Smart Cookie

by Elly Swartz

  So I tuck my secrets behind my big toe and instead tell him about the Who’s in Your Herd? float and the chance to ride in the parade. Then I find my brave and my voice and ask, “Can you come?”

  A yes would be a first.

  A no would not be a first. But it would hurt like a first. That’s the thing about nos. You never get used to them.

  The pause fills the room. Lucy inches closer to the bag of Doritos and Winston until his quills prick her nose. Then Dad says, “I’m really proud of you. I wouldn’t miss it,” as he reaches for my orange-stained hand.

  I hold on to this moment tightly.

  “I asked Gram to come, too,” I tell him.

  “That’d be great,” he says, dipping his hand into the bag of chips and pulling out a fistful.

  “She wants to bring Sid.”

  Dad smiles and nods.

  Behind him, I see Gram out the window. She’s alone. I’m surprised. Sid seems to go wherever she goes these days. Except the shed. That’s still just for her. And her room. That’s also off-limits.

  I look again. Still just Gram. But this time I see the big red door. Open.

  Something clicks inside of me.

  This is my chance.

  My chance to fix everything.

  I kiss Dad’s cheek, hand him the rest of the chips, and quietly slide out the back door. I slowly creep to the maple tree and watch Gram hauling boxes in and out of the shed. Door open. Door closed. Door locked. Door open. Door closed. Door locked.

  Door open. Door closed. Door not locked.

  I wait for her to run back and bolt the door. But she doesn’t. Five minutes pass. Then ten minutes. Nothing. Gram is back inside the B&B. I know she didn’t mean to leave the door unlocked. I know looking inside her private space goes against Rule #2: Stay out of the shed. But right now, I need answers.

  So I hold my breath and step inside to unearth whatever secrets are hidden behind the shed’s big red door.

  The room is bursting.

  Floor to ceiling, it’s full of stuff.

  Piles and piles and piles of stuff.

  I didn’t know piles could stand this tall without tipping over. But there they are. Towers of plates and cups and saucers. Baking tins. Lamps with shades and shades without lamps. Pillows in black, white, orange, red, green, blue, gray, black, and yellow. Flashlights. Stacks of photo albums. Pots and pans. Baskets. Candles in pine scent, jasmine, vanilla, cinnamon, ocean breeze, crimson, beachfront property. Blankets. Hundreds of magazines from one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight years ago. Hangers. More baskets. Frames. And boxes. Lots and lots of unopened boxes.

  I knew Dad promised to take care of her and her stuff. But I didn’t know it was like this.

  I sink onto a small box on the floor and look around.

  There’s no ghost here.

  No Mom.

  No answers.

  Just stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. I survey the mounds of randomness around me. It can’t all be meaningless. In my heart of hearts, I have to believe there’s something in here that matters.

  I dig through hangers, candles, old newspapers, unopened packages, dozens of glasses, and boxes and boxes of receipts and paperwork, but nothing stands out.

  Part of me is mad that Gram spent so much time buried under all her things. The other part’s sad that I didn’t know she was hiding. I look around and wonder if Dad’s right.

  Maybe it’s all just nothing.

  Then I see it. A box that sparkles in a shaft of moonlight that’s pouring in through the doorway.

  A sparkly thing is not a hanger or a tin or a candle.

  A sparkly thing is not junk.

  A sparkly thing is not nothing.

  I wedge my body between the boxes and piles, and pull out a beautiful box. It has rainbow-colored stones on the top and when I open it, music plays. I listen to “You’re All I Need to Get By” by Marvin Gaye three times before I notice the handwritten letters, locket, wedding ring, snow globe, and photo at the bottom of the box. The locket has an image of Gram as a little girl on one side and a woman who I assume is her mom, my great-gram, on the other. The large photo is a picture of Gram, Mom, and me. On the back, in Mom’s handwriting it says I love you both to infinity.

  And under the words is a noseless smiley face.

  The box is not junk. It’s a treasure. I sit and listen to the song over and over and over again as I shake the snow globe and watch fake snow cover a beautiful sandy beach. I don’t realize tears are streaming down my face until the wet marks stain the letters in my hand. Slowly I open the first one.

  The paper’s thin and water-stained, but I immediately recognize the handwriting. It’s Mom’s. Gram always told me how Mom loved to write her letters. Gram says letter writing is a lost art.

  Dear Mom,

  Today’s my wedding day, and I just wanted to tell you how excited I am to marry Brad. You don’t have to worry about me. We’re moving but not too far. Same time zone! We’re happy, and you and Dad taught me all I need to know to have a wonderful life. I love being your daughter. Love you so much.

  Much love,

  Meg

  I only have to read the first letter to know breaking into the shed was worth every bit of trouble I may get in.

  Dear Mom,

  I heard from Reggie the other day. His dad died. He sounded really sad. I know they were close. His dad was a nice man. He always gave out the best Halloween candy. Remember? Extra-large chocolate bars. If you see him, be nice.

  I’m excited to see you in a few weeks. Miss you.

  Much love,

  Meg

  Extra-large chocolate bars?

  Dear Mom,

  Reggie’s been calling a lot. He wants to know if there’s any hope of us getting back together. He said he was serious about running the old B&B together. I told him he’s a good friend, but I love Brad. And I’m not interested in living in an inn. Don’t think he took it too well.

  Miss you.

  Much love,

  Meg

  Mom and Reggie? The B&B? This letter’s dated two weeks before my parents’ wedding.

  Dear Mom,

  Can’t believe I forgot to tell you on the phone when you called, but I made these new cookies. Peanut butter oatmeal chocolate chip. Brad says they’re my best yet. I can’t wait to make them for you.

  Miss you.

  Much love,

  Meg

  Dear Mom,

  Well, it happened. We’re pregnant! With a little girl. The doctor says I’m doing well. Sending you hugs from all three of us!

  Much love,

  Meg

  Dear Mom,

  Francine May Greene is her name and she’s 8 lbs, 9 ounces and as beautiful as the sun. Her face is round with honey-kissed cheeks and your bright golden-flecked, hazel eyes. I can’t wait for you to meet her. I know you’ll love her as much as I do. Only two weeks until your visit!

  Much love,

  Meg

  There are thirty-four letters, and Gram saved them all.

  Not junk.

  Not junk.

  Not junk.

  Gram was right.

  I tuck the letters back into the sparkly box, return the hidden treasure where I found it, and leave Mom’s words in the shed.

  All the pieces finally connect.

  I grab two still-hot pumpkin spice muffins and meet Elliot in front of the bank.

  His hair hangs in front of his eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell your dad?” He looks at his watch. “There’s still time.”

  “I’m sure. I’ve got this,” I say, ignoring the bats flying around my gut begging me to call my dad. Then I walk through the front door of the Dennisville Bank and straight into the conference room with the glass walls. When I open the door, I hear an unfamiliar voice coming from a man in a blue suit. “That is correct. Mr. Bradley Greene missed his last loan payment on the Greene Family B&B.”

  Am I too late?

  Then a gravelly v
oice says, “In light of the failure to pay, continued vacancies, and increased risk to the bank, I’m prepared to buy the promissory note.”

  “You can’t do that!” I step up to the table where the suits are sitting. “He’s lying. He’s a big fat liar,” I say.

  “Little lady, your dad failed to make his payment. That’s the truth,” Reggie says with a toothpick dangling from his lips.

  “But that’s because of you and all your lies.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Reggie moves closer to me. “You know, you just can’t go around accusing people. That’s called defamation. I could sue you,” he says. Then he smiles at me.

  “Actually, it’s only defamation if what she says is untrue,” Elliot says. I’m so thankful for his thoroughness. Elliot gives me a thumbs-up and the courage to keep going.

  “You paid your cousin to get out of town, and you spread rumors that he died and that his ghost was haunting the B&B so people would stay away.”

  “That is a ridiculous story. Some little girl’s imagination run amok.” He shakes his head and turns to the suits. “I apologize for this outburst. I don’t want to take up too much of your time, so let’s proceed with the meeting.”

  “Let’s,” a voice from the doorway says. “And since this is still my business, I’m happy to be included.” It’s Dad. Standing next to him are Annie and Gram and Sid and Jess. I look at Elliot. He mouths that he may have told Jess, who may have told Sid, who may have told Gram, who may have told Dad, who may have told Annie.

  My body floods with something that feels like thank you.

  I then tell the story I now know. “Reggie was in love with my mom. He bought the B&B years ago to move into it with her. But she said no. Then she married my dad.” I smile at Dad, who nods encouragingly. “Reggie was heartbroken and angry and needed to dump the property. So Reggie sold the place to Mickey for cheap with the promise he’d never sell it. Years later, Mickey broke his promise. He was in debt, and my dad made him an offer. Mickey accepted, and we moved in. Reggie never forgave Mickey or my dad.”

  “This is absurd. You’re not going to listen to some little girl’s made-up tale of woes, are you?” Reggie says. But the sweat on his brow and the scowl across his face confirm my tale of woes and reveal just how worried he is that the bankers will believe me.

  “Let me enlighten you with a little proof,” Elliot says, smiling. He hands each suit a packet of the documents and emails that substantiate every detail of my story.

  “Please don’t give up on my dad.” I turn and look at him. “Reggie started this. He’s the reason guests canceled. He’s the reason my dad couldn’t pay.”

  Blue Suit clears his throat. “I understand and empathize with your plea, miss. But there’s still the issue of the loan and the continued vacancies.”

  My dad shakes his head. “Francine, I love that you did all of this for me, but proving Reggie’s guilt can’t fix it. I still can’t pay the debt right now.”

  “Well then, there you have it,” Reggie says, standing up and moving to the front of the room.

  “Sit back down, Reginald,” Gram says. “I have some money tucked away from my gin winnings. It’s in that blue jar in the pantry, Brad. You can use that.”

  “And I have a little saved for a rainy day,” Sid says. “It’s yours.”

  Maisy from the flower shop—who I didn’t even see show up—pushes past Gram. “You help me all the time, Brad. Now it’s our turn to help you.” One by one our neighbors file into the conference room with the glass windows: Mr. Barker. Joe. Jess’s mom. MaryKate. Mrs. Rudabaker. Mabel.

  Our friends step up to help my dad.

  To save the B&B.

  And when I look around the room, I realize MaryKate was right.

  My family has been here all along.

  After our showdown at the bank, I tell Dad I’ll meet him at the B&B. I have a stop to make. The cemetery is cold today, but the sun warms my face and hands. A kind of peacefulness I haven’t felt in a while settles around me. I tell Mom everything and then show her my mood ring. It’s purple.

  “I get it now. You can have more than one person. So take care of little Nate and Beverly and Gertrude and Markus. I’m okay. Honest. I’ve got my people here.”

  I set a bunch of wildflowers by her graveside and walk home. When I get to the B&B, I hand Dad one of the Mom cookies I made this morning and confess all the remaining secrets that have been stored behind my big toe. Unload every detail of my life as a spy—the ghost meter, Reggie’s office, the clues, Dead Mickey’s house, and the plans for Hogan West. I tell him about the letters and the music box in the shed, and then ask him the only question I never found an answer to.

  “Why did we move here after Mom died?”

  He grabs another cookie. “Mom and I had talked about moving back. Mom was worried about Gram. She had started accumulating more and more stuff. Then, when Mom died, Gram’s condition deteriorated.”

  “How?”

  “Annie called me one day. She said that Gram’s landlord was threatening to evict her. I bought the B&B and the shed so she and her stuff could have a place with us. She didn’t want help. Not from me or from any doctor, but she needed a home.”

  “Why couldn’t they just give her some medicine to fix her?”

  “It doesn’t work that way. People like Gram need to want to get help. And Gram didn’t. She just didn’t see herself as having a problem that needed fixing.”

  “Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad we moved here. I’m glad you bought the B&B, and I’m glad Gram is with us.”

  “Me too, Francine.”

  Then he makes me promise to give up my life as a spy. That’s a promise I know I can keep. I hug my dad and realize there’s one more thing I need to fix.

  I walk to the end of Main, across Spaulding, make a right on Broadlawn, and ring the doorbell at number 88.

  The bright blue door stares back at me.

  “It’s me. Frankie,” I call just as Annie comes to the door.

  “Hello. Hello. Hello.” Taco the yellow-and-green parrot lands on Annie’s head, stretching out his wings and showing off the rainbow of colors underneath.

  “He won’t stop until you say hello,” Annie tells me.

  “Oh. Hello, Taco.” I smile shyly. “Hi, Annie.”

  “Hi.” She motions me into her home. There are honey-colored beads dangling between her living room and kitchen, cranberry tapestries on the walls, and cinnamon incense burning on the table. It feels like Annie.

  I sink into a yellow beanbag on the floor and hand her the Valentine’s card I’d made for her.

  “Thank you, Frankie. It’s lovely.”

  “Lovely. Lovely. Lovely,” Taco repeats.

  Annie runs her ring-laden hand across his feathers, and her silver bangles jingle against him.

  “I meant to give it to you before, and then things, um—”

  “Changed,” she says. “Some things have. Like your dad and me not being just friends. But not everything has to. Like you and me. We don’t have to change. I care about you. I care about your family.”

  “I know.” For the first time in a very long time, I realize that’s what Dad and I are and have always been.

  A family.

  Even if we can fit on a bicycle.

  The day’s finally here. The Winter Family Festival Parade. Last night left a fresh coat of snow blanketing Main Street. Our float is lined up between the seventh-grade float honoring the civil rights movement and the fifth-grade float on inventions.

  “Hey, what are you guys?” It’s Bailey, a fifth grader covered in silver spokes and a rubber tire from the Inventions Over Time float.

  “Who’s in Your Herd?” I say. I’m dressed as me: holey socks, Converse sneakers, and my green shirt with the horseshoe on it. And just before I left the house, Gram lent me Mom’s silver hoops with the spot of turquoise.

  Bailey makes an I-don’t-get-it face.

  “You kn
ow, we’re a family. Like a herd of elephants, dazzle of zebras, bloat of hippos, murder of crows, pod of whales, pack of wolves, or tower of giraffes.”

  As she darts away to talk to the calculator, the high school band starts to play “Don’t Stop Believin’.” Mr. Landers, the bandleader, is a huge Journey fan.

  Jess sits down next to me on the part of the float that’s decorated to look like a cozy kitchen. Alongside her is Leila, her mom, Elliot, Sid, Gram, and Mabel. I invited them all to ride with me. Even asked Mrs. Rudabaker, but lunch at Mills was pepperoni pizza, so she declined. We sing together as the band plays.

  I look at my watch. Ten minutes until Mayor Hartman stands on top of the large rock in the square and says the magic words: “Let the Winter Family Festival Parade commence.” I bite my lip and hope the rest of my family gets here in time.

  “Everyone take their places.” I recognize the voice coming through the megaphone from the front of the parade. It’s Elliot’s mom. Ever since I can remember, she’s been the voice of the parade.

  Elliot leans over the edge of our float, with all his ghost hunter gear, and gives his mom a thumbs-up. He got her emergency list of nonemergency chores done early today.

  I twist the four-leaf clover in my pocket.

  Then I see him.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Dad says. “I wanted to bring some warm ones.” He opens two cardboard boxes, and the smell of homemade blueberry muffins blankets the float. “Thought you guys might be hungry.”

  He passes the muffins around, then turns and gives me a hug.

  “Who’s watching the B&B?” I ask. I don’t remember Dad ever being away without Gram there.

  “Mr. Mendelson.”

  We both laugh. I bet his wife’s there, too. Maybe even his brother. I envision him lining up all the books on the shelves.