Grace Stirs It Up

by Mary Casanova

  When Maddy nodded and reached for the page of reviews, Ella gave me a thumbs-up from behind Maddy’s shoulder.

  It was a small step toward making peace with Maddy, but it was something.

  As scheduled, at exactly three p.m. (and nine p.m. in Paris), Mom and I stood at her computer, ready to video-chat with our French family. And sitting right in front of us were two special guests: Grandma and Grandpa. This was their first time video-chatting, and I could feel their excitement.

  When the connection was made, Sylvie and Aunt Sophie appeared, sitting side by side on their couch with Lily snug in my aunt’s arms. I figured it was past her bedtime, but my aunt probably wanted to show her off anyway. Seeing them all in real time was the next best thing to being there.

  “Oh, my! There’s our lovely new grandbaby!” Grandma exclaimed.

  “Hello, Mom!” Aunt Sophie called from the screen, waving at Grandma.

  Grandpa just shook his head. “Well, isn’t that something,” he said. “You’re right here!”

  We all broke into smiles.

  “Bonjour!” I said, waving at Sylvie.

  “Hello, Grace!” Sylvie waved back. “Bonjour, Grand-mère and Grand-père!” she added shyly.

  Baby Lily wanted to say hello, too. She began to coo like a little dove.

  “Hi, Lily!” I said. “I miss you!”

  At the sound of my voice, her arms and legs wiggled.

  “She miss you,” Sylvie said, practicing her English and offering her little sister a finger to hold on to.

  “Look at that baby,” Grandma exclaimed. “Oh, she’s absolutely perfect!”

  Aunt Sophie kissed the top of Lily’s head and then looked up at the screen. “Thanks, Mom! We adore her.”

  “Sylvie,” Grandma said, “you’re a big sister now, aren’t you?”

  “Oui, Grand-mère,” she replied with a shy smile. “How are you, Grand-mère?” I could tell she’d been practicing her English.

  “I am just fine,” Grandma replied. “And I’m so happy for your family!”

  We all chatted using a little English, a little French, and lots of smiles. I was glad to see Sylvie getting to know her American grandparents—mine and hers—better at last.

  Still, another part of me ached to have some alone time with Sylvie so that I could tell her how things were really going here—about the trouble I was having with Maddy, about how our new business was a lot harder than I’d thought it would be, and about Bonbon, who was having trouble adjusting to life here.

  I wanted to step right through the screen into Sylvie’s apartment and spend a few more days together, side by side. Video-chatting was good, but I couldn’t breathe in Lily’s soft baby scent or hang out with Sylvie and Colette in the warm pâtisserie.

  Oh, why did we have to live so far apart?

  On Monday afternoon, Ella and I parked our bikes outside Maddy’s white Victorian house and climbed the steps to her wraparound porch, filled with wicker furniture. Everything about Maddy’s house seemed elegant.

  Maddy met us at the door, and then we stepped into a living room of white furniture, red satin pillows, and a towering bouquet of fresh flowers on the glass coffee table. The lamps, chandeliers, and fireplace trim were accented in gold.

  Maddy’s parents would love the Palace of Versailles, I thought, noticing the antique clock with two gold cherubs. But I kept it to myself. Maddy didn’t need me bringing up all-things-French with every breath.

  Besides, her parents had probably been to the famous palace, since they ran an expensive antiques store on Main Street, the kind where kids aren’t really welcome. Whenever we’d stopped by with Maddy, she had asked us to wait outside while she checked in with her parents.

  As we stepped through the living room, which was très à la mode, I realized that the house seemed eerily quiet.

  “Anyone else home?” I asked.

  Maddy shook her head. “My parents are both at the shop, but my mom will be back soon.” Then she led us to the den, filled with bookcases and leather chairs. Above the chairs hung an ancient portrait of Maddy’s relatives, all wearing black and staring sternly down upon us.

  I could hardly blame them. This room was a mess! Paper was scattered here, there, and everywhere—on the desk, on the floor, and spilling from the printer. There were scraps and bits, the flurried remains of paper cutting and pasting.

  But in the center of the computer desk, Maddy had placed a printed pamphlet. “This,” she said, with a grand sweep of her arm, “is what I’ve been working on for the last few days.”

  Our business name, La Petite Pâtisserie, was printed on the cover of the pamphlet, with images of cakes, cupcakes, and doughnuts dancing around it. Inside was a list of all the baked goods we’d already made, with a photo of each and reviews from our family members.

  “Maddy!” I exclaimed. “You’re amazing!”

  She shrugged, like what she’d done was no big deal, but I could tell from the creases at the edge of her green eyes that she was pleased. This was what she’d been dying to do, and she was really good at it!

  Ella and I sat down to study the cover of the pamphlet. It was beautiful and looked really professional, but something kept niggling at me. We needed something really French and unique on the cover to go with our business name.

  “Hey, I wonder if we could make this look more French somehow,” I thought out loud. “I mean, we don’t really make cupcakes and doughnuts. But could we find artwork of French pastries or make a French logo to go with our name?”

  As soon as I saw Maddy’s expression, I wanted to take back my words. Her face fell, and instead of looking mad, as usual, she just looked hurt. She had worked really hard on all of this, I could tell, and I had just burst her bubble.

  Ella sprang to Maddy’s defense. “La Petite Pâtisserie is French,” she pointed out. “Maybe that’s enough?”

  A silence hung in the air, and I scrambled to fill it. “Yeah, this is great,” I said with forced enthusiasm. “Let’s go with what you have here, Maddy.”

  She nodded, but her smile looked forced, too. The damage was done.

  It took us the rest of the afternoon to print a hundred flyers and carefully fold them all into thirds, with our business name on the front.

  “Oh my gosh,” Ella said, staring at the stacks. “This makes it feel real, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does,” I said.

  “Should we hand them out tomorrow?” asked Maddy.

  A mix of feelings fluttered through me. Passing out the flyers would set things in motion. What if this business took off like a kite in a strong wind? I worried it might get away from us.

  But my friends looked so excited. I didn’t want to be the one who brought everything to a stop. So when Maddy suggested meeting at her house in the afternoon and delivering the flyers on our bikes, I put on a smile and said, “I’m in.”

  he next afternoon, backpacks loaded, Ella, Maddy, and I formed a bike brigade and started popping our pamphlets inside front doors around our neighborhood.

  “Should we put them in mailboxes, too?” asked Ella.

  “No!” Maddy called from up ahead. “I think that’s against the law.”

  “Yikes!” said Ella, riding beside me. Then she grinned and said, “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this, Grace, can you?”

  “I know,” I said. “We’re launching our business!” I was excited to be taking this big step. But something kept nagging at me. Are we going too fast, getting ahead of ourselves? I wondered.

  Then I thought of when I’d first arrived in Paris. I’d been trying to plan ahead and learn the language, and I was so worried about making mistakes. But I’d finally realized that sometimes jumping in feetfirst is the only way to learn. You can’t plan for everything.

  So I just kept going, tucking pamphlets behind doors and racing after my friends toward the next house. We worked our way up and down the streets of Bentwick, starting with the area around Maddy’s home until we rea
ched Ella’s street and beyond.

  We ran out of pamphlets, of course, long before we had reached every house, but it felt great to be under way!

  After congratulating one another, we all split up to head home for lunch.

  As soon as I got home, I took Bonbon out for a short walk. That’s when my excitement began to fizzle and that nagging worry returned, growing and rising inside me like yeasty dough.

  The pamphlets had our business name and a short list of French treats, along with descriptions and reviews. But at the last minute, right before printing the pamphlets, we’d realized that we needed a way for people to order from us. I’d suggested using my family’s home phone number. I hadn’t asked permission first, but I hoped that was okay.

  My stomach twisted.

  I should have asked for permission first.

  I suddenly doubted it was okay.

  I suddenly was certain my parents were not going to be happy, especially when they found out that we’d dropped a hundred pamphlets around town and the phone was about to start ringing.

  I suddenly dreaded going home.

  And the more I fretted about what we’d included, I realized we’d also left out some important information.

  We’d forgotten to add prices!

  As I reached the back deck of the house with Bonbon, the phone rang inside. Ring, ring, ring!

  I paused, my hand on the door handle.

  “Hello?” Mom’s voice floated out the open window. “Prices? I think you have the wrong number.”

  Pause.

  “In your door? And that’s where you found this number to call?”

  Pause.

  “No, I had no idea,” Mom said. “Well, actually, my daughter and her friends have been baking and talking about starting a business, but I didn’t really know it had gone this far.”

  Pause.

  “Yes, you can say that again.”

  I mustered up some courage and stepped inside with Bonbon. The moment she dashed across the floor, I realized that I’d made another mistake. Bonbon left a string of muddy footprints in her wake.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” I said, glad for an excuse to turn away. “I’ll get a rag and clean it up.”

  But as I turned toward the pantry, Mom held the phone at her side. “Grace.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We need to have a serious talk after dinner. The phone’s been ringing off the wall. You girls passed out pamphlets with our phone number on them?”

  I swallowed hard and nodded.

  Clearly, both Bonbon and I were in the doghouse.

  While I waited for dinner, Bonbon joined me up on my bed—her dirty paws wiped clean. She could tell that something was wrong, and she stared at me with a “What are we going to do next?” expression.

  “We’re hiding out until dinner,” I said. Chances were, Mom and Dad were going to tell me to stop my baking business. “It was one thing to have fun baking, but it is quite another,” I imagined Mom saying, “to have strangers calling our house.”

  Bonbon tilted her head, as if trying to read my mind. I pressed my face into her neck and breathed in her sweet doggy smell.

  “I just made a whopper of a mistake,” I told her. “And I don’t know how to fix it.”

  While Bonbon and I holed up behind my closed bedroom door, the phone rang four more times before dinner. With each phone call, a fizz of excitement swept through me. Were people calling to order our pastries?

  But that excitement was quickly dampened by one glaring thought: How could I have used our phone number without my parents’ permission? My friends and I had been in such a hurry to get the pamphlets printed and out to future customers. And in my rush, I’d lost my parents’ trust.

  I was a kid. Without my parents’ support, I wouldn’t be able to run a real business. But I had no idea how to fix this mess. How can you make someone trust you again?

  Bonbon licked my cheek.

  “You didn’t trust me at first, did you, girl?” I said, nuzzling her head. “But then I set out food and water, every night, and eventually you came around. Maybe that’s it, huh, Bonbon? Maybe I just have to try to show my parents every single day that I can learn from my mistakes.” What else could I do? I was out of ideas.

  By the time Josh called me down to dinner, I felt as ready as I could be. I waited until we’d finished off our bowls of Caesar salad and Josh had nabbed the last piece of homemade pizza.

  The moment he finished eating, he said, “I’m meeting up with Younkers and Spitz. We want to do some mountain biking on the north end of the towpath.”

  I flashed him an “I need you” look, but he missed it entirely. He just popped up from the table and took off.

  Great. Leave me alone with Mom and Dad. I braced myself for “the talk.”

  Mom suddenly produced one of our pamphlets from out of nowhere and passed it to Dad. Where did she get that from? I wondered.

  “Oh, I love the design,” Dad said, examining the cover. “You girls have really taken this idea and run with it.”

  I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath until that moment. I exhaled slowly, feeling the unexpected praise sink in. With a nod, I said, “We worked hard on those. But I apologize for not asking first.”

  He stared at me. “Apologize?” he said. “For what?”

  Mom pointed to the phone number on the cover of the pamphlet. “Do you recognize that number?” she asked him. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook. We have a lot of curious neighbors.”

  “That’s good, yes? About the curious neighbors?” he asked, a weariness in his forehead. Sometimes when Dad returns from his job as a therapist, he seems a little out of it. “Listening with compassion,” he once said, “takes a lot of energy.” Now I could see what he meant.

  “Our phone number,” Mom repeated slowly, for Dad’s sake. “We don’t want to turn our home into a business office. At least I certainly do not.”

  “No,” Dad said, as if suddenly coming around. “I don’t either.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t ask,” I said. “I didn’t think it through. But we could use another number. Maddy’s or Ella’s?”

  “Grace,” Mom said, “I’m pretty sure their parents are going to feel the same way.”

  Dad leaned forward with his hands clasped, a sure sign that he was bringing his listening skills back into play. “Grace, have you thought about bringing in a few business advisers? In other words, parents? Or even your grandparents?”

  I didn’t like where this conversation was going. “But it’s our business, Dad,” I protested. “A kids’ business. That’s the idea.”

  “But as your business grows, it may benefit from some help,” he continued. “It can’t hurt, can it?”

  I sighed. “Dad, but then it’s not ours. I’m afraid you’ll want to take over or something. Or tell us to quit.”

  Mom leaned forward. “At school,” she said, “kids’ clubs often have a teacher adviser. We have no interest in taking over or starting a business. But we might be able to point out a few things to consider as you go along.”

  I took a deep breath. At least they aren’t making me quit, I reminded myself. And I had to show them that I had learned something from my mistake.

  “Okay,” I replied. “That sounds good. I…I was afraid you were going to make me quit.”

  Mom shook her head. “The Thomases aren’t quitters,” she said. “You’ve encouraged me not to quit training for my half marathon, haven’t you?”

  “That’s right,” added Dad. “We can’t quit over a few bumps in the road, Grace.”

  I couldn’t help it. I jumped up and gave Mom and Dad each a hug.

  hursday night, our “advisers” gathered in our living room around a coffee table full of French pastries. Grandma and Grandpa were scrunched in around the table beside Mom and Dad. Ella’s dad, Mr. Petronia, was sampling chocolate-dipped madeleines. Maddy’s mom, Mrs. Eaton, was trying our newest item, fresh strawberry tartelettes.

>   Maddy, Ella, and I scurried around in our aprons and refilled coffee cups and lemonade glasses. We were trying really hard to “sweeten up” our parents after our big mistake, and so far, it seemed to be working.

  Grandma wagged her head. “Just look at what you girls are accomplishing!”

  Grandpa leaned forward, chuckling. “You’re a chip off the old block, aren’t you, Grace?” he said proudly.

  “Ah, but you and I have never made French treats like these,” Grandma said. “Grace, you girls must send photos to your Aunt Sophie and Uncle Bernard. They’ll be amazed.”

  I beamed. “We already have!” I said, tapping my tablet. “And Sylvie’s helped us, too. She’s our French consultant. We e-mail back and forth.”

  “My goodness,” Grandma said. “Technology is something, isn’t it?”

  “Speaking of technology,” said Mom, “I’m sure none of us wants our personal phone numbers connected to the girls’ business. But the girls need some way for customers to contact them and place orders. Any thoughts?”

  Mrs. Eaton fiddled with the amber stone at the end of her silver necklace. “From our experience with our antiques business, the best way is to set up a website for advertising products and receiving order requests. As long as you don’t take actual payments online, it’s pretty easy to set up. We created our own website, and there’s no reason why we can’t help the girls launch their own, too.”

  Mrs. Eaton reached for her laptop beside the couch and flipped it open. “We could even get started tonight—at least with a very basic design.”

  A website? Tonight? A hum of energy buzzed through me. I’d been worried about parents taking over our business, but now I realized how much they could help us.

  “La Petite Pâtisserie,” Grandpa said, holding up one of the pamphlets. “I like it. You already have a name.”

  “The pamphlet’s just a beginning,” Maddy said hurriedly. “We, um…want to work on it some more.” She cast a glance at me and then looked downward, which made me feel bad.

  Things hadn’t felt right between Maddy and me since I’d criticized her pamphlet cover. I still felt like it needed something more French, but I sure wasn’t going to bring it up again.