The woman snorts. “And I hope he gets run over by a taxi.”
The line clicks, and I’m left holding the phone in surprise. I shake my head, wait for the dial tone, and try the next number.
Chapter Eight
By the time Annie comes in just before four, the Star Pies have cooled, I have tomorrow’s blueberry muffins in the oven, and I’ve called all thirty-five numbers on my list. Twenty-two of them answered. None of them knew the people from Mamie’s list. Two of them had suggested that I try calling the synagogues, which might have records of their members from that time period.
“Thank you,” I told both of them, puzzled, “but my grandmother is Catholic.”
Annie barely meets my gaze as she tosses her backpack behind the counter and stalks into the kitchen. I sigh. Great. We’re going to have one of those afternoons.
“I already cleaned all the bowls and trays!” I call to my daughter as I start pulling cookies from the display case in preparation for closing in a few minutes. “We had a slow day today, so I had some extra time,” I add.
“So did you book your trip to Paris?” Annie asks, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen with her hands on her hips. “With all this extra time you had?”
“No, but I—” I begin, but Annie holds up her hand to stop me.
“No? Okay. That’s all I need to hear,” she says, clearly borrowing phrasing from her father in an attempt to sound like a miniature adult. Just what I need.
“Annie, you’re not listening,” I say. “I called all the—”
“Look, Mom, if you’re not going to help Mamie, I don’t know what we have to talk about,” she says sharply.
I take a deep breath. I’ve been walking on eggshells around her for the last several months, because I’ve been worried about how she’s handling the divorce. But I’m tired of being the bad guy. Especially when I’m not. “Annie,” I say firmly. “I’m doing everything I can to keep us afloat here. I understand that you want to help Mamie. I do too. But she has Alzheimer’s, Annie. The request she’s making isn’t logical. Now if you’ll just listen to me, I—”
“Whatever, Mom,” she cuts me off again. “You don’t care about anyone.”
She strides back into the kitchen, and I start to follow her, my hands clenched into fists as I struggle to control my temper. “Young lady, don’t you walk away from me in the middle of an argument!”
Just then, the door chime dings, and I spin around to see Gavin, dressed in faded jeans and a red flannel shirt. He meets my gaze and rakes a hand through his unruly brown curls, which I distractedly realize need to be cut.
“Um, am I interrupting something?” he asks. He glances at his watch. “Are you still open?”
I force a smile. “Of course, Gavin,” I say. “Come in. What can I do for you?”
He looks uncertain as he approaches the counter. “You sure?” he asks. “I can come back tomorrow if—”
“No,” I cut him off. “I’m sorry. Annie and I were just having a . . . talk.”
Gavin pauses and smiles at me. “My mom and I used to have lots of talks when I was Annie’s age,” he says in a low voice. “I’m sure my mom always enjoyed them.”
I laugh, despite myself. Just then, Annie emerges from the kitchen again. “I brought you coffee,” she announces to Gavin before I can say anything. “On the house,” she adds. She shoots a glance at me, as if daring me to challenge her. Little does she know that I haven’t charged him for anything since he completed his work on our cottage.
“Well, thank you, Annie. That’s generous,” Gavin says, taking the coffee from her. I watch as he closes his eyes and breathes in the aroma. “Boy, this smells great.”
I arch an eyebrow at him, because I suspect he knows as well as I do that the coffee’s been on the burner for approximately the last two hours and is anything but fresh.
“So, Mr. Keyes,” Annie begins. “You, like, help people and stuff, right?”
Gavin looks surprised. He clears his throat and nods. “Sure, Annie, I guess so.” He pauses and glances at me. “And you can call me Gavin, if you want. Um, do you mean I help people by being a handyman? By fixing things?”
“Whatever,” she says dismissively. “You help people because it’s the right thing to do, right?” Gavin shoots me another look, and I shrug. “So anyways,” Annie continues, “if something was lost, and it was really bothering someone, you’d probably want to help them find it, right?”