I have a feeling I’m not getting any now.

There’s a flicker in his eyes. Did I just win this argu-ment? Or did he just realize that he could easily leave me behind?

Not that I couldn’t live without him, but the thought makes something inside of me crack, like a tiny fissure in the earth. If he left, everything would change. And I’ve had enough change to last a lifetime.

We’re still staring at each other, an ocean of silence between us, when I hear a battalion of footsteps heading toward the kitchen. In bursts his crew: his waitstaff, bar-tenders, sous-chefs, maître d’—even the busboys. They start clapping, whistling, and hooting.

As if someone just picked up a remote and changed his 12

channel, Dad’s eyes reignite and his scowl morphs into a cheesy grin. I watch him as Danny the sous-chef pops open a bottle of champagne. Dad winks at the new waitress, who is giggling in his direction. It’s like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life.

Someone starts a toast. I make my way toward the door and back into the dining room unnoticed. As I step onto the front porch, I pull my coat tight around my body and peer into the gray sky. Looks like it’s going to snow, even though it’s supposed to be spring.

My stomach is rumbling. I’m starving. God, I really wanted that frittata.

I reach inside my coat pocket, pull out a small red heart cut from construction paper. It’s the note Mom slipped into my lunch box the day she left.

Love you, Cupcake
, she wrote, in perfect, curly script.

I fold the note and slip it back into my pocket. An hour ago my biggest problem was getting her back here. Now I’ve got to worry about Dad leaving, too? Or worse, forcing me to go with him?

I walk around the restaurant to the carriage house behind it. That’s where we live. I take a few deep breaths and try to calm down; to think of things that make me happy.

Cakes. My friends, this town where I’ve grown up, where I have a life. .

But I keep backtracking to the things that make me un-happy. Like ExtremeCuisine TV and New York City and 13

Dad taking off, with or without me. Or the fact that I have no idea where my mother is. She had sent me a birthday card every year since she left. On my fourteenth birthday, she wrote this:

Guess what? I’m single again. And I’m final y coming to
see you!

That was the best news ever. The guy she left us for was some crazy world-traveling businessman. Always in South Africa or New Zealand or some weird place that made it impossible for Mom to visit.

But no card came on my fifteenth birthday, and now I’m about to turn sixteen. It’s been almost two years since I’ve heard from her. And now, more than ever, I need to know why.

That’s the problem, I think, as I force cold air deep into my lungs. Like those losers in Jerusalem who crucified Jesus, or birthday cards, or fathers who want to be famous. You can’t count on anything, can you?

Except for this one thing: I am not going anywhere.

14

I wish I could convince myself that the world is not spin-ning off into the stratosphere, that it will all be okay.

But honestly, I’m freaking out. I know my dad. This show means everything to him.

I cross the parking lot to the house. Directly behind it is an alley, hidden by a row of cherry trees.

The alley runs along the back of a row of two-story businesses on Main Street, and one of those businesses is Sweetie’s. I can see the windows of Nanny’s apartment above the bakery, just over the treetops. A fire escape leads to a narrow balcony where she sits in warm weather, drinks sweet tea, and thinks of Texas. She was born there but moved to Michigan after she met my grandfather and fell in love.

From where I stand, I can see the hopeful pot of yellow pansies on the balcony, and I feel a little better. Another deep breath, and another.

Having her so close, looking down on my entire life, has its drawbacks. But sometimes knowing Nanny’s always there is just what I need.

I walk up the front steps of my house, feeling calmer. I dig the key out of my pocket.

Tonight we’ll eat dinner at Nanny’s; we have standing plans every Sunday night. When we get there, she’ll talk some sense into Dad. She’ll convince him that the Wells family belongs in St. Mary. If he wants a show, they can film it here.

Still, his words rattle in my brain.
Broaden my horizons?

What’s wrong with my horizons, anyway?

I push open the door. This was once the gigantic garage of the house that is now Sheridan & Irving’s. My parents renovated it when they bought the restaurant and turned it into our home. The cavernous front room (where the carriages once lined up) is usually full of sunlight, but today the drapes are closed and the heat is turned down. It’s dark and drafty.

It’s only noon, still an hour before I meet Jack and Lori for coffee. Just enough time for a run. So I flick on the lights and search the foyer for my Nikes. A run is just what I need right now, to get my mind off of things.

I spot the shoes under the sideboard, grab them, and 16

sprint up to my room. Last year, as a freshman, I joined the cross-country team, but missed too many practices. I loved running and being part of the team, but cakes don’t decorate themselves, and I had to quit. Now I run by myself or sometimes with Jack if I want company.

I reach around to unzip my dress, then toss off my heels and slip into my St. Mary High running pants, a long-sleeve turtleneck, and my fleece jacket.

Carefully, I place Mom’s heart-shaped note in my jewelry box. When she left, Dad got rid of all her stuff: pictures, books, clothes. Now there’s barely anything left to remind us she once lived in this house. But I’ve got this heart and the cards that came every year. I quickly rummage for the box, deep in my closet, open it and pick out the card on top, the one from my fourteenth birthday. There it is, in blue ink.

Guess what? I’m single again. And . . . I’m final y coming
to see you! I’ve been all over the world, but I was happiest there.

Wouldn’t it be fun if we could work together in the bakery? Although by now you could probably teach me a thing or two. As
soon as I can, I’ll be home. I can’ t wait! I love you, Cupcake.

—Mom

I close the card and stash it away again with all the others. How can I leave when she’s back?

Before I head out, I sneak a peek in the mirror above my dresser, run a brush through my hair. Somehow, between my father’s black hair and Mom’s blonde, I ended up a red-17

head. My hair is dark auburn, actually. I like it—it’s unusual—but it can be too wavy and hard to control. So I throw it up in a ponytail, then swipe on some ChapStick and pull on a headband that will keep my ears warm.

I sigh. Leaning toward the mirror, I look deep into my own eyes and tell myself that everything is going to be fine.

I walk out the back door, then start down the alley, purposely avoiding Main Street. The last thing I need is to run into a well-meaning neighbor who wants to make small talk.

So I stick to the edges of town and head to the water. The St. Mary harbor is always crowded in warmer weather, but today, there’s a brisk wind coming off of Lake Michigan, too cold for most people. I hope.

The steady
pound-pound
of my feet fills my ears, and I force myself to stop thinking about the show, about Mom, about New York City.

I think about cake instead.

There’s a big order next weekend for the Bailey wedding.

Nanny will have to help me with this one; they want four tiers covered with gum paste lilac blossoms. I need to start making the flowers on Thursday after school. I can’t wait.

My mind moves on to the cake for prom as the wind whips my ponytail into my eyes. I’m not going, of course, only being a sophomore, but the committee has already placed its order. The theme is “The Time of Our Lives,”

after that old Green Day song. I sketched them a cake of the high school’s clock tower, and they loved it.

18

I happily plan cakes as the town drops away and I begin to hear the gentle ping of metal on mast, the dull thud of boat against buoy, the high-pitched squealing of gulls. All as familiar as the sound of my own voice.

The harbor walk is empty. I creak onto the docks, head down to the last slip, where we once kept our sailboat.

There’s a wooden plank near the edge. Carved into it are the initials “DW” and “MT,” in the middle of a lopsided heart. Donovan Wel s and Margaret Taylor, my parents.

Dad etched it in the wood the first time he brought her sailing, after they met in college.

We used to sail all the time. But after she took off, he put the boat in storage.