Chapter One
Knowing
June 13 th , 2001
“Macy, would you like to help me bake cherry tarts?”
I looked up at my mother and smiled. “Sure, Mommy, I would love to help. Will you let me come to dinner tonight, too?”
Mom’s iridescent blue eyes smiled back at me as she shook her head. “Macy, honey, you know that tonight’s dinner party is only for grown-ups.”
I pouted my lip as best I could before answering her. “I’m seven years old…seven and a half, actually. I’m more grown-up than Lily Myers across the hall. She’s eight years old and still plays with dolls. I find dolls sooo boring,” I howled.
Mom placed an unopened bag of flour and sugar on the counter without answering.
Perhaps pleading my case would sway her decision. “I could wear my new yellow dress that Daddy bought me last month in Paris. I promise to mind my manners and help with the dishes. Please, please, please, Mommy?”
I laid my pink crayon down on the table beside my half-drawn fairy, whose eyes were too large and whose hair was too yellow. I was absolutely terrible at drawing, but living in an apartment in New York City left little to do outside and a lot of imagination and activities to invent indoors. Pieces of my artwork covered every square inch of our refrigerator. Nearly every single piece portrayed the beauty of a fairy, a princess…or an angel.
“I’m sorry, honey, but you just can’t tonight. I agree, you are a very grown-up little girl, but this is a very special dinner for Daddy. It will just be a bunch of adults talking business. You wouldn’t have much fun anyway.”
Mom walked over to the kitchen table and sat down next to me. My eyes fell from hers as I summoned up a tear, allowing it to trickle down my pink cheek. It seemed like my parents had an awful lot of dinner parties. Parties that drew crowds of curious individuals dressed in extravagant clothing and dripping with jewels of enormous size. I didn’t really understand exactly what my father did for a living, but based on the people who swirled around us, it must be an incredibly important job…with a load of wealth.
The few times I had asked my father what he did for a living, he would rustle my hair, tilt my chin up, and reply, “What every other daddy does…takes care of his children and loves their mother.” The conversation normally ended with a tickle fight, or my father sweeping me off my feet and throwing me over his shoulder, spinning in circles until my stomach hurt from deep belly laughs.
Mom’s words broke through my daydream. “Tell you what, you help me with the tarts, and then I’ll take you out for ice cream afterwards before the party. How does that sound?”
“Fine,” I replied, giving a sigh.
Mom kissed me on the cheek. “Now let’s get these cherry tarts started. I’ll even let you lick the bowl when we’re done.” Mom stood up, pushing her chair in and strolling over to the granite kitchen counter. She carefully placed measuring cups, spoons, spatulas and other utensils on top of its surface.
I watched intently as she stood on her brown step stool, pulling down a large, brown recipe book from the cabinet over the oven. It was stuffed full of unorganized recipes; recipes that she had found in the newspaper, magazines or even jotted down on pieces of torn, yellowed notebook paper.
“Here it is! Grandma Morgan’s recipe for cherry tarts.”
I watched as my mother bit her bottom lip, running her hand over the stained, frayed, yellow recipe card. She always got a little choked up when Grandma Morgan was mentioned, or a picture of her fell from the photo box we often reminisced through.
Grandma Morgan was my mother’s mom. She had passed away several years before I was born. The smiling pictures of her standing in front of her tiny bakery in downtown Philadelphia in the early 1960s portrayed a picture of passion and love. She looked a lot like my mother. There always seemed to be a spark in
Knowing
June 13 th , 2001
“Macy, would you like to help me bake cherry tarts?”
I looked up at my mother and smiled. “Sure, Mommy, I would love to help. Will you let me come to dinner tonight, too?”
Mom’s iridescent blue eyes smiled back at me as she shook her head. “Macy, honey, you know that tonight’s dinner party is only for grown-ups.”
I pouted my lip as best I could before answering her. “I’m seven years old…seven and a half, actually. I’m more grown-up than Lily Myers across the hall. She’s eight years old and still plays with dolls. I find dolls sooo boring,” I howled.
Mom placed an unopened bag of flour and sugar on the counter without answering.
Perhaps pleading my case would sway her decision. “I could wear my new yellow dress that Daddy bought me last month in Paris. I promise to mind my manners and help with the dishes. Please, please, please, Mommy?”
I laid my pink crayon down on the table beside my half-drawn fairy, whose eyes were too large and whose hair was too yellow. I was absolutely terrible at drawing, but living in an apartment in New York City left little to do outside and a lot of imagination and activities to invent indoors. Pieces of my artwork covered every square inch of our refrigerator. Nearly every single piece portrayed the beauty of a fairy, a princess…or an angel.
“I’m sorry, honey, but you just can’t tonight. I agree, you are a very grown-up little girl, but this is a very special dinner for Daddy. It will just be a bunch of adults talking business. You wouldn’t have much fun anyway.”
Mom walked over to the kitchen table and sat down next to me. My eyes fell from hers as I summoned up a tear, allowing it to trickle down my pink cheek. It seemed like my parents had an awful lot of dinner parties. Parties that drew crowds of curious individuals dressed in extravagant clothing and dripping with jewels of enormous size. I didn’t really understand exactly what my father did for a living, but based on the people who swirled around us, it must be an incredibly important job…with a load of wealth.
The few times I had asked my father what he did for a living, he would rustle my hair, tilt my chin up, and reply, “What every other daddy does…takes care of his children and loves their mother.” The conversation normally ended with a tickle fight, or my father sweeping me off my feet and throwing me over his shoulder, spinning in circles until my stomach hurt from deep belly laughs.
Mom’s words broke through my daydream. “Tell you what, you help me with the tarts, and then I’ll take you out for ice cream afterwards before the party. How does that sound?”
“Fine,” I replied, giving a sigh.
Mom kissed me on the cheek. “Now let’s get these cherry tarts started. I’ll even let you lick the bowl when we’re done.” Mom stood up, pushing her chair in and strolling over to the granite kitchen counter. She carefully placed measuring cups, spoons, spatulas and other utensils on top of its surface.
I watched intently as she stood on her brown step stool, pulling down a large, brown recipe book from the cabinet over the oven. It was stuffed full of unorganized recipes; recipes that she had found in the newspaper, magazines or even jotted down on pieces of torn, yellowed notebook paper.
“Here it is! Grandma Morgan’s recipe for cherry tarts.”
I watched as my mother bit her bottom lip, running her hand over the stained, frayed, yellow recipe card. She always got a little choked up when Grandma Morgan was mentioned, or a picture of her fell from the photo box we often reminisced through.
Grandma Morgan was my mother’s mom. She had passed away several years before I was born. The smiling pictures of her standing in front of her tiny bakery in downtown Philadelphia in the early 1960s portrayed a picture of passion and love. She looked a lot like my mother. There always seemed to be a spark in
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