In that moment, I feel terrible sadness for my grandfather, a kind, warm man who was endlessly devoted to his family. I wonder whether he realized that his wife had apparently given her heart away long before she met him.
I look up to see Alain gazing at me thoughtfully. “It’s never too late to find true love,” he says, locking eyes with me. “You just have to keep your heart open.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, “some of us just don’t get that lucky.”
Alain nods slowly. “Or sometimes, we are that lucky, and we are too frightened to see it.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh yes, there are men coming out of the woodwork, wanting to woo me.”
Annie glances at me and then at Alain. “She’s right. No one asks her out. Except Matt Hines, but he’s, like, weird.”
I can feel myself blushing, and I clear my throat. “Okay, Annie,” I say brusquely. “Let’s get moving. I need you to prep the strudel, okay?”
“Whatever,” she mutters.
Our open goes better than I’d expected that morning; with Alain’s help, we’re ready for customers by six. Gavin comes in at about six forty, but the shop is busy, so we hardly have a chance to talk as I hand him his coffee, thank him again for his help, and wish him a good day on the job at Joe Sullivan’s place.
Alain stays with me when Annie heads off to school, and after the morning rush is over, and I’ve tersely answered questions from a dozen nosy customers about where I’d vanished to for the last three days, we’re alone in the bakery.
“Whew!” Alain explains. “You do a good business, my dear.”
I shrug. “It could be better.”
“Perhaps,” Alain says. “But I think you should be thankful for what you do have.”
What I do have is a situation of mounting debt and a mortgage that will soon be yanked out from under me, leaving me without a business. But I don’t tell him that; no reason to burden Alain with my problems. I’d imagine they pale in comparison to the worries of his lifetime anyhow. It makes me feel as if there must be something terribly wrong with me if I get so easily overwhelmed by the little things.
The day flies by, and Annie arrives after school with a big stack of papers in her hand.
“When are we going to see Mamie?” she asks as she hugs Alain hello.
“Just as soon as we close up,” I tell her. “Why don’t you get started on the dishes in the back? We might be able to close a little early today.”
Annie frowns. “Can you do the dishes? I have some phone calls I gotta make.”
I stop pulling slices of baklava from the display case and frown at her. “Phone calls?”
Annie holds out the sheaf of papers she’s been clutching and rolls her eyes. “To Jacob Levy. Duh.”
My eyes widen. “You found Jacob Levy?”
“Yeah,” Annie says. She looks down. “Well, okay, so I found a whole lot of people named Jacob Levy. And, like, that doesn’t even count the ones who are listed as J. Levy. But I’m gonna call them all until we find the right one.”
I sigh. “Annie, honey . . .” I begin.
“Stop, Mom!” she snaps. “Don’t be negative. You’re always negative! I’m going to find him. And you can’t stop me.”
I open and close my mouth helplessly. I hope she’s right, but it looks like she has hundreds of numbers in front of her. It’s no wonder; I’m sure Jacob Levy is a very common name.
“So? Can I use the phone in the back?”
I pause and nod. “Yeah. As long as they’re all U.S. numbers.”
Annie grins and skips into the kitchen.
Alain smiles at me and rises to follow her. “I miss being young and hopeful,” he says. “Don’t you?”
He disappears into the kitchen behind my daughter, and I’m left standing there, feeling like Ebenezer Scrooge. When had I stopped being young and hopeful? I hadn’t been trying to rain on Annie’s parade; I simply want to help her manage her expectations. Expecting good things leads to getting hurt, I’ve found.
I sigh and go back to packaging the bakery items in airtight cases for freezing overnight. The baklava I’d made late this morning will last another couple of days, the muffins and cookies will freeze, and I should be able to recycle at least one of the strudels tomorrow morning. Our homemade doughnuts stay fresh for only a day, which is why I usually make only one variety each morning; today’s sugar-cinnamon doughnuts are nearly gone, and the remaining three will likely wind up in my daily pickup basket for the women’s shelter if I don’t have another customer in the next few minutes.