I weigh my options, but in the end, I know it’s not appropriate to drag our daughter into an adult battle that isn’t hers to fight. “That’s between me and your dad.”
She laughs at that and rolls her eyes. “He trusts me enough to talk to me,” she says. “And you know what? You ruin everything, Mom.”
Before I can reply, the front door to the bakery chimes. I glance at my watch. It’s a few minutes before six, our official opening time, but Annie must not have locked the door behind her when she came in.
“We’ll continue this later, young lady,” I say sternly.
“Whatever,” she mutters under her breath. She turns back to the batter she’s mixing, and I watch for a second as she adds some flour and then some milk, then a dash of vanilla.
“Hey, Hope, you back there?” It’s Matt’s voice, from the front of the store, and I snap out of it.
I hear Annie say “Of course it’s him” under her breath, but I pretend not to as I make my way up front.
Mrs. Koontz and Mrs. Sullivan come in at 7:00 a.m. as usual, and for once, Annie rushes out to wait on them. Usually, she’s happier to be in the kitchen, baking cupcakes and miniature pies with her iPod on, effortlessly ignoring me until she has to go to school. But today, she’s sunshine and smiles, whisking into the main room and pouring their coffee before they even have a chance to order.
“Here, let me help you to your seats,” she says, juggling two coffee mugs and a little pitcher of cream as they trail behind her, exchanging glances.
“Why, thank you, Annie,” Mrs. Sullivan says as Annie puts the coffees and cream down and pulls out her chair for her.
“You’re welcome!” Annie replies brightly. For a moment, she sounds exactly like the girl who inhabited her body before the divorce. Mrs. Koontz murmurs a thank-you too, and Annie chirps, “Yes, ma’am!”
She hovers while they each take their first sips of coffee, and she’s practically hopping from foot to foot by the time Mrs. Sullivan takes a bite of her blueberry muffin and Mrs. Koontz picks up her cinnamon-sugar doughnut.
“Um, can I, like, ask you a question?” Annie asks. I’m tidying up behind the counter, and I pause, straining to hear what she wants to know.
“You may, dear,” Mrs. Koontz says. “But you mustn’t use like in the middle of a sentence that way.”
“Huh?” Annie asks, confused. Mrs. Koontz raises an eyebrow, and Annie’s smart enough to correct herself. “I mean, excuse me,” she amends.
“The word like is not a space holder in a sentence,” Mrs. Koontz tells my daughter seriously. I duck behind the counter to hide my smile.
“Oh,” Annie says. “I mean, I know.” I peek over the counter and see her face flaming red. I feel bad for her; Mrs. Koontz, who’d been my tenth-grade English teacher years ago, is a tough cookie. I think about coming to Annie’s defense, but before I have a chance, Mrs. Sullivan jumps in.
“Oh, Barbara, give the child a break,” she says, swatting her friend on the arm. She turns to Annie and says, “Ignore her. She simply misses being able to boss children around, now that she’s retired.” Mrs. Koontz starts to protest, but Mrs. Sullivan swats her again and smiles at Annie. “Did you say you had a question for us, dear?”
Annie clears her throat. “Uh, yeah,” she says. “I mean, yes, ma’am. I was just wondering . . .” She pauses, and the women wait. “Well, you knew my great-grandma, right?”
The women glance at each other, then back at Annie. “Yes, of course,” Mrs. Sullivan finally replies. “We’ve known her for years. How is she?”
“Fine,” Annie says instantly. “I mean, not totally fine. She’s having some—problems. But, um, mostly fine.” Her face is flaming again. “Anyways, I was just wondering, do you, um, know who Leona is?”
The women exchange looks again. “Leona,” Mrs. Sullivan says slowly. She mulls it over for a moment and shakes her head. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t sound familiar. Barbara?”
Mrs. Koontz shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I don’t think we know a Leona. Why?”
Annie looks down. “It’s just something she keeps calling me. I was just wondering, like, who she is.” She looks horrified for a second and mumbles, “Sorry for saying ‘like.’ ”
Mrs. Sullivan reaches out and pats Annie’s hand. “Now you’ve gone and scared the child, Barbara,” she says.