The Sweetness of Forgetting (37 page)

Four days later, Mamie’s condition hasn’t changed, and I’ve just opened the bakery when Matt comes by with a big packet of papers in his hands. My heart sinks. With all the drama surrounding Mamie’s stroke, and the discovery of the existence of Alain and Jacob, I’ve nearly forgotten the trouble my business is in.

“I’m going to get right to the point,” Matt says after we exchange uneasy hellos. “The investors don’t like the numbers.”

I stare at him. “Okay . . .” I say.

“And I’m going to be honest: you leaving and going to Paris during the time they were considering this investment decision, well, let’s just say that was pretty foolish.”

I sigh. “Maybe from a business perspective.”

“What else is there right now?”

I look down at the tray of Star Pies I’ve been holding in my hands since Matt walked in. “Everything,” I say softly. I smile at the pies for a moment before sliding them into the display case.

Matt looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Hope, they’re pulling out. They’ve run the numbers, and you’re marginal, at best. They were on the fence, and I’ve been doing my best to try to persuade them on your behalf. But realizing you’d closed like that, at the drop of a hat . . . well, that was the final straw.”

I nod, my heart thudding. I realize what he’s saying to me: that I may have just lost the bakery. And I have a sensation coursing through me that feels a bit like panic. But I’m not nearly as upset as I would have thought, and this worries me a little. Shouldn’t I be more upset that my family’s business, my entire livelihood, is about to be ripped away from me? Instead, I just have the strange sense that things are going to work out the way they’re meant to, whatever that means.

“Are you listening to me, Hope?” Matt asks, and I realize he’s been talking while I was thinking.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” I ask.

“I was
saying
that there’s not that much more I can do. Do you know how out of my way I went to even get them here in the first place? But they’re not going to invest, Hope. I’m sorry.”

Matt doesn’t say anything as I quietly rearrange pastries in the display case. The door dings, and Lisa Wilkes, who works at the stationery shop on the corner, comes in with Melixa Carbonell, who works at the pet shop on Lietz Road. They were both a few years behind Matt and me in high school, and they come in together at least once a week.

Matt is silent while Lisa orders a coffee and Melixa orders a
green tea, which takes me a few minutes to make, because I have to plug in the electric kettle. In the meantime, they argue over whether they’ll split a piece of baklava or a piece of cheesecake. In the end, I settle for charging them for a piece of baklava and throwing in a piece of cheesecake for free.

“That’s why you’re going out of business, you know,” Matt says after they’ve left.

“What?”

“You can’t just go giving people free pastries. They were totally playing you.”

“They weren’t playing me,” I respond indignantly.

“Sure they were. You’re too generous. They knew if they argued in front of you, you’d be nice and give them both pastries. And you did.”

I sigh. I don’t even bother explaining that there’s no way I’ll go through the remainder of the cheesecake today anyhow. “My grandmother always ran this bakery like it was her kitchen and the customers were her guests,” I say instead.

“That’s not a good business model,” Matt says.

I shrug. “I never said it was. But I’m proud of that tradition.”

The door dings again, and I look up to see Alain shuffling in. He’s taken to walking here himself in the mornings. I worry about him doing so at his age—the walk is more than a mile—but he seems to be perfectly healthy, and he swears that he walks far more than this each day in Paris.

He crosses behind the counter and gives me a gentle kiss on the cheek. “Good morning, dear,” he says. He seems to notice Matt for the first time then. “Hello, young man,” he says. He turns to me and says, “I see you have a customer.”

“Matt was just leaving,” I tell him. I shoot Matt a look, which I hope transmits the fact that I don’t want him talking bakery business in front of Alain. But of course, he’s oblivious.

“I’m Matt Hines,” he says, extending a hand to Alain over the bakery case. “And you are . . . ?”

Alain hesitates before shaking Matt’s hand. “I am Alain Picard,” he says. “Hope’s uncle.”

Matt looks confused. “Now, wait. I’ve known Hope since we were kids. She doesn’t have any uncles.”

Alain smiles thinly. “Yes, young man, she does indeed. In fact, I am her
arriere-oncle.
Her great-uncle, as you would say.”

Matt frowns and looks at me.

“He’s my grandmother’s brother,” I explain. “From Paris.”

Matt stares at Alain for a second, then turns back to me. “Hope, this isn’t making a whole lot of sense. You’re telling me you went to Paris on a whim, you’re about to lose your business because of it, and you’ve randomly brought back a relative you never knew you had?”

I feel my cheeks heating up, and I’m not sure whether it’s because he’s apparently insulting me, or because he’s just announced in front of Alain that I’m about to lose the bakery. I turn slowly and look at Alain, hopeful that the words were lost in translation, but he’s staring at me with a frozen look on his face.

“Hope, what does he mean?” he asks softly. “About losing the business? Is the bakery in trouble?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. I shoot Matt a look, and at least he has the grace to appear slightly shamed. He clears his throat and turns away, as if to give Alain and me a moment’s privacy.

“Hope, we are family,” Alain says. “Of course I will worry if something is wrong. Why did you say nothing to me?”

I take a deep breath. “Because it’s my fault,” I say. “I made some bad financial decisions. My credit rating has totally tanked, and that’s tied in to my business credit.”

“But that does not explain why you did not tell me,” Alain says. He takes a step forward and puts a warm, gnarled hand on my cheek. “I am your uncle.”

I can feel tears in my eyes now. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to burden you. With everything going on with my grandmother . . .”

“All the more reason to lean on me,” he says. He touches my cheek lightly with the palm of his hand and turns back to Matt. “Young man!” he calls out.

“Yes?” Matt turns, wide-eyed, as if he hasn’t been listening to every word.

“You can go now. My niece and I have some talking to do.”

“But, I—” Matt begins. But Alain cuts him off again.

“I do not know who you are or what you have to do with this,” Alain says.

“I’m the vice president of the Bank of the Cape,” Matt says stiffly. He stands up a little straighter. “We hold Hope’s loan. And unfortunately, it’s necessary that we call it in. It wasn’t my decision, sir. It’s just business.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and glance at Alain. His face has gone red.

“So that’s it, then?” he says to Matt. “Sixty years of tradition? Sixty years of my family baking for this town, and you decide it is all over, just like that?”

“It’s not personal,” Matt says. He glances at me. “I tried to help, actually. Hope will tell you. But the investors I had interested backed out after Hope went to Paris. I’m sorry, but I guess the legacy has to end.”

I look down at the ground and close my eyes.

“Young man,” Alain says after a moment. “The legacy is not in this bakery itself but in the family tradition it represents. There is no price tag on that. Seventy years ago, men who did not understand family or conscience, and who only understood orders and wealth, took our first bakery away. And because of my sister, and her daughter, and her granddaughter, the tradition survived.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with a loan,” Matt says.

Alain reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You and your bank are making a mistake, young man,” he says. “But Hope
will be fine. She is a survivor. Just like her grandmother. That is our tradition. And it too will survive.”

My heart feels like it’s going to overflow. Alain takes me gently by the hand and turns me toward the kitchen. “Come, Hope,” he says. “Let us bake a Star Pie to take to Rose. I am sure the young man can find his own way out.”

That afternoon, armed with Jacob Levy’s date of birth, I begin calling the interfaith organizations I’d found using Google. I’d been holding off, because I realize what a long shot this is, and I’ve reached my limit of disappointment. I’m feeling as if all I hear anymore are no’s.

Can I save my bakery?
No.
Do we know that Mamie will ever wake up?
No.
Is it likely that there’s still time to turn my messy life around?
No.

I start with the Interfaith Alliance, then I go down my list to the Council for a Parliament of the World’s Religions, the National American Interfaith Network, the United Religions Initiative, and the World Congress of Faith. To each person who answers, I briefly explain the story of how Jacob took Mamie to a Christian, who helped shelter her with Muslims. Then I give them Jacob’s name and date of birth and say that I know it’s a long shot, but I’m trying to find him and believe there’s a chance he may be involved with an interfaith organization here in the States. They all ooh and aah over the story, tell me they’ll pass my information to the right people and will get back to me if they find anything.

On Sunday morning at about eight o’clock, Annie and I are alone in the bakery, rolling out dough in silence, when the phone rings. Annie wipes her hands on her apron and reaches for the receiver. “North Star Bakery, Annie speaking,” she says. She listens for a minute and hands the phone to me with a funny expression on her face. “It’s for you, Mom.”

I dust my hands off and take the phone from her. “Hello, North Star Bakery,” I say.

“Is this Hope McKenna-Smith?” It’s a woman’s voice, and she has a hint of an accent.

“Yes,” I say. “How can I help you?”

“My name is Elida White,” she says. “I’m calling you from the Abrahamic Association of Boston. We are an interfaith council.”

“Oh,” I say. They aren’t one of the groups I called over the last few days. The name doesn’t ring a bell. “Abrahamic?” I ask.

“The Muslim, Jewish, and Christian religions all descend from Abraham,” she explains. “We focus on bringing together these groups and working from our similarities instead of our differences.”

“Oh,” I say again. “Right. What can I do for you?”

“Let me explain,” she says. “Our organization received a call this week from the Interfaith Council of America, and it was referred to me. I was told about your grandmother and how she was assisted in escaping from Paris by a Muslim family.”

“Yes,” I say softly.

“I have looked through all our records, and there is no Jacob Levy among our members with a birth date matching the one you provided,” she says.

“Oh,” I say. My heart sinks. Another dead end. “Thanks for looking. But you didn’t have to call.”

“I know I did not have to,” she says. “But I have someone here who would like to meet you. And in turn, we would like to help you. It is our obligation. Can you come to visit today? I understand that your grandmother is in ill health and time is of the essence. I realize the notice is short, but I see that you are on the Cape, so the journey won’t be more than an hour or two. I live in Pembroke.”

Pembroke, I know, is just off the highway on the South Shore, on the way to Boston. It would take me just under an hour and a half to get there. But I don’t understand why I need to go if they haven’t found Jacob Levy in their records.

“I’m afraid today isn’t going to work,” I say. “I run a bakery, and we’re open until four.”

“So come after you close,” the woman says right away. “Come for dinner.”

I pause. “I appreciate the invitation, but—”

She cuts me off. “Please. My grandmother would like to meet you. She is in her nineties. She is a Muslim, and she too sheltered Jews during the war.”

My heartbeat picks up. “She’s from Paris too?”

“No,” the woman says. “We are from Albania. You know, the Albanian Muslims, they saved more than two thousand of our Jewish brothers and sisters. When I told her the story of your Jacob Levy, she was astonished. She did not know that there were Muslims in Paris who had done the same. Please, she would like you to come tell her your story, and she would like to tell you her story in return.”

I glance at Annie, who is looking at me hopefully. “May I bring my daughter?” I ask.

“Of course,” Elida says immediately. “She is most welcome, as are you. And once we have shared stories, we will help you find this Jacob, okay? My grandmother says she knows how important it is to meet the past, here in the present.”

“Hold on,” I say. I put my hand over the receiver and briefly explain Elida’s request to Annie.

“We have to go, Mom,” she says solemnly. “That lady’s grandma sounds just like Mamie. Except from Albania instead of France. And Muslim instead of Jewish. We should go talk to her.”

I look at my daughter for a moment and realize she’s right. My grandmother is lying in a coma, but Elida’s grandmother is still able to talk. We may never get the full story of what happened to my grandmother, but perhaps hearing from another woman from the same time period, who was involved in a situation similar to Mamie’s, will help us to understand.