Free The Sweetest Thing by Christina Mandelski Page A

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.
    The search is exhausting.
    Lying in my bed, I hear Dad’s car start up and drive away. It’s four o’clock in the morning. He’s going to the market in Grand Rapids to buy fresh meat and produce for brunch. This is a big day for him. Everyone in the world has heard about the show. Of course, the marquee at City Hall says, “Congrats, Chef Wells. Welcome, ECTV!” Things like that don’t help.
    A thought occurs to me. If they insist Dad move to New York, there might not be a Sheridan & Irving’s this time next year. The restaurant could be closed. I owe it to the people of St. Mary to keep my father here where he belongs, cooking in his restaurant.
    I get out of bed and creak my way through the house to the kitchen. There’s a note on the counter.
    Be at S&I no later than 7 answer your phone if I cal .
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    That’s Dad lately: no time for “Dear Sheridan” or “Happy Easter” or even basic punctuation. I drop the note on the counter and peek out the back kitchen window. Nanny’s apartment light is off. She’s already downstairs, working.
    Restless, I pick up my cell phone, wishing I could just dial my mother. Wondering what it would feel like to be able to pick up the phone and call her.
    Then I see a text from Jack, left after I went to bed last night.
    We have 2 talk possible clue.
    Instantly, my heart is a jackhammer. Maybe he found her. I call him; I don’t care how early it is.
    “Hello?” Jack says in a groggy voice.
    “Hey. So tell me! What clue?”
    “Huh? What time is it?”
    “Um . . . like four something. What clue?”
    “Oh.” He’s silent. I’ll give him a second to wake up a little. But only a second.
    “Jack!”
    “What? All right. Calm down. Last night. Found a bakery in Sault Sainte . . . whatever. In Canada. It doesn’t have a Web site, it’s just a listing in an online directory.”
    “Yeah? And?”
    “And it’s called Sweetie’s.”
    A lump forms in my throat. “Really?”
    “Yes.” He pauses. “And there’s a phone number.”
    “Yeah?”
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    “But Sheridan, we have no idea if it’s her. There’s no owner listed. Only the name of the bakery. It could be a coincidence.”
    “No. It’s her.”
    “You don’t know that.”
    He’s wrong. “Jack, I have a feeling.”
    He gives me the number only after I promise not to do anything with it. He makes me swear. We don’t know enough yet, he says. But as soon as we hang up, I start to dial. He doesn’t understand. I can’t wait. I need to find her.
    The lump in my throat is enormous now. What if she picks up? What do I say?
    The phone rings over and over. Finally, voice mail picks up. “Welcome to Sweetie’s of Sault Sainte Marie. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”
    It’s a woman on the recording. It has to be Mom. I savor every syrup-smooth word. I can see her, with her golden hair back in a hairnet, smiling on the other end of that telephone.
    I don’t leave a message. Not yet. Mostly because I have no idea what to say. But as I hang up, my insides bubble over with hope.
    I run upstairs and throw on some jeans, an old T-shirt, and my ratty gym shoes. It doesn’t matter what I look like, considering I’ll be stuck in a hot kitchen for most of the day.
    My hair goes back in a ponytail, and I take the time to stuff Mom’s heart-shaped note into my front pocket. My whole body buzzes with excitement. I have a good feeling about 84

    Sweetie’s of Sault Sainte Marie.
    Before I leave, I go to my closet and reach