The Sweetest Thing

by Christina Mandelski

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

  Chapter 2

  wake up and smell the coffee

  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.

  I sit down, my feet dangling over the water. I turn toward the lake, so big, constant, dependable. My heart twists.

  God, I want my mother back so bad that the longing has become a real thing, like a giant suitcase I lug around with me
everywhere I go. A minute doesn’t pass that I don’t wonder where she is and why the cards stopped. Not one minute.

  When Jack’s ringtone blasts from inside my jacket, I jump. I look around and grab for my phone clumsily like I’m waking up from a restless nap. How long have I been sitting here?

  “Hey!” I answer.

  “Where are you?” he asks, sounding impatient.

  “Why? What time is it?”

  “Um . . . time to be here.”

  19

  I lift myself off of the pier. “Okay, give me a minute. I’m at the harbor.”

  He hangs up and I get ready to run, but not before I bend over and touch the initials, reminding myself that once we were a family.

  Geronimo’s Coffeehouse and Gift Emporium sits on the north side of the town square, between Mrs. Trang’s Pilates Palace and Animal Cracker’s Day Care. This is where every teenager in St. Mary hangs out, and Jack works here, too, to keep his broken-down Corolla up and running.

  But today is his day off, and now he’s annoyed that I’m late.

  As soon as I walk in, the smell of coffee drives its way up into my cerebral cortex, or whatever part of my brain makes me crave a nice latte. Nanny says they’ll stunt my growth, but I’m already taller than most of the boys in tenth grade, so that’s fine with me.

  Mrs. Davis, the owner, is busy behind the counter foam-ing up a cappuccino, but she still smiles and waves when I walk in. “The usual, Sheridan?”

  “Yes, thanks!” I smile. No one in New York City would even know my name, much less my preference for nonfat vanilla lattes.

  I can see Jack at our table near the register. He’s wearing a T-shirt that reads, “i rode the mind melter and lived to buy this t-shirt.” We both have one from last year’s state fair.

  20

  “Hi,” I say.

  “’Bout time,” he gripes without looking up.

  “Oh, shut up. I have a good excuse.” I take off my jacket and hang it on the coatrack behind me. “I just found out that my life is over.”

  “Right.” He straightens some papers in front of him, takes a sip of his coffee.

  I pull out a chair and sit.

  “So,” Jack says, “your life is over. What’d you do—break a nail?”

  “Yeah, right.” I hold up my nails, all of them chipped and stained purple from coloring the fondant for my mermaid. I shift in my chair. “No. Dad finally got a show. A cooking-slash-reality show on ExtremeCuisine TV.”

  Jack’s eyes bug out, and he slaps a hand on the table.

  “What? Are you kidding me?”

  I look at his angular face and scowl. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  Why in the world does he look so happy?

  “That’s awesome! I love that channel!” He grabs my hand and waves it in the air, making a whooping noise. I yank my arm back and glare at him.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

  “He says we have to move. To New York City. Both of us.” Jack’s mouth snaps shut. Yeah, that got him.

  “Well, maybe you won’t have to. Hopeful y, you won’t have to.” He looks worried.

  “Oh. I’m not moving; I don’t care what he says.”

  21

  “You could live with Nan until you graduate. Or you could live with us!”

  I’d rather use store-bought tub frosting than live with Jack’s family, though of course I’d never tel him that. He has three little brothers who are constantly farting and burping.

  I smile at him as sweetly as possible. “Thanks. But I’m gonna talk to him. I mean, what’s going to happen to the restaurant? He can’t just leave.”

  Jack’s got this faraway look in his eyes. “Although, think about it; he’s pretty well known now, but if he had his own show, he could be famous. You guys could be loaded.” He leans back in his chair and grins. “Not Michigan loaded, either; I’m talking Hollywood, baby. Ferraris, indoor pools, maybe a butler . . . maybe you’ll end up with your own show.

  They can call it Cake Girl. Now that I would watch.”

  “Oh my God, can you not sound so excited about this?”

  The corners of his mouth fall in a dramatic frown. “Sorry. Who would want a Ferrari, anyway? Cheap-ass car.”

  “Jack. Come on. I’m not going anywhere. What about my cakes? What about Mom?” Doesn’t he realize if Dad forced me to New York, I’d be leaving behind everything that is important to me? Even him. I’ve known him since preschool. I can’t imagine life minus Jack.

  He touches my hand. “Hey. Relax. Why don’t you just wait and see what happens instead of flipping out right away?” I look into his eyes and calm down a little. He’s right.

  Maybe I don’t need to panic. Not yet, anyway.

  22

  He looks down at the paper in front of him.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  He smiles wide and lifts the top page by the corner.

  “This, my friend, could be what we’ve been looking for. I think I might have found your mom.”

  “What?” I grab the paper out of his hand and try to focus my eyes on what’s in front of me. “What is this?”

  “It’s a picture of a cake from a contest in Ottawa. Look at it.”

  It’s got three tiers, covered in white fondant. And it is positively crawling with sapphire-colored butterflies. My mother was known for her sugar butterflies. They looked just like the real thing. These look just like the real thing.

  “So? Lots of people make sugar butterflies.” I let the paper fall onto the table.

  “People named Maggie Taylor?”

  “What?”

  He hands me the next page in his pile. “Yeah, look.”

  I see a list of names. Next to the words “Grand Prize”

  is the name Maggie Taylor. That was my mother’s maiden name.

  “It makes sense, Sheridan. Last time, you heard she was in Canada, right?”

  I nod.

  “Ottawa is in Canada, right?”

  I nod, trying to pace my excitement. “But that’s a common name.”

  23

  “Yeah, but then I found this.” He hands me another printout from a Web page. It’s almost the same cake, but this one is covered with monarch butterflies.

  “What’s this from?”

  “It’s from a hotel on Mackinac that does wedding recep-tions. Read the caption.”

  “Cake by Maggie Taylor.”

  For the first time in a long while, I have this funny feeling deep inside my gut. Like this time it’s really her.

  I sit back in my chair. “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe?”

  Jack’s smile is big and bright. “Could be a coincidence, but Mackinac isn’t that far.”

  Mrs. Davis walks over to our table. “Here you go, kid-do.” She puts down a cardboard cup. “So, how you guys doing today?”

  “Good, thanks.” I pull a five out of my front pocket.

  “And thank you for the latte.” I grab the coffee and take a hot sip.

  “Oh, no problem. And keep your money.” She leans forward, her huge bosom nearly touching the table. “I heard there’s reason to celebrate? There’s a little rumor floating around, about your dad?”

  What? My mouth turns up in an insincere smile. I shake my head. “Not a done deal yet, Mrs. D.” I hand her the five.

  She straightens up and refuses it again. “Oh. I shoulda 24

  known. But that’s one rumor I wouldn’t mind coming true.

  God knows your dad’s worked hard enough for it.” She smiles.

  “He’s done a lot to put this town on the map. But his own show, on ExtremeCuisine? Now that would be exciting.”

  I shake my head. “Yeah, right. But no, it’s not for sure.”

  “Well, keep me posted, will ya?”

  “Yep.”

  She walks back to the counter.

  I get right back to the matter at hand. “Maybe I should
call that hotel. Maybe they can tell me about her.”

  Jack mouth is set in a firm line. “Sheridan . . . slow down.” He’s thinking of the other near misses over the last year. “You need me to remind you?”

  Um, no.

  He counts off on his fingers. “Huh. Let’s start with Margaret Taylor of Omaha, Chinese American—definitely not your mother. Or Maggie Wells in Boulder, who called the cops because she thought you were stalking her? Or should we just skip to Maggie Taylor in San Diego, who was, what . . . was she in the first or second grade?”

  I cross my arms and slump in my chair. “I hate you.”

  “Sheridan, all I’m saying is be careful.”

  “Well, calling the hotel is being careful. I’ll just find out where she’s based and if they have her phone number.”

  He shakes his head. “Just don’t do anything stupid. Yet.”

  Jack folds the paper, gives it to me, and glances over my head toward the door. I follow his eyes and see Lori winding 25

  through the maze of chairs and tables.

  “Hey!” Lori says, unraveling her scarf and sitting down.

  She scans our faces. “Who died?”

  Jack grins. “Oh, Sheridan’s just pissed off because she might have to get a butler.” I give him a good kick in the shin.

  “Yow!” he wails.

  “Well, one of you better tell me what’s going on.” She fluffs her dark hair and stares at me.

  I lower my voice and tell her about the show, but I also say that she shouldn’t worry, because we are not moving anywhere—I’ll talk my father out of this.

  “Talk him out of it? Are you nuts?”

  I smack the table. “Jeez, I’m glad you guys are so excited.” I stand up and go for my coat. “If you want to get rid of me so bad, I’ll just leave now.”

  “Oh, give me a break. Where do you think you’re going?”

  Lori asks.

  My face is hot and I’m flustered, angry. “I have about a million things to do at the bakery.”

  “Sit down,” Lori says. “You’re not working on any stupid cake today.”

  Jack laughs and leans back in his chair. He’s got this confident look that makes other girls go wild, but it just makes me want to punch his face. “No one wants you to move,”