The Sweetness of Forgetting (25)

“Yes and no,” he says.

“Because I don’t have it, Matt.”

“I know.”

I stare and wait for him to go on.

He clears his throat. “What if you borrowed some money from me?”

My eyes widen. “What?”

“It would be more of a business arrangement, Hope,” he says quickly. “I mean, I have the credit. So what if we went into this, say, seventy-five twenty-five. Seventy-five percent ownership for you. Twenty-five for me. And you just pay me what you can every month. We could keep a piece of the bakery in your family . . .”

“I can’t,” I say, before I’ve even had a chance to consider it. The invisible strings attached would strangle me. And as much as I hate the idea of strangers owning the majority of my bakery, it’s even worse to think of Matt having an ownership interest in it too. “Matt, it’s such a nice offer, but I can’t possibly—”

“Hope, I’m just asking you to consider it.” He’s speaking quickly. “It’s not a big deal. I have the money. I’ve been looking for something to invest in, and this place is an institution in this town. I know you’ll turn things around soon, and . . .”

His voice trails off, and he looks at me hopefully.

“Matt, that means a lot to me,” I say softly. “But I know what you’re doing.”

“What?” he asks.

“Charity,” I say. I take a deep breath. “You feel sorry for me. And I appreciate that, Matt, I really do. It’s just—I don’t need your pity.”

“But—” he begins, but I cut him off again.

“Look, I’m going to sink or swim on my own, okay?” I pause and swallow hard, trying to believe I’m doing the right thing. “And maybe I’ll sink. Maybe I’ll lose everything. Maybe the investors will decide this place isn’t worth it anyhow.” I take a deep breath. “But if that happens, maybe that’s what’s meant to be.”

His face falls. He taps his fingers on the counter a few times. “You know, Hope, you’re different,” he says finally.

“Different?”

“Than you used to be,” he says. “Back in high school, you wouldn’t let anything get you down. You always bounced back. That was one of my favorite things about you.”

I don’t say anything. There’s a lump in my throat.

“But now, you’re ready to give up,” he adds after a moment. He doesn’t meet my eye. “I just . . . I thought you would feel differently. It’s like you’re just letting life happen to you.”

I press my lips together. I know I shouldn’t care what Matt thinks, but the words still wound me, largely because I know he’s not trying to be cruel. He’s right; I am different than I used to be.

He regards me for a long moment and nods. “I think your mother would be disappointed.”

The words hurt, because they’re meant to. But at the same time, they help, because he’s dead wrong. My mother never cared about the bakery the way my grandmother did; she looked at it as a burden. She probably would have been happy to see it fail while she was still around, so that she could have washed her hands of it.

“Maybe, Matt,” I say.

He pulls out his wallet and takes out two dollar bills. He puts them on the counter.

I sigh. “Don’t be silly. The coffee’s on the house.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t need your charity, Hope,” he says. He half smiles at me. “Have a good one,” he adds. He grabs his coffee and strides quickly out the front door. As I watch the darkness wrap itself around his disappearing silhouette, I shiver.



Annie comes and goes that morning, and once again, she’s barely speaking to me, other than to ask tightly whether I’ve had a chance to look into booking flights to Paris. By eleven in the morning, the bakery is empty, and I’m staring out the front panes at the changing leaves of Main Street. There’s a breeze today, and every once in a while, oak leaves in fiery red or maple leaves in burnt orange waft by, reminding me of graceful birds.

At eleven thirty, with no customers, nothing left to do, and a batch of Star Pies in the oven, I log on to the old laptop that I keep behind the register—I “borrow” WiFi from Jessica Gregory’s gift shop next door—and I slowly type in www.google.com. Once there, I pause. What am I looking for? I chew my lip for a moment and enter the first name on Mamie’s list. Albert Picard.

A second later, the search results are up. There’s an airport in France named Albert-Picardie, but I don’t think that has anything to do with Mamie’s list. I read the Wikipedia entry, nonetheless, but it’s clear that this is something else altogether; it’s a regional airport that serves a community called Albert in the Picardie region of northern France. Dead end.

I click back and scan the other search results. There’s a Frank Albert Picard, but he’s an American attorney who was born and raised in Michigan and died in the early 1960s. That can’t be the person she’s looking for; he has no ties to Paris. A few other Albert Picards come up when I add the word Paris to my search string, but nothing seems to fit with the time Mamie lived in France.

I bite my bottom lip and clear the search field. I type in White Pages, Paris, and after a few click-throughs, I wind up on a page titled Pages Blanches, which asks for a nom and a prénom. I know from my limited high school French that this is surname and first name, so I type in Picard and Albert, and under the blank asking Où?, I enter Paris.