The Sweetest Thing

by Christina Mandelski

  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.

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  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.

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  Chapter 6

  the cream of the crop

  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.

  “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 thi
nk?”

  “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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  Chapter 7

  bread of life

  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 81

  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.