The Sweetness of Forgetting (3)

“Sorry,” I say, turning back to Matt. He’s staring in the direction Annie disappeared.

“She’s really something,” he says.

I force a laugh. “Kids.”

“Frankly, I don’t know how you put up with it,” he says.

I smile tightly at him. I’m allowed to feel annoyed with my daughter, but he’s not. “She’s just going through a hard time,” I say. I stand up and glance toward the kitchen. “The divorce has been tough on her. And you remember seventh grade. It’s not exactly the easiest year.”

Matt stands up too. “But the way you let her talk to you . . .”

Something in my stomach tightens. “Good-bye, Matt,” I say through a jaw clenched so tightly it hurts. Before he can reply, I turn away, heading for the kitchen, hoping that he takes the hint to leave.



“You can’t be rude to customers,” I say to Annie as I come through the double doors into the kitchen. Her back is to me, and she’s stirring something in a bowl—batter for red velvet cupcakes, I think. For a moment I think she’s ignoring me, until I realize she has earbuds in. That damned iPod.

“Hey!” I say, louder. Still no reply, so I walk up behind her and pull the earbud out of her left ear. She jumps and whirls around, eyes blazing, as if I’ve slapped her.

“God, Mom, what’s your problem?” she demands.

I’m taken aback by the anger in her face, and for a moment, I’m frozen, because I can still see the sweet little girl who used to crawl onto my lap and listen to Mamie’s fairy tales, the girl who came to me for comfort after every skinned knee, the girl who made me Play-Doh jewelry and insisted I wear it to Stop & Shop. She’s still in there somewhere, but she’s hiding behind this icy veneer. When did things change? I want to tell her I love her, and that I wish we didn’t have to argue like this, but instead, I hear myself coolly say, “Didn’t I tell you not to wear makeup to school, Annie?”

She narrows her overly mascaraed eyes at me and purses her too-red lips into a smirk. “Dad said it was fine.”

I mentally curse Rob. He seems to have made it his personal mission to undermine everything I say.

“Well, I’m telling you it’s not,” I say firmly. “So get in the bathroom and wipe it off.”

“No,” Annie says. She puts her hands on her hips defiantly. She glares at me, not yet realizing that she’s streaked red velvet batter on her jeans. I’m sure that’ll be my fault too when she figures it out.

“This isn’t up for debate, Annie,” I say. “Do it now, or you’re grounded.”

I hear the coldness in my voice, and it reminds me of my mother. For a minute, I hate myself, but I stare Annie down, unblinking.

She looks away first. “Whatever!” She rips her apron off and throws it on the floor. “I shouldn’t even be working here!” she yells, throwing her hands in the air. “It’s against child labor laws!”

I roll my eyes. We’ve had this discussion ten thousand times. She’s not technically working for a paycheck; this is our family business, and I expect her to help out, just like I helped my mom when I was a kid, just like my mom helped my grandmother. “I’m not explaining this to you again, Annie,” I say tightly. “Would you rather mow the lawn and do all the chores around the house?”

She stalks out, presumably heading for the bathroom on the other side of the double doors. “I hate you!” she yells back at me as she disappears.

The words hit me like a dagger to the heart, even though I remember screaming them at my own mother when I was Annie’s age.

“Yeah,” I mutter, picking up the bowl of batter and the wooden spoon she left on the counter. “What else is new?”



By seven thirty, when Annie is about to leave to walk the four blocks to Sea Breeze Junior High, all of the pastries are out and the shop is full of regulars. In the oven is a fresh batch of our Rose’s Strudel, filled with apples, almonds, raisins, candied orange peel, and cinnamon, and the scent is wafting comfortingly through the bakery. Kay Sullivan and Barbara Koontz, the two eightysomething widows who live across the street, are gazing out the window, deep in conversation, while they sip coffee at the table closest to the door. Gavin Keyes, whom I’d hired to help me make my mother’s house livable again over the summer, is at the table beside them, sipping coffee, eating an éclair and reading a copy of the Cape Cod Times. Derek Walls, a widowed dad who lives on the beach, is here with his twin four-year-olds, Jay and Merri, each of whom is licking the icing off a vanilla cupcake, even though it’s only breakfast time. And Emma Thomas, the fiftysomething hospice nurse who’d tended to my mom while she was dying, is standing at the counter, trying to choose a pastry to have with her tea.

I’m just about to pack up a to-go blueberry muffin for Emma when Annie strides past me, her coat on and her backpack slung over one shoulder. I reach out and grab her arm before she can get by.

“Let me see your face,” I say.

“No,” she mumbles, looking down.

“Annie!”

“Whatever,” she mutters. She looks up, and I see that she’s put on a fresh coat of mascara and reapplied the hideous lipstick. She also appears to have added a layer of fuchsia blush that comes nowhere near the apples of her cheeks.