The Sweetness of Forgetting (83)

He crosses behind the counter and gives me a gentle kiss on the cheek. “Good morning, dear,” he says. He seems to notice Matt for the first time then. “Hello, young man,” he says. He turns to me and says, “I see you have a customer.”

“Matt was just leaving,” I tell him. I shoot Matt a look, which I hope transmits the fact that I don’t want him talking bakery business in front of Alain. But of course, he’s oblivious.

“I’m Matt Hines,” he says, extending a hand to Alain over the bakery case. “And you are . . . ?”

Alain hesitates before shaking Matt’s hand. “I am Alain Picard,” he says. “Hope’s uncle.”

Matt looks confused. “Now, wait. I’ve known Hope since we were kids. She doesn’t have any uncles.”

Alain smiles thinly. “Yes, young man, she does indeed. In fact, I am her arriere-oncle. Her great-uncle, as you would say.”

Matt frowns and looks at me.

“He’s my grandmother’s brother,” I explain. “From Paris.”

Matt stares at Alain for a second, then turns back to me. “Hope, this isn’t making a whole lot of sense. You’re telling me you went to Paris on a whim, you’re about to lose your business because of it, and you’ve randomly brought back a relative you never knew you had?”

I feel my cheeks heating up, and I’m not sure whether it’s because he’s apparently insulting me, or because he’s just announced in front of Alain that I’m about to lose the bakery. I turn slowly and look at Alain, hopeful that the words were lost in translation, but he’s staring at me with a frozen look on his face.

“Hope, what does he mean?” he asks softly. “About losing the business? Is the bakery in trouble?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. I shoot Matt a look, and at least he has the grace to appear slightly shamed. He clears his throat and turns away, as if to give Alain and me a moment’s privacy.

“Hope, we are family,” Alain says. “Of course I will worry if something is wrong. Why did you say nothing to me?”

I take a deep breath. “Because it’s my fault,” I say. “I made some bad financial decisions. My credit rating has totally tanked, and that’s tied in to my business credit.”

“But that does not explain why you did not tell me,” Alain says. He takes a step forward and puts a warm, gnarled hand on my cheek. “I am your uncle.”

I can feel tears in my eyes now. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to burden you. With everything going on with my grandmother . . .”

“All the more reason to lean on me,” he says. He touches my cheek lightly with the palm of his hand and turns back to Matt. “Young man!” he calls out.

“Yes?” Matt turns, wide-eyed, as if he hasn’t been listening to every word.

“You can go now. My niece and I have some talking to do.”

“But, I—” Matt begins. But Alain cuts him off again.

“I do not know who you are or what you have to do with this,” Alain says.

“I’m the vice president of the Bank of the Cape,” Matt says stiffly. He stands up a little straighter. “We hold Hope’s loan. And unfortunately, it’s necessary that we call it in. It wasn’t my decision, sir. It’s just business.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and glance at Alain. His face has gone red.

“So that’s it, then?” he says to Matt. “Sixty years of tradition? Sixty years of my family baking for this town, and you decide it is all over, just like that?”

“It’s not personal,” Matt says. He glances at me. “I tried to help, actually. Hope will tell you. But the investors I had interested backed out after Hope went to Paris. I’m sorry, but I guess the legacy has to end.”

I look down at the ground and close my eyes.

“Young man,” Alain says after a moment. “The legacy is not in this bakery itself but in the family tradition it represents. There is no price tag on that. Seventy years ago, men who did not understand family or conscience, and who only understood orders and wealth, took our first bakery away. And because of my sister, and her daughter, and her granddaughter, the tradition survived.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with a loan,” Matt says.

Alain reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You and your bank are making a mistake, young man,” he says. “But Hope will be fine. She is a survivor. Just like her grandmother. That is our tradition. And it too will survive.”

My heart feels like it’s going to overflow. Alain takes me gently by the hand and turns me toward the kitchen. “Come, Hope,” he says. “Let us bake a Star Pie to take to Rose. I am sure the young man can find his own way out.”



That afternoon, armed with Jacob Levy’s date of birth, I begin calling the interfaith organizations I’d found using Google. I’d been holding off, because I realize what a long shot this is, and I’ve reached my limit of disappointment. I’m feeling as if all I hear anymore are no’s.

Can I save my bakery? No. Do we know that Mamie will ever wake up? No. Is it likely that there’s still time to turn my messy life around? No.

I start with the Interfaith Alliance, then I go down my list to the Council for a Parliament of the World’s Religions, the National American Interfaith Network, the United Religions Initiative, and the World Congress of Faith. To each person who answers, I briefly explain the story of how Jacob took Mamie to a Christian, who helped shelter her with Muslims. Then I give them Jacob’s name and date of birth and say that I know it’s a long shot, but I’m trying to find him and believe there’s a chance he may be involved with an interfaith organization here in the States. They all ooh and aah over the story, tell me they’ll pass my information to the right people and will get back to me if they find anything.