The Sweetest Thing (7 page)

“Maybe you two need a moment to talk?” Gray Hair nods to Dad.

Then, by some miracle, a plan starts coming together in my head. I look around the room, my eyes fall on Dad, then move away.

62

The cake.
That’s it.
I find Mom and ask her to come back and help me make the cake for this fake party. She’d love to have one of her creations on TV, except that this would be better. This would be our creation.

If we actually found her, I can call and invite her down.

She won’t say no. Dad will be totally furious but he’ll have to be civil to her with the cameras on him. Maybe this is the excuse she’s been waiting for, to come back to me. Oh my God, it’s perfect.

“Yeah, maybe we need a minute,” Dad says quietly as I figure out the details of this plan.

“No!” I push back my chair and stand, smiling. “I’ll do it!”

A tentative grin slides across Dad’s mouth. “Really?” he says.

I nod eagerly. This is going to work.

“That’s wonderful,” Gray Hair says.

“Awesome!” Surfer chimes in.

“Great,” Amazon says. “But are you sure you can handle the cake?” She so doesn’t know me. “No offense, Sherry, but it’s got to be spectacular.”

Dad leans back against the counter again. “Don’t worry.

Her cakes are better than my food.”

I stand up a little straighter. That’s the nicest thing my father has said about me since, well, forever. I look at Jack, who is waiting by the back door, his eyes doubtful. He points to his watch—he’s got to get back to Geronimo’s—then raises a hand to his ear in the “call me” signal.

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“This is brilliant.” Gray Hair laughs. “Completely fresh concept. Genius. Single Dad throws his daughter a party, and she’s following in his culinary footsteps. I love it!”

The Suits spin around the room, throwing out ideas like balls at the batting cages. (Jack made me go with him once; my left eye was black for two weeks.)

“We need a theme!” Amazon says, staring at the ceiling as if she’ll find one up there.

Surfer stops in his tracks. “An Extreme Sweet Sixteen Luau!”

That’s the lamest idea I’ve ever heard.

“Yes. That’s perfect,” Amazon says. “And if we can get some teenage girls in bikinis, we might even pull in the eigh-teen- to twenty-four-year-old male demographic.”

“We’d need an indoor pool. Blue chicks aren’t sexy,”

Surfer says. He is so right, but if he thinks I’m getting into a bikini with my winter-white skin and total lack of boobs, he’s got another thing coming.

“Maybe not a pool. How about the restaurant, Donovan?” Gray Hair suggests. Dad smiles.

“Can you do luau food, Don?” Surfer asks.

Dad laughs. “I’ll think of something.”

“Well, Sheridan, Donovan, I predict this is going to be the hit of the summer.” Gray Hair grabs Dad’s hand and shakes it. “We’ll get back to the hotel and hammer out a production schedule.”

He holds his hand out for me to shake, too. I have an 64

overwhelming feeling that this handshake will seal my fate.

Here’s hoping that fate is on
my
side.

The Suits gather up their briefcases and drain their coffee cups. Amazon gives some orders to the camera crew, and then they talk among themselves. I hear Surfer: “This is gonna be the show to beat.” I hear Amazon: “We’re going to bury Food TV during sweeps.”

Dad touches my arm. “Can I have a word with you?”

I narrow my eyes and follow him to the kitchen island.

“Sure,” I say.

Dad takes a glass from the cabinet and fills it with water from the sink. He takes a swig, swallows hard.

“You really okay with this? You sure changed your mind fast.”

That’s when Nanny’s voice pops into my head. One of those phrases she’s always saying:
You catch more flies with
honey than vinegar.
Be nice to these people, cooperate with them, and maybe I’ll get what I want.

“Yes,” I gulp, thinking of honey, lots and lots of honey.

“I just thought this might be a good way to spend time together, since we hardly even talk anymore.”

If I was Pinocchio, my nose would be about a mile long by now.

He eyes me suspiciously. “Just promise, no funny stuff, okay?”

Who, me? I’l be nice to the Suits; I’l slay them with my charm, stun them with my reality TV presence. Maybe they’ll 65

realize that St. Mary is the best place to film this show. Why not? This is where my reality is, after al . It’s worth a try.

“Right.” I nod. “No funny stuff. Promise.”

Dad’s eyes suddenly get wide, weird-looking. He focuses on my face, and in that split second, I see something come over him. He softens, like butter left out on the counter.

“Good. I’m so glad you’re on board. Thanks, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart? He reaches up, smooths my hair, leans over and kisses my forehead. Okay. He hasn’t called me that or kissed my head in years.

I smile even though I’m so not on board, and I have no intention of moving to New York City. The honey worked.

This fly is mine.

The Suits are at the back door, bundled up and ready to hop into their limos.

“We’ll get back to you later tonight, Donovan,” Gray Hair calls.

“Great. Just great,” Dad says, and walks to the door to see them out.

I let out a deep, deep sigh. I’ve got a lot of work to do.

Later that night, after finishing a few birthday cakes at the bakery, I walk into an empty house. Dad is at the restaurant, and from the looks of the parking lot, they are booked solid.

The front room is warm and cozy tonight. I sit on the big old leather sofa, drop my bag, and flick on the lamp beside me.

66

Reaching for my chemistry book, I see my art sketchbook, still neglected and sad. I may just flunk that class.

Instead, I pull out my laptop and start drafting an e-mail. I’ve started a lot of e-mails like this, trying to contact my mother, and I’ve been wrong about the person every time. But Mackinac Maggie, she’s the one. I know it.

Jack wants me to wait until we find more evidence.

But what does he know, anyway? I need to find her now if this plan is going to work.

So I write.

To Whom It May Concern: I am planning a summer wedding and am wondering if you can give me the contact information for Maggie Taylor, who decorated the butterfly cake on
your Web site. Thank you.

I mean, that’s a pretty innocent e-mail. No restraining orders could possibly come from this.

I close my eyes and hit Send, then sit back in the chair, inhaling the scent of old wood and leather. I do realize that to most people, the idea of an intelligent, cake-decorating high schooler sending fraudulent e-mails to a stranger hundreds of miles away might sound crazy. They might think I’m a fool, searching for a woman who left me, who I haven’t seen in eight years.

But I really don’t care.
I’m
the one who remembers her hand in mine, the weight of it, the sureness of its squeeze.

67

That kind of love does not just vanish. My mom didn’t stop sending birthday cards for no good reason.

I will find her, she’ll come back, and we’ll make the cake for this luau together. And maybe when Dad sees how happy this makes me, maybe he’ll forgive her, at least a little. That’s the best-case scenario, of course, but it could happen.

I should start the next lab report, but instead, I take out my cake notebook, flip open to the first empty page, and start to draw the birthday masterpiece. A luau theme? That would, of course, mean gum-paste hibiscus flowers. Painted to look like the real thing. And by the real thing, I don’t mean a cartoon version of the real thing. I mean people will inquire if hibiscuses are poisonous flowers before they take a bite. That real.

My cell phone buzzes. It’s a text from Jack.

U dsign cake yet?

Yep
, I reply.

In my mind, I can already see it: pink hibiscus flowers cascading down the side of four tiers covered in cerulean blue fondant. And a butterfly on top, courtesy of Mom.

68

The week before Easter Sunday flies by like the snowflakes that fall daily. It’s officially the whitest April in St. Mary’s history. The weather is affecting everyone’s mood, even Mr.

Roz, who is normally perpetually happy.

As for me, I’m more than a little worried. The Suits went back to their shiny New York offices after deciding that my fake birthday will be on May 7, less than three weeks away.

That gives me almost no time to get Mom here. And I’ve gotten no reply to my e-mail from the hotel in Mackinac.

I even called and left a message with their catering depart-ment. But no one has called back.

Worse, the Suits left the camera crew here, and they’re following us around, getting “candid” footage for the hour-long pilot. I understand this is part of the agreement, but that doesn’t make it less annoying.

Today is Good Friday, there’s no school, and I’m in the back of Sweetie’s finishing up the lilacs for the Bailey cake, which is nearly done and beyond perfect. When I’m not working on the sugar blossoms, I’m helping Nanny and Mr.

Roz prepare baked goods for the Easter brunch at Sheridan

& Irving’s. This includes making four lamb cakes (three white lambs and one black sheep, because Nanny says every family needs one), ten assorted cakes, plus strudel and Danish, all while keeping up with the regular inventory. I’ve been here every day after school. No time for anything else.

Not Lori or Jack, not a good long run, and not the project for art class, which I still have not started.

And to top it all off? A few days ago I got a text from the amazon woman asking for a guest list. As soon as possible.

So I sat down and, aside from Jack and Lori, could not figure out who to invite. The sad truth is, I make the cakes, but I don’t get invited to the parties. Not anymore.

My life is cake. For example, today there’s no school, and while most kids my age won’t be up until noon at least, I was here at five a.m., adding curls of buttercream wool to a French-vanilla lamb.

Not that I’m complaining. I’d much rather decorate a cake than go to a random high school party.

Now it’s seven o’clock, and the bakery is open, so Nanny shoves me out front with Mr. Roz. I don’t have to help cus-70

tomers very often, except during very busy times, like today.

Really, it’s not so bad. Mr. Roz and I work like a well-oiled machine, bobbing and weaving around each other, handing out baked goods that are like little pieces of heaven.

Dr. Putnam walks in. This is the worst part of the job: bagging pastries for the one guy in town who has seen me naked.

“Hello, Sheridan,” he says in that don’t-worry-I’m-not-picturing-you-in-your-birthday-suit voice. Yeah, right.

I swallow and get over it. There are too many customers behind him to worry. “Hey,” I say like we’re best buds.

“What can I get you?”

I fill his order, then prepare a dozen-muffin assortment for Mrs. Beach, the grade school librarian. Behind her are two old couples who have tourist written all over them.

They start coming to St. Mary this time of year, and my dad’s restaurant is a big attraction.

“So,” the tall man barks in my direction as I bag up four muffins and a scone, “is the famous brunch really as good as they say?”

The Easter brunch at Sheridan & Irving’s has been written up in foodie magazines all over the country. It really is famous.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good.” I smile and pour them four coffees, black.

“I just can’t wait to meet Chef Wells,” says the tall man’s white-haired wife. “I clipped the article in
Gourmet
, and I’m 71

going to ask him to sign it. He’s a doll.”

She smiles goofily and blushes. Great, lady. Go for it.

“Mr. Wells, his food very good.” Mr. Roz feels the need to add to the conversation. He looks at me and winks. “Nice guy, too.”

“Oh, do you know him?” the other old lady asks. Good Lord. Get a life, people. Mr. Roz laughs and nods, winks at me again. He won’t tell them that they are in the presence of the great Chef Wells’s daughter. That would send them into a tizzy.

The women giggle obnoxiously while their husbands talk Michigan football. Some tourists should come with a warning: may induce vomiting.

I give them their change as the front bell rings. A glance toward the door reveals Ethan Murphy standing inside, the sun shining behind his wavy blond hair. He looks like a rock star onstage. Everyone who turns to look at him does a double take. He’s the kind of guy who can do that—get everyone’s attention. There are four people ahead of him, and I can barely focus on their orders.

When he’s the second person in line, we make eye contact. I try to look natural, but a tingle is spreading from my neck up to my ears.

“Hey.” He lifts his hand real cool-like.

I raise mine back and try to concentrate on Mrs. Douglas, who was my piano teacher for a short, miserable period of time.

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“I’m sorry, we’re out of lemon poppy seed,” I say to her.

“But can’t you look in the back, Sheridan? You probably have some back there, don’t you?” Yes, she’s that annoying.

“I go look.” Mr. Roz thankfully steps in, and Mrs. Douglas moves to the side. And so there he is, Ethan, in front of me. My knees wobble behind the case.
Get a grip, Sheridan
.

“Hi,” I say. “Ethan, right?” Oh, that was smooth.

“Yeah.” One second of eye contact and my face goes nu-clear. “Cake Girl, right?”

I scrunch up my nose and laugh.

“You ready for the French test?” he asks. I didn’t think he knew I was in that class. He sits in the back with a few other upperclassmen.

“Oui,” I reply, trying to be clever. And failing miserably.

“Yeah. Good.” He scratches his head. “That’s funny.”

I am frantically trying to think of something to top the
oui
, but really don’t want to make things worse. I’d settle for one cool-ish word, preferably in English.