The Sweetest Thing Read online

  stw he eetest

  Thing

  stw

  he eetest

  Thing

  c h r i s t i n a m a n d e l s k i

  n e w y o r k

  First published by Egmont USA, 2011

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © Christina Mandelski, 2011

  All rights reserved

  1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  ww.egmontusa.com

  www.christinamandelski.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data TK

  ISBN 978-1-60684-129-7

  eBook ISBN 978-1-60684-253-9

  Book design by Torborg Davern

  Printed in the United States of America CPSIA tracking label information:

  Random House Production · 1745 Broadway · New York, NY 10019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  To Michael,

  Best friend, husband, voice of reason. and soul mate.

  You are the icing on the cake.

  Chapter One

  out of the frying pan,

  into the fire

  I make cakes. It’s what I do. It’s what I love.

  But today, I’m standing over a mermaid, wondering what’s wrong. She’s as long as my arm, and beautiful—no doubt about that. Carved from devil’s food, she’s got a cute face, pouty red lips, fierce blonde hair. And her tail fin is nothing short of amazing.

  It should be. Last night, while most girls my age were panting over their boyfriends at the Grand Rapids Cineplex, I was sculpting fish scales out of fondant.

  The colors are perfect: shades of teal, indigo, and turquoise.

  On the board beneath her, there’s an underwater garden on a cobalt blue buttercream ocean. There are coral-colored gum paste anemones, green royal icing seaweed, graham cracker sand, and silver oysters made from modeling chocolate. And inside each oyster, a single, edible pearl.

  But something is definitely missing, and it’s making me nuts.

  Plus, we’re late for church, and when Dad gets here, he’s sure to be in a wonderful mood. The man’s obsessed with getting his own cable cooking show, and now it looks like it might happen. You’d think that would make him sort of happy, but instead he’s a moody ball of stress.

  I turn away from the cake, hit “next” on my iPod, randomly land on “It’s the End of the World as We Know It,”

  which seems like a bad sign. So I yank out the earbuds and wait for inspiration.

  In the meantime, I lean over and pipe “Happy Birthday, Tara” in fancy purple script across a delicate white chocolate banner the size of a dollar bill. I carefully lift it off of the waxed paper and place it in the mermaid’s hands.

  Tara McIntyre, birthday girl, is a junior cheerleader who I don’t know at all, except as an object of envy. She dated Ethan Murphy for about six weeks last year. I don’t know him, either, except that he’s the most perfect guy I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’ve seen him at my dad’s restaurant a few times, but for the most part, he sticks with the ultra-popular set and whatever lucky girl he’s dating at the moment. In a nut-shell, he doesn’t know I exist.

  Slam! The back door flies open. My thoughts of Ethan fly away. Dad’s here.

  2

  “Oh, come on!” He roars. “You’re not done yet? We’re late!”

  I straighten up and throw him a dirty look. “Good morning to you, too, sunshine.”

  He glances at his watch.

  “Come on, Sheridan. Much later and we might as well not bother.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Then let’s not bother. Not like going to church twice a year counts anyway.”

  Even the great chef Donovan Wells can’t argue with that.

  We’re only going today because the Bishop is in town for Palm Sunday mass, and he’s my dad’s biggest fan.

  Dad huffs, pulls out his BlackBerry, and leans against the counter. “We’re going. So please hurry,” he says, crank-ing out a text.

  I step back and survey the cake again, tapping a finger on my lower lip. He reads another message and is suddenly standing next to me.

  “What’s the problem? It’s done, it’s great, fantastic. Let’s go!”

  “It’s not done,” I whisper.

  His phone vibrates and he walks away.

  What’s missing? I stop and close my eyes. I hear the doorbell jingle over and over again at the front of the bakery as customers stop by for their Sunday muffins, pastries, and coffee cakes. It’s a happy sound that reminds me of better days.

  3

  “We are so late!” Dad rails in a deep vibrato, like he’s going to blow.

  Better days. When my father’s voice was not volcanic; when my mom was here for me. I picture her. Soft hair, streaked golden. Long fingers with trimmed nails painted cotton candy pink. Pastry bag in hand. Always smiling.

  It’s all in the details, Cupcake.

  That’s what she’d say.

  And then, like magic, I know what’s missing. Shimmer dust. Yes.

  I make a beeline for the supply shelf, grab a jar and a small paintbrush. A light touch with the fine glittering sugar on her scales and the apples of her cheeks and the mermaid comes to life under my hand.

  Now she’s done.

  Thanks, Mom.

  I push the cake toward the corner of the stainless-steel counter. It must weigh at least fifty pounds.

  “Dad? A little help?” He’s sending another text.

  Finally, he pockets the phone and lifts an end. We move Tara’s mermaid into the cooler, where she’ll wait for someone to pick her up.

  Poor thing doesn’t have a chance. She’ll be ravaged by the St. Clair High varsity football team, while the birthday girl and her fellow cheerleaders munch on carrot sticks and watch.

  Makes me sad, but it is part of the job. Cakes are made 4

  to be eaten.

  Dad is already at the back door, holding it open, waiting.

  Just once I wish he’d take some time to look at my cakes.

  Notice the details, maybe compliment me. But he doesn’t do that, ever.

  I tear off my pink polka-dot apron, grab my winter coat, and stick my head up front.

  “See ya, Nan!” I yell to my grandmother, who owns the place, but she can’t hear me because her head is in the muffin case. Sweetie’s Bake Shoppe is bustling, and I smile. I love this place, where I’ve spent a part of almost every day since birth. Where I learned how to decorate cakes and discovered that it’s what I do best.

  These days, I’m the go-to girl in town for awesome cakes. I can make anything, for anyone, for any occasion. I am Cake Girl.

  “Oh my God, Sheridan. Let’s go!” And then there’s my father. In his world lately, I’m barely a blip on the radar.

  As we walk in the freezing cold to Blessed Sacrament, Dad mumbles that he needs to get in and out because he’s expecting a call from Sebastian. Sebastian is the agent from New York who is trying to make my dad a TV star.

  The church is only two blocks away, but by the time we get there, it’s standing room only. It looks like everyone in St. Mary is here.

  But we’re okay, of course; the Bishop has reserved seats 5

  for us. In the front row.

  Walking up the center aisle of the jam-packed sanctuary twenty minutes late is utterly mortifying. Almost every face is familiar, and I can see the words “Who do they think they are?” floating in the air like a cartoon word bubble.

  The Bishop smiles and nods at us, probably ima
gining the dinner Dad will make for him later. But Father Crowley (aka Growly), who is here every week and knows we never come, watches us with his fire-and-brimstone eyes.

  We excuse ourselves past Mr. and Mrs. Durbin, who are sitting in the front row because they were on time. Then Dad and I settle in and listen to the end of the sermon about Jesus’s final ride into Jerusalem, when all the people waved palms and screamed at him like he was Elvis or something.

  Nanny took me to her church a lot when I was little, so I know some Bible stories, and this one always bothered me.

  I mean, these people got all excited about seeing the Son of God and then a few days later they killed him?

  The lesson here: even Jesus couldn’t count on people.

  How sad is that?

  I’m contemplating these deep thoughts when an ear-piercing ringtone jolts me back to reality. It’s coming from Dad’s pocket. You can hear the collective turn of every head in the place. Even the Bishop looks a little annoyed. But Dad doesn’t notice; he just flings back his lapel and pulls out his phone.

  He peers at the screen and stands up. Don’t do it, Dad.

  6

  Don’t take a call during church. Surprise: he pushes his way past the Durbins without a word to me.

  I grab the thick hymnal in front of me and flop it open to a random page, hoping it will suck me up and spit me out in some alternate universe where my father still behaves like a human. I look up and see Growly’s forehead vein popping out as he prays for our doomed souls.

  The choir starts singing, and I rise to join the communion line. Mrs. Faxon stands behind me and gives me a sym-pathetic squeeze on the arm. She’s been the secretary at the elementary school since the beginning of time and was there the day Mom didn’t come to pick me up. That afternoon, Mrs. Faxon held my hand and let me eat some of the dusty conversation hearts from the dish on her desk. She knows the whole sad story.

  I make my way up to the altar. Growly stares daggers into my eyes as I stand in front of him, my palms open.

  “Body of Christ,” he says, jamming the wafer into my hand. He’s probably surprised that I don’t burst into flames.

  He’s one of my grandmother’s best friends (don’t ask me why), so he knows the whole story, too: my mom ran off with a stranger, leaving Dad with both a crazy busy restaurant and a really confused seven-year-old.

  “Amen,” I say, trying to look as sorry as I feel.

  When I get back to the pew and lower myself to the kneeler, I squeeze my eyes tight, thankful that this is almost over.

  7

  The Bishop says the closing prayer, and I feel my cell phone vibrate in the pocket of my dress. I ignore it and sneak out the side door as quickly as I can, trying to avoid Growly and anyone else who just witnessed my father’s horrid behavior. Outside, I dig under my thick white parka for the phone and see a text from Dad.

  Come to S&I now.

  My heart falls with a plop into my stomach, and I walk down the hill toward Sheridan & Irving’s, the restaurant that Mom and Dad opened before I was born. It’s named after the street corner in Chicago where they met. Romantic, yes—minus the fairy-tale ending, of course.

  The redbrick mansion swallows me up as I climb the front steps and push through the heavy oak doors. The restaurant is closed today, but Dad is in the kitchen. As always.

  When I walk through the main dining room, I smell something wonderful. He’s cooking. I sniff. Pancetta? My favorite Italian pork product. Like bacon, only better. Sniff again. Garlic, oregano, basil. The air swells with this heavenly scent. My mouth is watering.

  I walk through to the kitchen. He’s behind the counter, suit jacket off, white chef’s jacket on.

  “Hey, kid, what’s up?” he says. This is most likely a rhe-torical question, so I don’t answer.

  “I can’t believe you left in the middle of church,” I snap.

  “Oh, chill out.” He laughs and rolls his eyes and throws something in with the pancetta that makes it sizzle. “It was 8

  important. You know Sebastian—no such thing as a day of rest. But . . . he had good news.” Dad picks up the pan, thrusts it forward with a pro-chef flick of his wrist, and replaces it on the burner. “They want me.”

  He dumps the contents of a small bowl in with the other ingredients. A shock of black hair falls onto his forehead. He looks young, even though that hair is flecked with silver.

  And he seems happy. Really happy.

  “Good. That’s great,” I say, unenthused. “What are you making?”

  “Frittata.” Yum. Frittata, an Italian omelet-like thing that may be my favorite food in the world. I hope I get to eat it.He looks at me. “So you’re not even going to ask?”

  “Oh, sorry.” I lean against the prep table on my elbows and look at him sideways. “What? Someone wants you to teach a flambé class in Timbuktu or something?”

  “No.” His eyes twinkle. We have the same eyes: big and brown and almond-shaped. But mine are definitely not twinkling at the moment.

  “I finally got a show. My own show.” A smile threatens to overtake his face. I raise my eyebrows as he circles the prep area and leans on the counter next to me. “ExtremeCuisine TV. They’re giving me my own series.” He waits for me to react, but I don’t. “They’re gonna call it The Single Dad Cooks. ” He crosses his arms, still waiting. “Isn’t that amazing? And they want to film the first episode here.” He stands up tall now, puts his hands on his hips, and gulps.

  9

  I can see his Adam’s apple bob like a sinker at the end of a fishing pole.

  I reach over to the other side of the counter, pick up a basil leaf, give it a sniff. “What’s the catch?” I say, real casual, sure that there is one. I can see it in his eyes.

  He laughs. “If it’s a catch, it’s a good one. One that you need to be open-minded about.” He eyes me warily, clears his throat. “If it all works out, they want us to move to New York.” Another hard swallow. “The city.” He looks a little scared of me right now. And he should be.

  “Wait, wait, wait.” My hand is up and my mind is swim-ming. He’s been talking about having a show forever, but he never mentioned having to move. “New York City? Why wouldn’t they film it here? This is where you cook.”

  “Because they’re serious. This isn’t a onetime thing. They are hiring me to work for them, in their studios.”

  Now my arms cross. We look like a couple of wild ani-mals staring each other down, waiting to see who strikes first. “Well, I’m not moving anywhere.” My words are sharp, each syllable distinct, so that he’ll understand me.

  He squints his eyes up really small and mashes his lips together. “Sheridan, why wouldn’t you want to go to New York? It’s a great city. Museums, parks … bakeries.” He must be desperate to mention bakeries, since he thinks I spend too much time in ours.

  With a weak smile, he stretches out his arm to touch my shoulder, but I step back before he can reach me.

  10

  “Why would I want to go to a bakery in New York?”

  My voice goes squeaky. “The best bakery in the world is right here. And there are parks and museums all over the place. Right here. Where we already live.” I wave my arms in frustration and turn around to leave. I can’t listen to any more of this.

  But Dad stands tall and grabs my shoulder. “Sheridan, don’t walk away from me.”

  I spin back around, stick out my chin, and stare directly into his eyes. His posture relaxes, just a little. “Just hear me out, okay? Please?”

  I shrug.

  “Look. I really want this for you. It’ll be a good thing—I promise. You could stand to have your horizons broadened a bit.”

  “Oh, gee,” I snort. “That’s really nice of you, but my horizons are just fine the way they are.”

  As I work hard to maintain my determined expression, I think of how Dad and I have really gone downhill over the last few years. When he’s not at the restaurant, he’s traveling all over the world, cook
ing at conventions, judging contests, trying to build the Donovan Wells “brand”—that’s what his agent calls it, like he’s a bar of soap or something.

  Now he’s totally branded, and he’s got a show and big plans to turn my world upside down. “I’ll stay right here, thank you very much,” I say,forcefully.

  “You’ll do what you’re told,” he says like one of the com-11

  munist dictators we’re studying in world history.

  “No. I won’t. I need to be here.” I look away for a second and gulp, then meet his stare again. “For when mom comes back.”

  He laughs out loud. “Seriously?”

  “Don’t laugh at me.”

  “Well, don’t bring her into this.” He says her like he’s just tasted something nasty. He hates my mother and he’d love it if I forgot about her altogether. But that’s not going to happen.

  I take a step backward, lean in just a little. “She is in this, Dad.” My words hiss out, like steam from a pressure cooker.

  I get a whiff of the frittata, though I have a feeling I’m not getting any now.

  There’s a flicker in his eyes. Did I just win this argu-ment? Or did he just realize that he could easily leave me behind?

  Not that I couldn’t live without him, but the thought makes something inside of me crack, like a tiny fissure in the earth. If he left, everything would change. And I’ve had enough change to last a lifetime.

  We’re still staring at each other, an ocean of silence between us, when I hear a battalion of footsteps heading toward the kitchen. In bursts his crew: his waitstaff, bar-tenders, sous-chefs, maître d’—even the busboys. They start clapping, whistling, and hooting.

  As if someone just picked up a remote and changed his 12

  channel, Dad’s eyes reignite and his scowl morphs into a cheesy grin. I watch him as Danny the sous-chef pops open a bottle of champagne. Dad winks at the new waitress, who is giggling in his direction. It’s like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life.