Gavin nods. “Sure, Annie,” he says slowly. “No one likes to lose things.” He shoots me another look.
“So, like, if someone asked you to help them find some of their relatives who they’d lost, you’d help them, wouldn’t you?” she asks.
“Annie,” I say in warning, but she isn’t paying any attention.
“Or would you, like, totally ignore them when they ask for your help?” she goes on. She looks at me pointedly.
Gavin clears his throat again and looks at me. I know he realizes he’s been dragged unwittingly into our fight, despite the fact that he has no idea what we’re arguing about. “Well, Annie,” he says slowly, turning his gaze back to her, “I suppose I’d try to help find them. But it really depends on what the situation is.”
Annie turns to me with a triumphant look on her face. “See, Mom? Mr. Keyes cares, even if you don’t!” She whirls around and disappears back into the kitchen. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of a metal bowl slamming into the counter. I open them again to see Gavin looking at me with concern. Our eyes meet for a moment, and then we both turn to look as Annie reemerges from the back.
“Mom, all the dishes are clean,” she says, without looking at me. “I’m walking to Dad’s now. Okay?”
“Have a nice time,” I say flatly. She rolls her eyes, grabs her backpack, and strides out without looking back.
When I look up and meet Gavin’s gaze again, the concern in his eyes makes me uncomfortable. I don’t need him—or anyone—worrying about me. “Sorry,” I mutter. I shake my head and try to look busy. “So, what can I get you, Gavin? I have some muffins in back that just came out of the oven.”
“Hope?” he says after a pause. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he says.
I blink and continue to avoid his eyes. “I don’t?”
He shakes his head. “You’re allowed to be upset, you know,” he says.
I must give him a harsh look without meaning to, because his cheeks suddenly flush and he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
I hold up a hand. “I know,” I say. “I know. Look, I appreciate it.”
We’re silent for a moment, and then Gavin says, “So what was she talking about? Is there something I can help you with?”
I smile at him. “I appreciate the offer,” I say. “But it’s nothing.”
He looks like he doesn’t believe me.
“It’s a long story,” I clarify.
He shrugs. “I’ve got time,” he says.
I glance at my watch. “But you were going somewhere, weren’t you?” I ask. “You came in for pastries.”
“I’m not in a rush,” he says. “But I will take a dozen cookies. The ones with cranberries and white chocolate in them. If you don’t mind.”
I nod and carefully arrange the remaining Cape Codder cookies in the display case in a robin’s egg–blue box with North Star Bakery, Cape Cod written on it in swirly white letters. I tie it with a white ribbon and hand it across the counter.
“So?” Gavin prompts as he takes the box from me.
“You really want to hear this?” I ask.
“If you want to tell me,” he says.
I nod, realizing suddenly that I do want to tell another adult what’s going on. “Well, my grandmother has Alzheimer’s,” I begin. And for the next five minutes, as I pull miniature pies, croissants, baklava, tarts, and crescent moons out of the display case and pack them into airtight containers for the freezer or boxes for the church’s women’s shelter, I tell Gavin about what Mamie said last night. Gavin listens intently, but his jaw drops when I tell him about Mamie throwing pieces of miniature Star Pies into the ocean.
I shake my head and say, “I know, it sounds crazy, right?”
He shakes his head, a strange expression on his face. “No, actually, it doesn’t. Yesterday was the first day of Rosh Hashanah.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year,” Gavin explains. “It’s customary for us to go to a flowing body of water—like the ocean—for a little ceremony called a tashlich.”
“You’re Jewish?” I ask.
He smiles. “On my mom’s side,” he says. “I was kind of raised half Jewish, half Catholic.”