ticket to Paris.
I glance at the door. Still no customers. The street outside is empty; there’s a storm brewing, and the sky is darkening, the wind picking up. I glance back at the oven. Thirty-six minutes left on the timer. The smell of cinnamon is wafting through the bakery as I breathe in deeply.
I dial the first number. There are a few clicks as the call connects, and then a pair of almost buzzerlike pulses. Someone picks up on the other end.
“Allo?” a woman’s voice says.
It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t speak more than rudimentary French. “Um, hello,” I say nervously. “I’m looking for the relatives of someone named Albert Picard.”
There’s silence on the other end.
I search my memory desperately for the correct French words. “Um, je chercher Albert Picard,” I attempt, knowing that’s not quite right but hoping that it conveys my point.
“There is no Albert Picard here.” The woman speaks clear English with a heavy French accent.
My heart sinks. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought that—”
“There is no Albert Picard here because he is a useless bastard,” the woman continues calmly. “He cannot keep his hands from touching all the other women. And I am done with it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry . . .” I say, my voice trailing off because I’m not sure what else to say.
“You are not one of these women, are you?” she asks, suddenly sounding suspicious.
“No, no,” I say quickly. “I am looking for someone my grandmotheronce knew, or maybe was related to. She left Paris in the early 1940s.”
The woman laughs. “This Albert, he is only thirty-two. And his father is Jean-Marc. So he is not the Albert Picard you search for.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I glance down at the list. “Do you know a Cecile Picard? Or a Helene Picard? Or a Claude Picard? Or . . .” I pause. “Or a Rose Durand? Or Rose McKenna?”
“No,” the woman says.
“Okay,” I say, disappointed. “Thank you for your time. And I hope, um, that you work things out with Albert.”
The woman snorts. “And I hope he gets run over by a taxi.”
The line clicks, and I’m left holding the phone in surprise. I shake my head, wait for the dial tone, and try the next number.
Chapter Eight
B y the time Annie comes in just before four, the Star Pies have cooled, I have tomorrow’s blueberry muffins in the oven, and I’ve called all thirty-five numbers on my list. Twenty-two of them answered. None of them knew the people from Mamie’s list. Two of them had suggested that I try calling the synagogues, which might have records of their members from that time period.
“Thank you,” I told both of them, puzzled, “but my grandmother is Catholic.”
Annie barely meets my gaze as she tosses her backpack behind the counter and stalks into the kitchen. I sigh. Great. We’re going to have one of those afternoons.
“I already cleaned all the bowls and trays!” I call to my daughter as I start pulling cookies from the display case in preparation for closing in a few minutes. “We had a slow day today, so I had some extra time,” I add.
“So did you book your trip to Paris?” Annie asks, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen with her hands on her hips. “With all this extra time you had?”
“No, but I—” I begin, but Annie holds up her hand to stop me.
“No? Okay. That’s all I need to hear,” she says, clearly borrowing phrasing from her father in an attempt to sound like a miniature adult. Just what I need.
“Annie, you’re not listening,” I say. “I called all the—”
“Look, Mom, if you’re not going to help Mamie, I don’t know what we have to talk about,” she says sharply.
I take a deep breath. I’ve been walking on eggshells around her for the last several months, because I’ve been worried about how she’s handling the divorce. But I’m tired of being the bad guy. Especially when I’m not. “Annie,” I say firmly. “I’m doing everything I can to keep us
I glance at the door. Still no customers. The street outside is empty; there’s a storm brewing, and the sky is darkening, the wind picking up. I glance back at the oven. Thirty-six minutes left on the timer. The smell of cinnamon is wafting through the bakery as I breathe in deeply.
I dial the first number. There are a few clicks as the call connects, and then a pair of almost buzzerlike pulses. Someone picks up on the other end.
“Allo?” a woman’s voice says.
It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t speak more than rudimentary French. “Um, hello,” I say nervously. “I’m looking for the relatives of someone named Albert Picard.”
There’s silence on the other end.
I search my memory desperately for the correct French words. “Um, je chercher Albert Picard,” I attempt, knowing that’s not quite right but hoping that it conveys my point.
“There is no Albert Picard here.” The woman speaks clear English with a heavy French accent.
My heart sinks. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought that—”
“There is no Albert Picard here because he is a useless bastard,” the woman continues calmly. “He cannot keep his hands from touching all the other women. And I am done with it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry . . .” I say, my voice trailing off because I’m not sure what else to say.
“You are not one of these women, are you?” she asks, suddenly sounding suspicious.
“No, no,” I say quickly. “I am looking for someone my grandmotheronce knew, or maybe was related to. She left Paris in the early 1940s.”
The woman laughs. “This Albert, he is only thirty-two. And his father is Jean-Marc. So he is not the Albert Picard you search for.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I glance down at the list. “Do you know a Cecile Picard? Or a Helene Picard? Or a Claude Picard? Or . . .” I pause. “Or a Rose Durand? Or Rose McKenna?”
“No,” the woman says.
“Okay,” I say, disappointed. “Thank you for your time. And I hope, um, that you work things out with Albert.”
The woman snorts. “And I hope he gets run over by a taxi.”
The line clicks, and I’m left holding the phone in surprise. I shake my head, wait for the dial tone, and try the next number.
Chapter Eight
B y the time Annie comes in just before four, the Star Pies have cooled, I have tomorrow’s blueberry muffins in the oven, and I’ve called all thirty-five numbers on my list. Twenty-two of them answered. None of them knew the people from Mamie’s list. Two of them had suggested that I try calling the synagogues, which might have records of their members from that time period.
“Thank you,” I told both of them, puzzled, “but my grandmother is Catholic.”
Annie barely meets my gaze as she tosses her backpack behind the counter and stalks into the kitchen. I sigh. Great. We’re going to have one of those afternoons.
“I already cleaned all the bowls and trays!” I call to my daughter as I start pulling cookies from the display case in preparation for closing in a few minutes. “We had a slow day today, so I had some extra time,” I add.
“So did you book your trip to Paris?” Annie asks, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen with her hands on her hips. “With all this extra time you had?”
“No, but I—” I begin, but Annie holds up her hand to stop me.
“No? Okay. That’s all I need to hear,” she says, clearly borrowing phrasing from her father in an attempt to sound like a miniature adult. Just what I need.
“Annie, you’re not listening,” I say. “I called all the—”
“Look, Mom, if you’re not going to help Mamie, I don’t know what we have to talk about,” she says sharply.
I take a deep breath. I’ve been walking on eggshells around her for the last several months, because I’ve been worried about how she’s handling the divorce. But I’m tired of being the bad guy. Especially when I’m not. “Annie,” I say firmly. “I’m doing everything I can to keep us
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