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.Dad smiles.“Can you do luau food, Don?” Surfer asks.Dad laughs.“I’ll think of something.”“Well, Sheridan, Donovan, I predict this is going to be the hit of the summer.” Gray Hair grabs Dad’s hand and shakes it.“We’ll get back to the hotel and hammer out a production schedule.”He holds his hand out for me to shake, too.I have an 64overwhelming feeling that this handshake will seal my fate.Here’s hoping that fate is on my side.The Suits gather up their briefcases and drain their coffee cups.Amazon gives some orders to the camera crew, and then they talk among themselves.I hear Surfer: “This is gonna be the show to beat.” I hear Amazon: “We’re going to bury Food TV during sweeps.”Dad touches my arm.“Can I have a word with you?”I narrow my eyes and follow him to the kitchen island.“Sure,” I say.Dad takes a glass from the cabinet and fills it with water from the sink.He takes a swig, swallows hard.“You really okay with this? You sure changed your mind fast.”That’s when Nanny’s voice pops into my head.One of those phrases she’s always saying: You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.Be nice to these people, cooperate with them, and maybe I’ll get what I want.“Yes,” I gulp, thinking of honey, lots and lots of honey.“I just thought this might be a good way to spend time together, since we hardly even talk anymore.”If I was Pinocchio, my nose would be about a mile long by now.He eyes me suspiciously.“Just promise, no funny stuff, okay?”Who, me? I’l be nice to the Suits; I’l slay them with my charm, stun them with my reality TV presence.Maybe they’ll 65realize that St.Mary is the best place to film this show.Why not? This is where my reality is, after al.It’s worth a try.“Right.” I nod.“No funny stuff.Promise.”Dad’s eyes suddenly get wide, weird-looking.He focuses on my face, and in that split second, I see something come over him.He softens, like butter left out on the counter.“Good.I’m so glad you’re on board.Thanks, sweetheart.”Sweetheart? He reaches up, smooths my hair, leans over and kisses my forehead.Okay.He hasn’t called me that or kissed my head in years.I smile even though I’m so not on board, and I have no intention of moving to New York City.The honey worked.This fly is mine.The Suits are at the back door, bundled up and ready to hop into their limos.“We’ll get back to you later tonight, Donovan,” Gray Hair calls.“Great.Just great,” Dad says, and walks to the door to see them out.I let out a deep, deep sigh.I’ve got a lot of work to do.Later that night, after finishing a few birthday cakes at the bakery, I walk into an empty house.Dad is at the restaurant, and from the looks of the parking lot, they are booked solid.The front room is warm and cozy tonight.I sit on the big old leather sofa, drop my bag, and flick on the lamp beside me.66Reaching for my chemistry book, I see my art sketchbook, still neglected and sad.I may just flunk that class.Instead, I pull out my laptop and start drafting an e-mail.I’ve started a lot of e-mails like this, trying to contact my mother, and I’ve been wrong about the person every time.But Mackinac Maggie, she’s the one.I know it.Jack wants me to wait until we find more evidence.But what does he know, anyway? I need to find her now if this plan is going to work.So I write.To Whom It May Concern: I am planning a summer wedding and am wondering if you can give me the contact information for Maggie Taylor, who decorated the butterfly cake on your Web site.Thank you.I mean, that’s a pretty innocent e-mail.No restraining orders could possibly come from this.I close my eyes and hit Send, then sit back in the chair, inhaling the scent of old wood and leather.I do realize that to most people, the idea of an intelligent, cake-decorating high schooler sending fraudulent e-mails to a stranger hundreds of miles away might sound crazy.They might think I’m a fool, searching for a woman who left me, who I haven’t seen in eight years.But I really don’t care.I’m the one who remembers her hand in mine, the weight of it, the sureness of its squeeze.67That kind of love does not just vanish.My mom didn’t stop sending birthday cards for no good reason.I will find her, she’ll come back, and we’ll make the cake for this luau together.And maybe when Dad sees how happy this makes me, maybe he’ll forgive her, at least a little.That’s the best-case scenario, of course, but it could happen.I should start the next lab report, but instead, I take out my cake notebook, flip open to the first empty page, and start to draw the birthday masterpiece.A luau theme? That would, of course, mean gum-paste hibiscus flowers
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