meet Gavin’s gaze again, the concern in his eyes makes me uncomfortable. I don’t need him—or anyone—worrying about me. “Sorry,” I mutter. I shake my head and try to look busy. “So, what can I get you, Gavin? I have some muffins in back that just came out of the oven.”
“Hope?” he says after a pause. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he says.
I blink and continue to avoid his eyes. “I don’t?”
He shakes his head. “You’re allowed to be upset, you know,” he says.
I must give him a harsh look without meaning to, because his cheeks suddenly flush and he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
I hold up a hand. “I know,” I say. “I know. Look, I appreciate it.”
We’re silent for a moment, and then Gavin says, “So what was she talking about? Is there something I can help you with?”
I smile at him. “I appreciate the offer,” I say. “But it’s nothing.”
He looks like he doesn’t believe me.
“It’s a long story,” I clarify.
He shrugs. “I’ve got time,” he says.
I glance at my watch. “But you were going somewhere, weren’t you?” I ask. “You came in for pastries.”
“I’m not in a rush,” he says. “But I will take a dozen cookies. The ones with cranberries and white chocolate in them. If you don’t mind.”
I nod and carefully arrange the remaining Cape Codder cookies in the display case in a robin’s egg–blue box with North Star Bakery, Cape Cod written on it in swirly white letters. I tie it with a white ribbon and hand it across the counter.
“So?” Gavin prompts as he takes the box from me.
“You really want to hear this?” I ask.
“If you want to tell me,” he says.
I nod, realizing suddenly that I do want to tell another adult what’s going on. “Well, my grandmother has Alzheimer’s,” I begin. And for the next five minutes, as I pull miniature pies, croissants, baklava, tarts, and crescent moons out of the display case and pack them into airtight containers for the freezer or boxes for the church’s women’s shelter, I tell Gavin about what Mamie said last night. Gavin listens intently, but his jaw drops when I tell him about Mamie throwing pieces of miniature Star Pies into the ocean.
I shake my head and say, “I know, it sounds crazy, right?”
He shakes his head, a strange expression on his face. “No, actually, it doesn’t. Yesterday was the first day of Rosh Hashanah.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year,” Gavin explains. “It’s customary for us to go to a flowing body of water—like the ocean—for a little ceremony called a tashlich .”
“You’re Jewish?” I ask.
He smiles. “On my mom’s side,” he says. “I was kind of raised half Jewish, half Catholic.”
“Oh.” I just look at him. “I didn’t know that.”
He shrugs. “Anyhow, the word tashlich basically means ‘casting out.’ ”
I realize suddenly that the phrase rings a bell. “I think my grandmother said something like that last night.”
He nods. “The ceremony involves throwing crumbs into the water to symbolize the casting out of our sins. Usually bread crumbs, but I guess pie crumbs would work too.” He pauses and adds, “Do you think that might have been what your grandmother was doing?”
I shake my head. “It can’t be,” I say. “My grandmother’s Catholic.” As the words leave my mouth, I’m suddenly struck by the fact that two of the people I’d reached in Paris today suggested I call synagogues.
Gavin arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Maybe she wasn’t always Catholic.”
“But that’s crazy. If she was Jewish, I would know.”
“Not necessarily,” he says. “My grandmother on my mom’s side, my nana, lived through the Holocaust,” he says. “Bergen-Belsen. She lost both her parents and one of her brothers. Because of her, I got started volunteering with survivors when
“Hope?” he says after a pause. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he says.
I blink and continue to avoid his eyes. “I don’t?”
He shakes his head. “You’re allowed to be upset, you know,” he says.
I must give him a harsh look without meaning to, because his cheeks suddenly flush and he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
I hold up a hand. “I know,” I say. “I know. Look, I appreciate it.”
We’re silent for a moment, and then Gavin says, “So what was she talking about? Is there something I can help you with?”
I smile at him. “I appreciate the offer,” I say. “But it’s nothing.”
He looks like he doesn’t believe me.
“It’s a long story,” I clarify.
He shrugs. “I’ve got time,” he says.
I glance at my watch. “But you were going somewhere, weren’t you?” I ask. “You came in for pastries.”
“I’m not in a rush,” he says. “But I will take a dozen cookies. The ones with cranberries and white chocolate in them. If you don’t mind.”
I nod and carefully arrange the remaining Cape Codder cookies in the display case in a robin’s egg–blue box with North Star Bakery, Cape Cod written on it in swirly white letters. I tie it with a white ribbon and hand it across the counter.
“So?” Gavin prompts as he takes the box from me.
“You really want to hear this?” I ask.
“If you want to tell me,” he says.
I nod, realizing suddenly that I do want to tell another adult what’s going on. “Well, my grandmother has Alzheimer’s,” I begin. And for the next five minutes, as I pull miniature pies, croissants, baklava, tarts, and crescent moons out of the display case and pack them into airtight containers for the freezer or boxes for the church’s women’s shelter, I tell Gavin about what Mamie said last night. Gavin listens intently, but his jaw drops when I tell him about Mamie throwing pieces of miniature Star Pies into the ocean.
I shake my head and say, “I know, it sounds crazy, right?”
He shakes his head, a strange expression on his face. “No, actually, it doesn’t. Yesterday was the first day of Rosh Hashanah.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year,” Gavin explains. “It’s customary for us to go to a flowing body of water—like the ocean—for a little ceremony called a tashlich .”
“You’re Jewish?” I ask.
He smiles. “On my mom’s side,” he says. “I was kind of raised half Jewish, half Catholic.”
“Oh.” I just look at him. “I didn’t know that.”
He shrugs. “Anyhow, the word tashlich basically means ‘casting out.’ ”
I realize suddenly that the phrase rings a bell. “I think my grandmother said something like that last night.”
He nods. “The ceremony involves throwing crumbs into the water to symbolize the casting out of our sins. Usually bread crumbs, but I guess pie crumbs would work too.” He pauses and adds, “Do you think that might have been what your grandmother was doing?”
I shake my head. “It can’t be,” I say. “My grandmother’s Catholic.” As the words leave my mouth, I’m suddenly struck by the fact that two of the people I’d reached in Paris today suggested I call synagogues.
Gavin arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Maybe she wasn’t always Catholic.”
“But that’s crazy. If she was Jewish, I would know.”
“Not necessarily,” he says. “My grandmother on my mom’s side, my nana, lived through the Holocaust,” he says. “Bergen-Belsen. She lost both her parents and one of her brothers. Because of her, I got started volunteering with survivors when
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