Read Online The Sweetest Thing by Christina Mandelski - Free Book Online
Authors: Christina Mandelski
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people will inquire if hibiscuses are poisonous flowers before they take a bite. That real.
My cell phone buzzes. It’s a text from Jack.
U dsign cake yet?
Yep , I reply.
In my mind, I can already see it: pink hibiscus flowers cascading down the side of four tiers covered in cerulean blue fondant. And a butterfly on top, courtesy of Mom.
68
Chapter 6
the cream of the crop
The week before Easter Sunday flies by like the snowflakes that fall daily. It’s officially the whitest April in St. Mary’s history. The weather is affecting everyone’s mood, even Mr.
Roz, who is normally perpetually happy.
As for me, I’m more than a little worried. The Suits went back to their shiny New York offices after deciding that my fake birthday will be on May 7, less than three weeks away.
That gives me almost no time to get Mom here. And I’ve gotten no reply to my e-mail from the hotel in Mackinac.
I even called and left a message with their catering depart-ment. But no one has called back.
Worse, the Suits left the camera crew here, and they’re following us around, getting “candid” footage for the hour-long pilot. I understand this is part of the agreement, but that doesn’t make it less annoying.
Today is Good Friday, there’s no school, and I’m in the back of Sweetie’s finishing up the lilacs for the Bailey cake, which is nearly done and beyond perfect. When I’m not working on the sugar blossoms, I’m helping Nanny and Mr.
Roz prepare baked goods for the Easter brunch at Sheridan
& Irving’s. This includes making four lamb cakes (three white lambs and one black sheep, because Nanny says every family needs one), ten assorted cakes, plus strudel and Danish, all while keeping up with the regular inventory. I’ve been here every day after school. No time for anything else.
Not Lori or Jack, not a good long run, and not the project for art class, which I still have not started.
And to top it all off? A few days ago I got a text from the amazon woman asking for a guest list. As soon as possible.
So I sat down and, aside from Jack and Lori, could not figure out who to invite. The sad truth is, I make the cakes, but I don’t get invited to the parties. Not anymore.
My life is cake. For example, today there’s no school, and while most kids my age won’t be up until noon at least, I was here at five a.m., adding curls of buttercream wool to a French-vanilla lamb.
Not that I’m complaining. I’d much rather decorate a cake than go to a random high school party.
Now it’s seven o’clock, and the bakery is open, so Nanny shoves me out front with Mr. Roz. I don’t have to help cus-70
tomers very often, except during very busy times, like today.
Really, it’s not so bad. Mr. Roz and I work like a well-oiled machine, bobbing and weaving around each other, handing out baked goods that are like little pieces of heaven.
Dr. Putnam walks in. This is the worst part of the job: bagging pastries for the one guy in town who has seen me naked.
“Hello, Sheridan,” he says in that don’t-worry-I’m-not-picturing-you-in-your-birthday-suit voice. Yeah, right.
I swallow and get over it. There are too many customers behind him to worry. “Hey,” I say like we’re best buds.
“What can I get you?”
I fill his order, then prepare a dozen-muffin assortment for Mrs. Beach, the grade school librarian. Behind her are two old couples who have tourist written all over them.
They start coming to St. Mary this time of year, and my dad’s restaurant is a big attraction.
“So,” the tall man barks in my direction as I bag up four muffins and a scone, “is the famous brunch really as good as they say?”
The Easter brunch at Sheridan & Irving’s has been written up in foodie magazines all over the country. It really is famous.
“Yeah, it’s pretty good.” I smile and pour them four coffees, black.
“I just can’t wait to meet Chef Wells,” says the tall man’s white-haired wife. “I clipped the
My cell phone buzzes. It’s a text from Jack.
U dsign cake yet?
Yep , I reply.
In my mind, I can already see it: pink hibiscus flowers cascading down the side of four tiers covered in cerulean blue fondant. And a butterfly on top, courtesy of Mom.
68
Chapter 6
the cream of the crop
The week before Easter Sunday flies by like the snowflakes that fall daily. It’s officially the whitest April in St. Mary’s history. The weather is affecting everyone’s mood, even Mr.
Roz, who is normally perpetually happy.
As for me, I’m more than a little worried. The Suits went back to their shiny New York offices after deciding that my fake birthday will be on May 7, less than three weeks away.
That gives me almost no time to get Mom here. And I’ve gotten no reply to my e-mail from the hotel in Mackinac.
I even called and left a message with their catering depart-ment. But no one has called back.
Worse, the Suits left the camera crew here, and they’re following us around, getting “candid” footage for the hour-long pilot. I understand this is part of the agreement, but that doesn’t make it less annoying.
Today is Good Friday, there’s no school, and I’m in the back of Sweetie’s finishing up the lilacs for the Bailey cake, which is nearly done and beyond perfect. When I’m not working on the sugar blossoms, I’m helping Nanny and Mr.
Roz prepare baked goods for the Easter brunch at Sheridan
& Irving’s. This includes making four lamb cakes (three white lambs and one black sheep, because Nanny says every family needs one), ten assorted cakes, plus strudel and Danish, all while keeping up with the regular inventory. I’ve been here every day after school. No time for anything else.
Not Lori or Jack, not a good long run, and not the project for art class, which I still have not started.
And to top it all off? A few days ago I got a text from the amazon woman asking for a guest list. As soon as possible.
So I sat down and, aside from Jack and Lori, could not figure out who to invite. The sad truth is, I make the cakes, but I don’t get invited to the parties. Not anymore.
My life is cake. For example, today there’s no school, and while most kids my age won’t be up until noon at least, I was here at five a.m., adding curls of buttercream wool to a French-vanilla lamb.
Not that I’m complaining. I’d much rather decorate a cake than go to a random high school party.
Now it’s seven o’clock, and the bakery is open, so Nanny shoves me out front with Mr. Roz. I don’t have to help cus-70
tomers very often, except during very busy times, like today.
Really, it’s not so bad. Mr. Roz and I work like a well-oiled machine, bobbing and weaving around each other, handing out baked goods that are like little pieces of heaven.
Dr. Putnam walks in. This is the worst part of the job: bagging pastries for the one guy in town who has seen me naked.
“Hello, Sheridan,” he says in that don’t-worry-I’m-not-picturing-you-in-your-birthday-suit voice. Yeah, right.
I swallow and get over it. There are too many customers behind him to worry. “Hey,” I say like we’re best buds.
“What can I get you?”
I fill his order, then prepare a dozen-muffin assortment for Mrs. Beach, the grade school librarian. Behind her are two old couples who have tourist written all over them.
They start coming to St. Mary this time of year, and my dad’s restaurant is a big attraction.
“So,” the tall man barks in my direction as I bag up four muffins and a scone, “is the famous brunch really as good as they say?”
The Easter brunch at Sheridan & Irving’s has been written up in foodie magazines all over the country. It really is famous.
“Yeah, it’s pretty good.” I smile and pour them four coffees, black.
“I just can’t wait to meet Chef Wells,” says the tall man’s white-haired wife. “I clipped the
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