Read The Sweetest Thing for Free Online

away.
    “Darlin’, I’m so sorry.”
    I clear the dishes in silence and give Nanny a good-night kiss. As I walk down the back stairs now covered in snow, I glance up and see her at the balcony, peering down at me.
    “Love you, sugar,” she calls down. I hope she gets on the phone after I’m gone and leaves Dad a nasty voice mail.
    “You, too,” I say, trudging across the alley.
    Back at the house, the message light on the phone is blinking like a Christmas tree. I listen to the first three: Jake Trotter from the St. Mary Courier wants to set up an interview; Christopher something-or-other from the Grand Rapids Times does, too; and Catherine Dupree, anchor-40

    woman from the local TV station where Dad’s done a few cooking segments in the past, reminds him that she’s responsible, in part, for his success and asks if she can have an exclusive interview.
    There are ten more messages, but I hang up and walk away. Upstairs, I throw on an old T-shirt and worn-out flannel pajama pants. I try to study, but Algebra II has never seemed so useless and my laptop is calling me.
    I scour the Internet for “mackinac island bakery” and get a bunch of hits, but nothing seems like a clue. I type in
    “maggie taylor mackinac island” and I find the photo that Jack showed me. It’s on the hotel’s Web site, but it says to call or e-mail for information. I want to e-mail them right away.
    But then I remember Jack’s words, and how I’ve been disappointed—and, okay, almost arrested—in the past. I don’t want to be let down this time. This time, it’s got to be her .
    I do some research on Mackinac. Print out the driving directions. A little more than five hours. Maybe I could get Jack to drive me up there, if it comes to that.
    Around midnight, the phone rings. It’s Nanny.
    “Is that dummy son of mine home yet?”
    “No.”
    She lets out a breath. “Doggone it. I’m gonna skin him alive.”
    “Yeah. I guess he decided to celebrate his dream coming true in his own special way.” I sigh. “No big surprise.”
    “You wanna sleep over here?” Nanny asks.
    41

    I look around my room. Over the years, I’ve spent a million nights at Nanny’s, when Dad worked late at the restaurant or was traveling or working as a guest chef somewhere.
    He’s been gone a lot of nights, but I always knew he would come back. But tonight feels weird, like he’s already there in New York City and he’s left St. Mary behind, like an old piece of furniture that wasn’t worth moving.
    “No,” I say, knowing I am too old to run to Nanny.
    “That’s okay. Got homework.”
    “All right. Well, lock the doors. I’ll be here if you need me.”
    “Yeah, I know.”
    At one o’clock, I can’t focus my eyes on the computer screen anymore. I want to throw the stupid thing across the room because I’ve been through so many Margaret Taylors, Margaret Wellses, and even Margaret Kirbys, though she never used that name on the cards.
    The cards. I grab the box out of my closet and pick up the one with the oldest postmark. She left a few months before I turned eight. There was a decorating contest in Dallas, and she’d been practicing for weeks. It was all she talked about; she was so excited. On the morning she left, she packed me a lunch, took me to school, hugged me tight, and told me to say a prayer so that she’d win.
    But she didn’t win, and when her plane back to Michigan left Dallas that Monday, she wasn’t on it. She’d met a man named Frank Kirby and had fallen for him hard.
    42

    I was so little, Nanny told me Mom was taking a vacation. Dad told me nothing. But I figured that if she was on vacation, she’d certainly send me a postcard or something. I checked the mailbox every day. And one day, just before my birthday, it was there. An envelope, with my name scrawled on the front in her handwriting.
    I’m holding the card in my hand now. It is cut in the shape of a big number 8 and covered with glitter and stars.
    I have the