The Sweetest Thing (8 page)

“You want something?” That’s the best I can do.

“Um, yeah.” He’s eyeing the case and rubbing his chin.

“How are those dark-chocolate raspberry muffins? Those are new.”

“They’re amazing.”

“Good.” He smiles. “I’ll take eight.”

“Eight?” I ask, lost in his perfect chin, cheeks, eyes, face.

“Yeah. Eight.” His eyes are sparkling, and his mouth opens in a huge grin. “You do sell them by eights?”

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“Yes. Of course. You can have as many as you want.” Oh god, he’s so cute.

“Well, okay then, eight will work.”

There’s something wrong with me. I can’t think of one intelligent thing to say to him. I can usually hold my own in a social situation. But this is ridiculous. He leans in toward the counter. “All right, then. I’ll take eight.”

“Right.” I snap back into action. “Eight. Got it.”

I bend awkwardly into the glass cabinet, my face throbbing with embarrassment.

The best muffins are at the front of the case, and he is getting the best muffins, so I twist my body like an Olympic gymnast to reach them. Also, from here I can see his midsec-tion. It’s right in front of me. His coat is open, he has one hand in the pocket of his loose, tattered jeans, and I can see a sliver of finely toned ab under his shirt.

I take a deep breath, throw eight muffins into a bag (he did say eight, right?) and extract myself from the case. But as I emerge, my head smacks the top. A dull thud resounds through the bakery.

Ow.

“Are you okay?” Ethan asks from over the counter. Honestly, things are looking a little fuzzy.

Mr. Roz runs over. “My God, what you do?” he asks, taking the bag of muffins out of my hand and passing them to Ethan. Mr. Roz revolves around me like he’s trying to pinpoint a location on a globe.

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“I’m fine, I’m fine.” I glance at Ethan, his mouth set in a concerned frown.

“Go, go, sit down for a minute,” Mr. Roz insists. “Go, sit with your friend.”

Friend? That may be a bit optimistic. But suddenly here I am, taking a seat across from Ethan Murphy. He is one arm’s length away, with only a lemon-yellow vinyl tablecloth, a tiny pitcher of cream, and a plastic container stuffed with sugar and sugar-substitute packets between us. I rub the bump on my head.

“That sounded like it hurt.”

I flash a coy smile. “Kind of.”

I notice that the line of customers is shrinking. “You don’t have to sit with me,” I say apologetically.

“No, it’s okay with me. If it’s okay with you.” He pushes the bag of muffins to the side.

I tear my eyes off the tablecloth and meet his. They are brilliant. He is a god. And I am a . . . muffin bagger. No makeup, old blue jeans, big old pink polka-dotted apron, hairnet. Oh no—the hairnet!

Like he’s inside of my brain listening in on my thoughts, Ethan Murphy reaches across the table, pulls off the hairnet, and drops it in the center of the table. I feel my ponytail slither down my back; a shiver trickles down my spine.

My brain is telling me to buck up. I am a confident, talented person who can hold her own in any social situation. Except this one. I am floating outside of my body, 75

unable to act normal.

Then Ethan’s hand reaches up, and he touches the top of my head. Oh God, why is he touching me?

“You might want to get some ice on that.”

Oh right, that’s why.

“I’m okay.” My eyes drop again. I am mad at myself for acting all shy when I am not shy at all. I am Cake Girl. Fear-less. Confident. Capable.

“You’re probably gonna have a nice goose egg there.”

I shake my head. Grab my hairnet. Nanny doesn’t like us to have them off, ever, in case the health inspector drops by.

I scan the bakery. Nanny’s nowhere in sight.

Roz is working on the last of the customers. I sit up in my chair and open my mouth once or twice, hoping something comes out. Nothing does.

“Hey.” Ethan speaks first. “What are you doing this weekend?”

I stare at him.

“Um . . . why?”

“I thought maybe if you weren’t busy we could hang out.”

So I’m being punk’d. That’s it. This is some kind of ExtremeCuisine TV joke. I look around for a camera. The Surfer suit did mention that they would be shooting some footage of us later today.

“Hang out?” I ask.

“Yeah. You know, like, you and me?”

I swallow. “Do you even know my name?” I say softly, totally serious.

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“Yes, I know your name.” His voice is so smooth; not shaky and squeaky like most of the boys at school.

“Well?” I smile. “What is it?”

He lowers his gaze and his lips curl up. “Suzy? No. Sa-vannah? Sybil?”

Is he kidding? He doesn’t look like he’s kidding. I can’t tell.

After a long pause, he rolls his eyes. “Your name is Sheridan Wells.” Another killer grin. “There, do I pass?”

But I don’t buy this quite yet. “You just want to hang out?”

“Yeah.” His body shifts, uncomfortable now. “You could call it hanging out. Or you could call it a date. . . .”

I laugh and instantly regret it. He looks surprised.

“So is that a no?”

I clasp my hands on the table in front of me. “You have a girlfriend.” Who happens to hate me.

He sits back, looks out the window. “Nope. Broke up with me.”

“She did?” Really? I saw them making out in front of her locker yesterday at school.

“Yep. We broke up. Last night.”

I pick out a sugar packet, flip it back and forth. What do I say?

“But it’s not like we were serious or anything.” He reaches over, puts his hand on top of my flapping sugar packet and leans in close. “So whaddya say?”

“Well . . .” I am so going to say YES! But I don’t have 77

a chance, because Nanny hollers “Sheridan!” I jump, then look up and see, standing next to the case, one of the
ExtremeCuisine
TV camera guys with a huge lens pointed right at me. I knew it.

“Where in tarnation is your hairnet, girl? You tryin’ to put me out of business?” When she’s done with me, she turns to the cameraman. “And you’ve got it on film?” She swats at him with the kitchen towel in hand. “Turn that camera off, fool. You want me out on the street?”

She swoops around the case and glares at Ethan. She’s got a very effective glare. “And you are?”

“This is Ethan,” I say, slipping my hairnet back on, dying as Nanny sizes him up.

“Hi,” Ethan says confidently. “Nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand, but Nanny doesn’t take it.

“I’ve seen you here before.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got good . . . stuff,” he replies.

“Well. That’s mighty nice of you to say. But my granddaughter is on the clock, so if you don’t mind.”

Ethan stands, the bag of muffins in his hand. “Oh, sorry.” He forces my eyes up with his gaze, then he glances sideways at Nanny. “You have your cell?”

Nanny’s arms cross as I reach into my pocket and give him my phone. She shifts her weight and harrumphs.

He enters his number and hands it back to me, then looks at Nanny and winks. Oh God, he did not just do that.

“Text you?” he asks. I smile and nod.

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I peek at Nanny, half of me mad that she ruined a real moment, the other half relieved that she interrupted before I said anything really stupid. On camera. She gives me her you-better-watch-it eye as she walks around the cameraman and back into the kitchen.

Ethan’s opening the front door when Surfer swings around from behind the counter. Oh crap. He’s here, too?

“Wait, wait, wait,” Surfer says, grabbing Ethan’s arm.

“Ethan, is it?” Surfer doesn’t give him time to answer. “Hey, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we’re filming a TV show in a few weeks. May seventh, a Saturday. It’s a Sweet Sixteen, for Sheridan here.” He nudges Ethan and winks. “Hot chicks in bikinis.”

Surfer looks at me. “He should come, don’t you think?”

“Uh. If he wants to . . . I guess.” I am beyond mortified.

“Awesome. We need the cream of the crop at this luau.

Okay, dude, consider yourself invited. Clear the whole day; we’ll need it.”

Ethan stares at me, and his eyebrows arch like he’s asking me if this is okay. The corners of my mouth turn up. His eyes move over my face, and he hits me once more with that smile.

“Yeah, great. I can do that,” Ethan says to Surfer.

Then he opens the door, says “See ya,” and he’s gone.

The front doorbell rings its familiar, happy sound. I am in shock. I think I just got asked out on TV. By Ethan Murphy?

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There’s a grin on my face as I get back to work. I also make a mental note to slip ten dollars into the register since my date forgot to pay for his muffins.

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It’s the night before Easter, and I am a total insomniac.

Not because I have to be at the bakery at five in the morning to prepare for the big brunch, or because my fake birthday-slash-TV debut is only two weeks away. It isn’t even because the single hottest guy in the Midwest (and possibly the universe) has kind of asked me out.

No. Last night I got an e-mail from the hotel on Mackinac Island. It said that Ms. Taylor’s business was in Sault Sainte Marie, on the Michigan-Canada border, but that they hadn’t used her services in a few years. On the other hand, if I booked their hotel for my wedding reception, they’d be happy to refer a bakery of equal or better quality.

What?
I wanted to scream at the computer.
I’m not real y
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getting married, you idiots. I’m looking for my mother!

So, what now? That’s what I’m trying to figure out.

As soon as I go the e-mail, I texted Jack and alerted him to the situation before I remembered that he told me not to e-mail them in the first place. He was annoyed.

I didn’t care. I just told him to keep looking. I haven’t shared my plan with him, to get Mom here in time for the party, but we really need to work fast. So far I can’t find any online listings for her in Sault Sainte Marie, only a few old-lady obituaries. The last card came from Ottawa, so this makes sense. But Margaret Taylor is a very common name.

The search is exhausting.

Lying in my bed, I hear Dad’s car start up and drive away. It’s four o’clock in the morning. He’s going to the market in Grand Rapids to buy fresh meat and produce for brunch. This is a big day for him. Everyone in the world has heard about the show. Of course, the marquee at City Hall says, “Congrats, Chef Wells. Welcome, ECTV!” Things like that don’t help.

A thought occurs to me. If they insist Dad move to New York, there might not be a Sheridan & Irving’s this time next year. The restaurant could be closed. I owe it to the people of St. Mary to keep my father here where he belongs, cooking in his restaurant.

I get out of bed and creak my way through the house to the kitchen. There’s a note on the counter.

Be at S&I no later than 7 answer your phone if I cal .

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That’s Dad lately: no time for “Dear Sheridan” or “Happy Easter” or even basic punctuation. I drop the note on the counter and peek out the back kitchen window. Nanny’s apartment light is off. She’s already downstairs, working.

Restless, I pick up my cell phone, wishing I could just dial my mother. Wondering what it would feel like to be able to pick up the phone and call her.

Then I see a text from Jack, left after I went to bed last night.

We have 2 talk possible clue.

Instantly, my heart is a jackhammer. Maybe he found her. I call him; I don’t care how early it is.

“Hello?” Jack says in a groggy voice.

“Hey. So tell me! What clue?”

“Huh? What time is it?”

“Um . . . like four something. What clue?”

“Oh.” He’s silent. I’ll give him a second to wake up a little. But only a second.

“Jack!”

“What? All right. Calm down. Last night. Found a bakery in Sault Sainte . . . whatever. In Canada. It doesn’t have a Web site, it’s just a listing in an online directory.”

“Yeah? And?”

“And it’s called Sweetie’s.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Really?”

“Yes.” He pauses. “And there’s a phone number.”

“Yeah?”

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“But Sheridan, we have no idea if it’s her. There’s no owner listed. Only the name of the bakery. It could be a coincidence.”

“No. It’s her.”

“You don’t know that.”

He’s wrong. “Jack, I have a feeling.”

He gives me the number only after I promise not to do anything with it. He makes me swear. We don’t know enough yet, he says. But as soon as we hang up, I start to dial. He doesn’t understand. I can’t wait. I need to find her.

The lump in my throat is enormous now. What if she picks up? What do I say?

The phone rings over and over. Finally, voice mail picks up. “Welcome to Sweetie’s of Sault Sainte Marie. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”

It’s a woman on the recording. It has to be Mom. I savor every syrup-smooth word. I can see her, with her golden hair back in a hairnet, smiling on the other end of that telephone.

I don’t leave a message. Not yet. Mostly because I have no idea what to say. But as I hang up, my insides bubble over with hope.

I run upstairs and throw on some jeans, an old T-shirt, and my ratty gym shoes. It doesn’t matter what I look like, considering I’ll be stuck in a hot kitchen for most of the day.

My hair goes back in a ponytail, and I take the time to stuff Mom’s heart-shaped note into my front pocket. My whole body buzzes with excitement. I have a good feeling about 84

Sweetie’s of Sault Sainte Marie.

Before I leave, I go to my closet and reach for a random birthday card.

Twelve years old? How is that possible? I wish I could be
there, but we are in Brazil. I’ll send you something South
American. I bet you are planning a big party with all of your
friends. Have fun, sweetheart. Sorry I’m so far away.

God, I miss her. But I realize that I have to figure out what to say before I call her for again. We have a lot of catch-ing up to do; I’m just not sure where to start.