I walk through the open gate and feel instantly protected by the brick walls around me. I can hide here, for a little while. My eyes are swollen from crying, and I could really use a tissue, but I flip open my sketchbook anyway.
I sit on a small concrete bench that’s curved like a smile and scan my work from yesterday, when I sketched the tulips. I notice today that they are open just a little bit wider.
The daytime temperatures have been warmer the last few days, and the garden shows it.
I glance around and decide to draw the grape hyacinths, which are so low to the ground I have to lie on my stomach to get a good look.
They are beautiful, like clusters of bright indigo bells. I focus on one single bulb and begin. My right hand seems to know exactly what to do, where to shadow, where to lightly trace. My eyes move from the paper to the flower. It’s like making music, notes and instrument working together. The flower comes alive, right there in my sketchbook.
It’s not the same as making cakes, but still, this picture is coming along. When the sketch is done, I reach for my 220
colored pencils so that I can capture the way the hyacinths look in the fading sunset, the way they rustle ever so slightly in the cool breeze.
As I pull out the green pencil, I hear footsteps on the flagstone path and snap the sketchbook closed.
“Good evening, Sheridan,” Growly says, stern, as always.
“Hi, Father,” I say, scrambling off my belly. “I was just leaving.” His usual scowl is there when I look up at him.
“Oh, don’t rush off on my account. It’s a lovely flower, don’t you think?” He points to the clump of grape hyacinths at my feet.
“Yes. Lovely.”
“May I see what you’ve done?”
No way. “Well, they stink, so . . .”
“Perhaps they do”—he sits on the bench—“but I’ll be kind. I promise.” He reaches out. I want to turn around and run. But I open the book and give it to him.
He stares at the hyacinths for a long time, turning the paper this way and that. And then he flips the page backward.
“Oh, please, don’t.” I reach for the book. “Those are worse.”
He laughs quietly. “Oh, let an old man appreciate some art.” He considers several of the tulip and daffodil sketches from yesterday and then the withering crocuses from the day before.
He closes the book, hands it back to me.
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“Yes.” He looks straight ahead at the still-sleeping rose-bushes. “There’s definitely some talent there.”
I look down at my feet. “I told you they weren’t good.”
He crosses his arms, leans back a few inches. “Well, actually, they are quite remarkable.”
“Oh.” I shove the sketchbook back into my bag. “Thank you. But it’s not really my thing. Art, I mean. I don’t like it very much.”
“Hmm. Life is full of ironies like that, isn’t it?” He straightens his body and chuckles. “The Father hands us what he hands us. A calling. A family. A gift. And yet, we can hate the things we’ve been given. Or love them. Or sometimes feel both ways at the same time. Odd, don’t you think?”
I don’t know exactly what he’s getting at. But I feel I have to make one thing clear. “I’d rather make cakes. I love making cakes.”
“Yes.” He nods. “Like your mother before you.” He leans to one side, picks a piece of grass, and throws it into the air to see which way the wind is blowing. “Your mother was gifted, certainly. But not like you.”
“She is very talented,” I say. He better not insult my mother too; he’ll be sorry.
“No, no, there’s no doubt about that.” He points a finger at me and smiles again. “But she is not you and vice versa.
Your talents are not the same as hers. Thankfully, we don’t become exactly what our parents are; we have gifts of our 222
own to develop and explore.”
I look hard at the old guy. He’s trying to impart some priestly wisdom to me. But he doesn’t know me or what my cakes mean to me. He doesn’t know what my mother means to me. No one does.
“I think I’ll sit out here for a bit and enjoy the evening.
Would you care to join me?” he says.
“No. Thank you. They’re filming us tonight, or something.”
“Ah, the big show.” He grins.
“Yeah.”
“Well then, good-night.” He reaches out his hand to me.
I consider him for a second, and then place my hand in his.
He squeezes it, just a little.
“May God bless you and bring you peace, Sheridan.”
“Thanks.” I let go and walk toward the gate, hoping that maybe God heard him, thinking that a little peace would be a nice change.
Dad’s car is back at the house. I don’t want to talk to him at all. But I know I need to get my cell phone back before Mom calls. The filming starts in half an hour, and the crew is now streaming in and out of the back of the bakery, setting up.
I take a deep breath and walk quietly inside the house.
I don’t see Dad, but as I walk upstairs, his voice booms out.
“Sheridan!” He’s in his study down the hall. My feet move like they are in quicksand. Squelch. Squerch. When I 223
get to the doorway, I see that he’s at his desk, leaning on his elbows, tapping his chin with his fingers.
“Where did you go?” he asks.
You mean after you left me by the side of the road?
“Art project,” I say, trying to sound like I don’t hate him for what he did and said to me earlier. I need that cell phone.
It’s there on the corner of his desk. If he’s still mad, there’s no way I’ll get it back.
“Come in for a minute. Let me see your progress.”
Fine.
I walk in quickly and pull the sketchbook from the bag on my shoulder. Open to the page with the hyacinths. He scans it quickly, closes the book, and hands it back.
“We have to talk.” He motions to the chair across from him. I shake my head.
“I’ll stand, thanks.”
“Sit.”
I sit and fling my bag to the ground.
“I saw your grandmother, briefly.”
“What?” I sit up. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. She should be home this weekend.” He leans back in his chair, tilts his head. “But she says I was wrong.”
“What?”
“She says it was wrong of me to treat you like I did earlier. And I agree. So, I’m sorry for what I said and for leaving you.”
The ticking clock echoes through the silence. I see right 224
through his act. He needs me to be a good girl on his TV
show, doesn’t want me to blow his big chance.
“And she thinks I owe you some answers.” He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “About your mother.”
Well, this is not what I expected.
“So, go ahead—what are your questions?”
My mind is like an orchard of questions; I can just reach out and pluck one from the nearest tree. “Why did she leave?”
I ask, drained of all emotion. I just want to know the truth.
He nods, leans back in his chair. “She fell in love with that man. Of course, you know that.” He looks down at the desk, then up at me again. “But I guess you’re old enough to know. He wasn’t the first.”
“What?”
“There were other men.” He pauses. “You sure you want to hear this?”
I’m not sure. I nod anyway.
“She had a problem being faithful. She was always sorry after, and I always took her back.” His voice is slow, steady.
“I thought you needed her. But after a while, her behavior started to affect you, too. Do you remember the time you went to stay at Nanny’s for a while, when you were in kin-dergarten?”
“No.”
“Yeah. I was invited to be the guest chef at the Gover-nor’s Mansion. While I was
away, she went off to meet some guy. Left you alone in the house, sleeping. Nanny found you 225
and took you to her place, and she wouldn’t give you back until your mother and I figured things out.” He shakes his head. “She said she’d call child services if we didn’t. Kept you for about a month. And we tried to make it work.”
He shifts, uncomfortable now in his chair. “She shaped up after that, for a while. But when she didn’t get on the plane after that contest, I knew she was gone.”
I am like a statue, barely breathing.
He nods. “I did hope she’d be part of your life. I wanted that for you. But I think as each year went by, staying away was easier than facing you and facing up to what she’d done.
I know those ridiculous cards didn’t help.”
I am listening, trying to sort through his words. But they are jumbling up inside of my head.
“I don’t care.” I stand up, trying to stay calm. “I don’t care if there were other men. I am her daughter, and she loves me. She’ll come back if I ask her.”
His eyes are closed. “Sheridan. She doesn’t want to come back.”
“Well, I’ll bet I can make her. Give me my cell phone.
I’ll show you.”
“No. Sit down.” I sit, too tired to argue. “I’m sorry, but you can’t make her do anything. And … I want you to listen to me.”
“No, you’re wrong, Dad.” How can I convince him? “She’s coming back.”
“No. She’s not.”
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Think of her hand in mine. Think of that brush through my hair. Here’s how you make a buttercream rose, Sheridan. I love you. I miss you. I will see you soon.
“Listen to me very carefully, Sheridan. If you keep calling her, you are going to get hurt. I want you to leave this alone, okay? We’ll film the show. And when we’re done . . .
Are you still listening?”
“No.” I straighten my spine. “After the show, you’ll leave, too.”
“I told you it’s not going to happen that way. You are coming with me.”
I shake my head. He’ll never listen. How can I make him understand that leaving here will kill me?
He keeps talking. “You don’t have to agree with me, but this show is the chance I’ve wanted for you. Your chance for a remarkable life. Look at those sketches.” He nods his head in the direction of my bag. “You have so much talent. I won’t let you waste it.”
I stare, confused by his words. “No, Dad.” My voice breaks. “This is your chance. Not mine. I am happy the way things are.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll be in the show,. But I am not going to New York.” I stand, pick up my bag. “And if you go, if you leave, then I don’t want to see you anymore.
I’ll live with Nanny and you won’t have to worry about me.”
His broad shoulders sag. “I’m not going to leave you, Sheridan,” he says in a whisper. “I’m not her. ”
“Please stop talking about her like that. She loves me.”
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We stare at each other with the same unwavering look.
I can see the pain in his eyes. I’ve hurt him. I’m getting scary good at hurting people lately. My cell phone is on the corner of his desk. I walk to it and pick it up.
“Since you admitted you were wrong, I assume I can I have this back?”
His jaw tenses. My stomach flips. I turn around and walk down the hall with the phone in my hand.
I close my bedroom door. Sit on the edge of my bed. Flip open the sketchbook in my hands. Slowly, I page backward.
Bright yellow tulips, tinged with red.
There were other men?
Purple crocuses edged with yellow.
She doesn’t want to come back?
Daffodils with delicate ruffled petals.
I stop on the hyacinths. This sketch was the tenth picture. I’m done with the project. I run a finger over the deep purple blossom. I don’t wonder what’s missing. Don’t wonder what my mother would do. I drew what I wanted. And I know that it’s right.
S taying away was easier? I can understand that. It’s not easy to admit when you’re wrong.
I pick up the cell phone, check for messages. Nothing.
And then I dial Jack. I can’t help myself. I need him. I want him back—Haley or no Haley, Ethan or no Ethan. It’s ringing. I hope he will answer.
“Hi.” It’s him and he doesn’t sound thrilled.
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“Hi.” I stand up, walk to my window, push aside the curtain. What do I say? “Jack.” Well, that was profound.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” I take a deep breath, relieved to just say the words. “I am sorry. I’m not doing anything right and I hate it.” I am crying again. For the millionth time today. “And I don’t want to lose you, too.”
He hesitates. “Okay. Calm down.”
“Okay, what? Okay, you forgive me? Or okay, you’re through with me?”
I hear him sigh. “You know you’re not getting rid of me that easy.” I sigh, too, so glad to hear those words. “But I still can’t stand Ethan. Just so you know.”
“Fair enough.” I laugh. “And I can’t stand Haley. Just so you know.”
He’s silent for a long second. “Who told you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Look, I was mad at you. And she asked me. It made sense at the time. But there’s not much to her, really, other than what we already knew was there.”
I sit down, my out-of-whack world a little closer to being back in orbit. “Good.”
“How’s the mom hunt?”
I pause. “Don’t ask.” I press my fingers to my temple and my voice breaks. “Not good.”
“Okay, change of subject, then?” he says. “How’s that art project coming?”
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I sniff. “Done.”
“For real?”
“Yes, for real,” I say, and wipe my eyes. “I’m done.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Jack . . . I am done.”
He laughs. “So can I see it?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing right now?”
“They’re filming us at the bakery tonight. You wanna come?” Having him there might just make it bearable.
“Will I be in the way?”
“No way.”
“Ethan going to be there?”
“No.” Haley is probably still at his house, doing “homework.”
“Good. I’ll come over,” he says. “And Sheridan?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you called.”
I laugh, so relieved. “Me, too.” I hang up, rub the bird charm on my bracelet. Check my cell phone to make sure it’s charged and the signal is strong. I’m not giving up on Mom yet.
I need to look on the bright side here. I’ve just patched things up with Jack. The project is finished. Nanny is on the mend.
Miracles are happening all over the place.
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Chapter 19
let’s talk turkey
The camera crew films me making a gum-paste hibiscus flower for the cake; then they ask me to show Dad how to do it.
He’s nervous. Thinks I’m a loose cannon, like I might lose it in front of the camera. Well, I won’t. I told him: if he goes to New York, we’re through. If he thinks I’m gonna change my mind, he’s wrong.
I cut out the shape of the petal. Dad tries to copy, but he’s miserable at this. It’s very funny, and I’m sure this segment will be good for some laughs on ExtremeCuisine TV.
At one point, he holds up his awful petal and says, “You have so much more talent than your old man.” Then, while they are still filming, he puts his arm around me. “Love you.”
He sounds so sincere that I almost believe him. But when Amazon yells “Cut!” he drops his arm and walks over to talk to her.
Jack shows up while we’re filming and watches quietly from the back. When we’re done, and the
y whisk Dad into the front of the bakery to watch the footage, I wrap my arms around Jack’s neck in the longest, tightest hug ever.
“All right . . . can’t breathe.” He pulls me off him.
I hold up my arm and rattle my wrist, showing him the bracelet. “Thank you. I love it.”
“Yeah, I knew you would. Babes and jewelry and all,” he says, his brown eyes all lit up.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I say.
It’s good to be myself with Jack right now, even though it’s strange to know that he’s got this crush on me. As we talk, I notice he’s acting different—holds my gaze just a little longer than normal, smiles at me for no good reason. The biggest surprise of all, though, is the fact that I’m acting kind of different, too.
Then I remind myself to stop. I have a boyfriend. I think.
“Hey,” I say as I settle down to work on another petal. “If you’re free tomorrow after school, I thought . . . I was hoping maybe you could take me to see Nanny?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“I haven’t gone yet.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The thought of seeing her like that freaks me out 232
a little.” I attach the petal to a small metal pin that sticks out of a Styrofoam base. It will take at least a day to dry. “But I’ve gotta do it.”
“Okay, I’ll take you.”
“I can’t stay long. I’ve got a wardrobe fitting.” And plans with Ethan at the harbor, but I keep that to myself.
“All right. We can leave after school, then?”
“Perfect.”
He looks at his watch. “Well, I guess I should go.”
He sticks his hands in his pockets and hovers like he has something more to say.
I put down my work, nod my head. “Cool. I’m about ready to pack it in, too.”
“Okay, cool.”
I walk with him into the alley, holding open the screen door with my body He stops. We’re standing in the shadows, a light breeze dances between us. But he doesn’t make a move to leave.
“What is it?” I nudge his arm and laugh. “Are we okay?”
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