We arranged our treats with care, making sure every “La Petite Pâtisserie” packaging sticker was face-out on our bags and boxes.
“C’est bien?” I asked. “It is good?”
“C’est bien!” Ella replied.
“C’est magnifique!” Maddy chimed in. Even she had started to try out a French word or phrase now and then.
I shot her a grateful smile.
When we all agreed that everything looked extra special and beautiful, we pushed the cart out into the world. Dad helped Ella and Maddy roll the cart while I walked Bonbon, our mascot. Josh followed beside us on his bike. Together we sang “Frère Jacques” in a round—all the way to Bridge Street.
In downtown Bentwick, a crowd had gathered near the decorated start and finish line—an arch filled with colorful balloons. From a platform up above, an announcer played music and gave updates on the run over a loudspeaker. And just a block away, the high school marching band had gathered, all brass and shine.
We found the perfect spot for our cart between the riverside park and the finish line.
“This works for me,” I said to Ella and Maddy. “This way I won’t miss my mom when she comes across the bridge.”
Mom had already started running before we got here, and I was pretty sure she’d be done in about two hours. I squeezed my eyes shut and made a wish that she’d have a good run today. She deserved it!
Before we even got settled, customers began to show up at our cart. At first it was the early crowd, walking over from the nearby coffee shop with paper cups in hand. “Just thought I’d see what you girls are selling,” one woman said.
“French treats,” I said with a smile. “Would you like to try a sample?”
Dad and Josh walked toward us with Bonbon on a leash, but just as I waved to them, a little girl with a head full of pretty braids pointed at our sign and then at Bonbon. “Look, Mom! It’s the same dog as on this sign!”
Then she raced over to Bonbon.
I had to laugh. Bonbon had the power to draw customers and take them away, too! But within a few minutes, the girl and her mom returned, ready to try a treat.
Ella took care of handling money. Our parents had helped us open a checking account, so we could take checks made out to La Petite Pâtisserie, or cash. Ella recorded everything in our business book and kept the money in her zippered waist pouch.
Maddy handed out pamphlets and also added them to bags with purchases. “If you like what you try today, please order from our website in the future,” she said to each customer.
As the sun climbed higher and heat shimmered above the river, the crowds near the finish line grew dense. Dad hovered nearby, in case we needed anything. He brought us snacks and bottles of water to drink, too.
A hum filled the air, the sound of people watching for their loved ones to come across the bridge before the finish line. And we were part of it, offering something unique and delicious while they waited. People would look at our sign, mouth the words, and then smile at us, often stepping closer to buy a chocolate truffle or a few macarons.
“Merci beaucoup!” I would say, handing them their purchase.
When Mr. Williams stepped up to our cart, I held my breath. He placed an order for his next big dinner party. “Two dozen strawberry tartelettes,” he said with a formal nod. “I would be grateful if you could deliver them fresh and on the day of the event.”
“But of course, Monsieur Williams,” I said politely.
And with that, he gave me his first true smile.
When cheering erupted nearby, I glanced at the bridge. The first runners were crossing—arms raised high, bodies lean and muscled—and heading toward the street banner declaring:
BENTWICK’S
LAST BLAST OF SUMMER
HALF MARATHON!
I kept working at our bakery cart, but I started keeping an eye on the bridge for Mom, too.
Over the next half hour, crowds of runners continued to cross the bridge, some running solo, others in small packs. Mom was out there somewhere, and I hoped she was okay. I gazed at the blur of legs and arms and heads. And then, to my surprise, I spotted her! Her face was raspberry-red, but her gaze was completely focused on the finish line ahead.
I darted from the cart. “I’ll be right back!” I yelled to my friends above the crowd’s constant cheering.
“Dad! Josh!” I called, joining them at the curb nearest the bridge. “She’s coming!”
And then there she was, running toward us.
“Way to go, Mom!” I added to Dad and Josh’s whooping and cheering. I held up Bonbon so that she could see Mom, too.
As Mom passed, giving us all a tired thumbs-up, I felt a wave of pride. She had been training hard. And I have, too, I reminded myself. We were both doing what we loved this summer, no matter the obstacles, and we had kept working at it—stride by stride—to get to this day.
I kissed Bonbon, who was being so calm and good, on the top of her head. “You understand, don’t you, girl?”
Mom was lost in a crowd of runners, and when I glanced over at our bakery cart, a small line had formed in front of Ella and Maddy. They needed my help, but first I had to find Mom. I gave Bonbon back to my dad and then worked my way through the dense crowd. I finally reached her.
“Mom!” I said, rising to my tiptoes. I kissed her rosy face on the left and then on the right. “You did it! I’m so proud of you!”
“And I’m proud of you, Grace! Really proud!” Then she glanced in the direction of our booth. “But you’d better run, honey. You have a swarm of customers!”
“That’s good!” I said, spinning away. “C’est bien!”
Mary Casanova is always full of ideas. The author of over 30 books—including Cécile: Gates of Gold, Jess, Chrissa, Chrissa Stands Strong, McKenna, and McKenna, Ready to Fly!—she often travels as far away as Norway, Belize, and France for research.
For Grace, she returned to Paris—this time with her grown daughter, Kate—where they biked, explored, and took a French baking class together. Mary comes from a long line of bakers. Her grandmothers baked fragrant breads; her mother made the “world’s best” caramel rolls and cinnamon rolls; and Mary, too, loves baking breads, cakes, and cookies.
When she’s not writing—or traveling for research or to speak at schools and conferences—she’s likely reading a good book, horseback riding in the northwoods of Minnesota, or hiking with her husband and three dogs.
Special thanks to Héloïse Blain, French teacher and language expert, Nice, France; Dawn Bowlus, director, Jacobson Institute for Youth Entrepreneurship at The University of Iowa; Dominique Dury, head chef, Flying Cook, Paris, France; and Donna Houle, special projects manager, Blackstone Valley Tourism Council.
Glossary of French Words
Aimes-tu mes macarons? (em-tew may mah-kah-rohns)—Do you like my macarons?
à la mode (ah lah mohd)—fashionable
bonjour (bohn-zhoor)—hello
boulangerie (boo-lahn-zhuh-ree)—a French bakery that specializes in breads and may serve lunch, too
C’est bien. (say byehn)—It’s good; that’s good.
C’est magnifique! (say mah-nyee-feek)—It’s beautiful! It’s magnificent!
C’est parfait. (say pahr-feh)—It’s perfect.
crêpe (crep)—a thin pancake served with a variety of fillings
éclair (ay-klehr)—a long pastry filled with whipped or sweet cream, often topped with chocolate
Frère Jacques (freh-ruh zhahk)—Brother Jacques; a French lullaby that is often sung as a round
gâteau (gah-toh)—a rich cake
gâteau au yahourt (gah-toh oh yah-oor)—yogurt cake
grand-mère (grahn-mehr)—grandmother
grand-père (grahn-pehr)—grandfather
le chat (luh shah)—the cat (male)
macaron (mah-kah-rohn)—a double-layer round cookie that comes in all kinds of colors and flavors
madame (mah-dahm)—Mrs., ma’am
; madeleine (mahd-len)—a small rich cake baked in a shell-shaped mold
Ma petite chienne est très à la mode. (mah puh-teet shyen ay trehz ah lah mohd)—My little dog is very fashionable.
merci beaucoup (mehr-see boh-koo)—thank you very much
moi aussi (mwah oh-see)—me too
Mon chat dort sur mon lit. (mohn shah dohr syur mohn lee)—My cat sleeps on my bed.
monsieur (muh-syuh)—Mister, sir
oui (wee)—yes
pâtisserie (pah-tee-suh-ree)—a French bakery that specializes in pastries and desserts
petite chienne (puh-teet shyen)—little dog (female)
petite pâtisserie (puh-teet pah-tee-suh-ree)—little bakery
tartelette (tahrt-let)—a small tart, or open-faced pastry shell filled with fruit or custard
très (treh)—very
truffle (troo-fluh)—a soft chocolate candy covered with cocoa or chopped nuts
Versailles (vehr-sahy)—King Louis XIV’s main palace; also the French town where it is located
voilà (vwah-lah)—here it is, or there it is
The baking business is booming for Grace and her friends. Can they manage all the orders? And when Grace’s grandparents’ bakery is in trouble, can the girls whip up a way to help?
Keep reading for a preview of Grace’s next story!
rom the moment the train conductor called out “All aboard!” to the moment I took my last bite of lunch in the dining car, I’d grinned from ear to ear. Seated across from me, Ella and Maddy smiled back. We rode the slow-moving Bentwick tourist train—creaking, squeaking, clattering, and swaying—along the rails. It was the perfect way to celebrate my tenth birthday with my family and friends.
Everything in the train car felt fancy—the dark woodwork, domed ceiling, and lacy valance curtains above white tablecloths. Outside, the valley was a vast green quilt with a few patches of orange and red. The maple trees were just beginning to turn, but in a few weeks, they would be on fire with color. The early-afternoon sun warmed my shoulder as a crisp breeze drifted through the open window.
We passed fields of pumpkins, and orchards where workers on stepladders filled baskets with red apples. Across a pasture, six horses galloped away from us, their heads high and tails outstretched.
When we passed a flock of chickens, Ella exclaimed, “Rhode Island Reds! Just like ours at home!” Her dad had been raising chickens to collect eggs, which we sometimes use for our baking.
Grandpa straightened up in his seat as we wound past the sparkling Blackstone River, carrying canoes and kayaks beneath bridges and through old mill towns. “Y’know, girls,” he said, “some of those buildings date back more than two hundred years to the American Industrial Revolution.” He nodded toward the stone houses before they disappeared behind us.
Dad’s eyes met mine and he gave me a knowing smile. Today, Grandpa was our unofficial tour guide. He knows a lot about Blackstone River Valley history, and Dad and I have heard a lot of it before.
Despite the rocking motion, the server—Grandpa called her a “porter”—managed to carry a cake glowing with candles toward our crowded table. Wearing a black vest over a white blouse, she looked from my friends to me. Her brass name tag read “Destiny,” and when she smiled, deep creases appeared around her dark eyes. “September nineteenth. Who’s the lucky girl?” She had a thick southern accent, which is unusual here in Massachusetts.
I raised my hand. “Me. But my birthday was actually on the seventeenth.” Though taking the Saturday train ride meant waiting a couple of days to celebrate my birthday, it was worth the wait.
“Well, the happiest birthday to you, darlin’!” said Destiny sweetly. “I have never seen such a pretty cake!”
“My grandpa baked it,” I explained. “He and my grandma own First Street Family Bakery. But my friends and I bake, too. We started our own baking business.”
“Is that so?” Destiny said.
Maddy nodded. “It’s called La Petite Pâtisserie.”
Destiny looked impressed. “Sounds French.”
“It is,” Ella added, explaining how we take orders online. “We make madeleines and tartelettes and other French pastries.”
“How elegant! I love to bake, too. I bet it’s fun to have your own business,” Destiny said enthusiastically. “I just moved here from Atlanta, and I haven’t found a good bakery yet,” she explained. “I’ll remember all y’all and your French pastries—and I’ll look for First Street Family Bakery, too.”
When Destiny left, Grandma and Grandpa, Mom, Dad, and Josh broke into song, along with my friends. “…Happy Birthday, dear Grace,” they all sang, “Happy Birthday to you!”
I smiled at the double-layer white cake trimmed with lavender frosting and aglow with ten flickering candles.
I couldn’t believe it was already my birthday. The summer had flown by! On my trip with Mom to Paris to visit Aunt Sophie, I’d dreamed of starting a French baking business. Since then, working together with my friends, we’d launched La Petite Pâtisserie—or what we liked to call “LPP.” We’d had our first sale at Mom’s half marathon in late August and had sold out of everything on our baking cart. Then we set up our own website, and now, two weeks into school, orders were rolling in!
“Are you going to watch the candles melt,” Maddy asked, her red hair curled in ringlets, “or make a wish?”
“What are you waiting for, Grace?” Grandpa teased. “Isn’t this cake up to your standards?”
Of course it was. It was beautifully decorated, and I knew it would be delicious. Grandpa is an awesome baker. “It’s perfect,” I said. “I’m just thinking about my wish…”
As tiny pools of wax formed at the top of each candle, I decided exactly what I wanted. More than anything else, I wanted La Petite Pâtisserie to succeed!
Then I inhaled as much air as my lungs could hold and—with my last ounce of breath—blew out all ten candles.
When the bell rang at the end of the school day on Friday, I headed toward the door where my teacher, Mr. Bauer, was standing. With the weekend ahead, I’d have more time to catch up on baking—and homework.
“Have a cosmic weekend, astronauts!” Mr. Bauer said. Our class was doing a space unit this month, and he wasn’t about to let us forget it.
“Roger that!” replied a few students.
Mr. Bauer shook hands with each of us as we left. “And remember, reports due Monday.”
“Or we might be shot off into space?” one boy asked.
“In space, anything can happen,” Mr. Bauer replied. “Better to always be prepared.”
Though I’d had my doubts the first day, Mr. Bauer was turning out to be a pretty fun teacher. All around the room, he’d hung posters of planets and stars, rockets and astronauts. When it was time to clean up around our desks, he would say, “Astronauts, ready your stations!” When we lined up to go somewhere, it was for “our next mission.” We weren’t just Room 107. We were Apollo 107, with one main objective: “to gain as much knowledge as possible and return home again.” And we could address our teacher in one of three ways: “Mr. Bauer,” “Captain Bauer,” or “Sir.” After three weeks, I was catching on to his different style of teaching.
“Grace,” Mr. Bauer said when I reached the door. “I hear you bake. Maybe for your report, you’ll want to write about what astronauts eat. If you like, you could bake something and bring it to class.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered with a smile. “Maybe I will.”
As I stepped into the hallway, Ella and Maddy were waiting for me.
“How does he know you bake?” Ella asked, her dark hair braided in tiny rows.
I shrugged. “Teachers talk.” My mom is a fourth-grade teacher, too, so I figured she’d mentioned my passion for baking to Mr. Bauer.
“Plus,” Maddy added, grinning, “we advertise. Our baking business isn’t exactly a secret.”
We quickly stopped by Maddy and Ella’s classroom, where Mom shuffled through a pile of pa
pers on her desk. I waved from the door. “Hi, Mom!”
She looked up and smiled. “Hi, Grace. How was your day?”
“It was good,” I said. “Meet you at home?”
“Sure thing. See you there, honey!”
Ella and Maddy said good-bye to “Mrs. Thomas,” too, and we headed out the front door of the school and found our bikes in the bike rack.
“Mr. Bauer seems really cool and really, really fun,” Maddy said.
I felt myself bristle a little. “You mean my mom’s not fun?”
Ella rolled her eyes and hooked her arm inside mine. “Of course she is, Grace. Mrs. Thomas—I mean your mom—is also a really nice teacher.”
“I think she is,” I said. Then I sighed. “Honestly, when I first found out that we were in different classrooms, I felt sorry for myself that you were together in my mom’s class and I was stuck in another class. But I’m okay with it now. Mr. Bauer is pretty fun.”
“Speaking of fun,” Maddy said, pulling her bike helmet over her thick red hair, “are we going to bake today?”
“Definitely!” I replied. “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons,” I reminded her. “And Saturdays—at least this month. We have some big orders to fill.”
“Got it,” she replied.
I glanced sideways at Maddy. It didn’t matter if I put our plans on our online calendar. She would still have a hard time remembering to check it. Maddy would never be all that organized, but she brought so many other skills to the table. She created a lot of our advertising. Plus, she helped me remember to keep our business fun.
“I still can’t believe we’re doing it,” Ella said, unlocking her bike. “We’re actually running a business together as friends.”
“Isn’t it great?” I said as I pulled my bike out of the rack. “First it was an idea, and now it’s a real business!”
Straddling my bike for a second, I took in the view. Our school sat on the top of the hill above the river. As I looked out across the Blackstone Valley, it reminded me of gazing down on Paris from the high point of Montmartre. Everything I had seen—and tasted—in that city had helped me decide what kind of business I wanted to run.
Grace Stirs It Up Page 10